close on Rydal Mount. A feeling of regret arose that I had not asked a letter of introduction to the poet from the widow of the Ettrick Shepherd, still resident in my parish, and at whose request I had written an intimation of the Shepherd's death to Wordsworth. It was too late, however, for that; and I thought-Well, if I cannot see the bard himself, I should like to have a look at this "Poet's Corner," where he has so long taken up his abode.' I accordingly knocked at the lodge, and asked if there would be any objections to my taking a walk in the grounds. The keeper said very politely that if I would send in my name I would get permission at once; to which I replied that if that was necessary I would not disturb the family, as I was an entire stranger. By way of compensation, I wandered up the hill behind, where I had a charming view of the premises, as well as of the two valleys and sheets of water-Windermere and Rydal. On descending, I saw a party of three pacing slowly up and down the approach that led to the cottage. I recognised the venerable poet at oncethen, I think, in his seventy-second year-from his resemblance to a medallion I had often seen of him on a silver snuff-box of Professor Wilson's. The two others were his wife and one of his sons. I watched the garden-parade till a servant appeared with a wheelbarrow and luggage, which was taken down to the public road, along which the mail-coach was soon expected to pass. The family party accompanied it, while I followed at a respectful distance. Mrs. Wordsworth and her son went to make a call at a cottage, while the old man stood guard over the luggage. Now or never, thought I; there is an opportunity of exchanging a few words with this great man.

Accordingly, plucking up courage, I stepped forward and said, 'Mr. Wordsworth, I have no right to intrude upon you, for I have no letter of introduction, but I come from a part of the country which you know something about.'

'Where is that, sir?'

'I come from Yarrow; or rather, I should say, I am the minister of Yarrow,'

To me, my dear sir, that is the best of all introductions,' was the hearty answer, while he warmly shook my hand. 'Yarrow; a name that will be ever dear to me. I have written some small things about that pastoral valley, which you may have come across in the course of your reading.'

I instantly rejoined

'Oh, Mr. Wordsworth, who has not read those exquisite poems of yours, that have doubled the charm which had gathered round our classic "Braes" before?' ... He then described his coming, in 1803, to Clovenfords and Melrose, where he had a tryst with Scott, but had not time to turn aside to the tributary stream. His feelings of regret found expression in Yarrow Unvisited. That,' I remarked, ‘is now

a long time ago forty years, save one!'

'Yes,' he replied; 'just forty years, save one! and what changes since!'

He proceeded to speak of the time when his long-cherished dream, many years afterwards, was realised, and to tell me in the substance, if not the words, of his own stanza

When first, descending from the moorlands,

I saw the stream of Yarrow glide

Along a bare and open valley,

The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.

He spoke of Hogg's poetry, of the primitive cottage in which he dwelt, his old father, who lived with him, of some of whose peculiarities Scott had told him. I was able to give him in return full particulars of Mrs. Hogg, and her family at Altrive Lake, in which he was greatly interested. Resuming the thread of his story, he proceeded, with much emotion, to portray his last visit I had come down with my daughter to Abbotsford, to take farewell of Sir Walter, just before his setting out

on his journey to the Continent, from which he returned to die. We spent two days with him; and, according to his wont with visitors for that period, the first day's excursion was to Melrose, the next to Newark. It was then and there the idea occurred to me of Yarrow Revisited. It was a most interesting but in many respects a melancholy visit. Sir Walter was sadly changed from the days of other years.

When he

got upon his old stories, he told them very much with his former humour and zest, but the story was no sooner over than the cloud closed in on that noble intellect. He gave my daughter, ere we parted, a book of poetry (Crabbe's, I think), and I said: "Now, Sir Walter, you must enhance the gift by writing your name on the volume." He did so; but the dear old man made a mistake in spelling his own name.'

We then talked of the various Lake poets; of Southey's great grief and domestic affliction; among the rest, of Professor Wilson. I mentioned that I had been one of his students; that I had just been reading his éloge on Burns in an essay introductory to an edition of his works; and that while it was most appreciative of the genius of the poet, I thought it was too apologetic of his errors. 'Yes, I love Wilson as a son, but his essay is too much of a whitewashing of Burns; and I regret it all the more for its influence on young men, coming as it does from your Professor of Moral Philosophy. When I was in the land of Burns, I heard, on the best authority, that his death was brought on by lying out all night exposed, after being at a drunken convivial party. I, too, in my time, have written two poems on Burns,* and spoken of him with the reverence due to the genius of a great man, but without attempting to conceal his faults.'

All the time of our wayside interview the poet stood in close juxtaposition to me, speaking, as it were, into my ear, which

The poems At the Grave of Burns and To the Sons of Burns. VOL. III.

2 E

was due, I believe, to his failing sight. After more talk on other topics, I took leave of him by saying, 'I fear, Mr. Wordsworth, now that your tuneful brethren all are fled, the Forest Sheriff gone,

And death upon the Braes of Yarrow,
Has closed the shepherd poet's eyes,

there will be little inducement to visit these Forest scenes again; but if you do, I trust you will make the manse of Yarrow your home, and take the minister of Yarrow as your guide.' To which he kindly replied, 'I do hope some time or other to renew my acquaintance with that classic ground, with which I have so many dear associations; and I won't fail to take advantage of your proffered hospitality.' He then, with a hearty grasp of the hand, bade me adieu."

Extracts from two letters written shortly after this visit of Mr. Russell to Westmoreland by the widow of the Master of Rugby, and referring to the Wordsworth family in 1842, cast light on the Rydal household, and may recall the poet's sonnet on Lady Fitzgerald beginning—

Such age, how beautiful!

On December 9th, 1842, Mrs. Arnold wrote from Fox How to her friend Miss Trevenen: "The Wordsworths are well, and as delightful a picture of old age as you can imagine; happy in themselves, and by their loving kindness and benevolence ever contributing to the happiness of others. I was very much pleased the other day to make him and Archbishop Whately acquainted with each other. They met here first, and afterwards I called with the Archbishop at the Mount, when the poet had the pleasure of lionising his favourite haunts to the stranger."

Again, on March 10, 1843: "Our dear kind friends, the Wordsworths, continue wonderfully well, and full of vigour, and are as delightful a specimen of the happy and peaceful and healthful approach of old age as I can imagine. How sad

is the contrast at Keswick, where poor Mr. Southey is reduced to such a state of bodily infirmity, and the mental wreck is so entire that many of those who love him best will be thankful to hear the last painful scene is over."

On the 21st of March 1843, Southey died at Greta Hall, Keswick; and a few days later, "on a dark and stormy morning," Wordsworth crossed from Rydal to his funeral at Crosthwaite Parish Church. Few, except his own family, Wordsworth, and Quillinan his son-in-law, were present.

On the 3d of March, Wordsworth received a letter from the Lord Chamberlain, Earl De la Warr, telling him that he had recommended the Queen to offer to him the post of Poet Laureate, which Southey had held, and that her Majesty had been graciously pleased to approve of the recommendation. To this Wordsworth replied that the recommendation by the Lord Chamberlain, and the approval of it by her Majesty, afforded him "high gratification,” and he was very sensible of the honour, especially of succeeding his friend Southey; but that at his advanced age, the acceptance of this office would impose duties which he felt he could not adequately discharge, and that, therefore, he felt that he ought to decline the honour, which he would always remember with pride. The Lord Chamberlain replied that the duties of the office of Laureate had not recently exceeded the writing of an annual ode, and would in his (Wordsworth's) case be merely nominal. The Prime Minister also wrote him as follows:

:

Whitehall, April 3, 1843. MY DEAR SIR,-I hope you may be induced to reconsider your decision with regard to the appointment of Poet Laureate.

The offer was made to you by the Lord Chamberlain, with my entire concurrence, not for the purpose of imposing on you any onerous or disagreeable duties, but in order to pay you that tribute of respect which is justly due to the first of living poets.