WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770--1850. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH was born on the 7th of April, 1770, at Cockermouth, in Cumberland. His parents were of the middle class, and designed him for the church; but poetry and new prospects turned him into another path. His pursuit through life was poetry, and his profession that of stamp-distributor for the government, in the counties of Cumberland and Westmoreland. He made his first appearance as a poet in 1793, by the publication of a thin quarto volume, entitled "An Evening Walk; an Epistle in Verse, addressed to a Young Lady." In the same year he published "Descriptive Sketches in Verse, taken during a Pedestrian Tour among the Alps," of which Coleridge thus writes in his "Biographia Literaria:"-"During the last of my residence at Cambridge, 1794, I became acquainted with Mr. Wordsworth's first publication, entitled 'Descriptive Sketches;' and seldom, if ever, was the emergence of an original poetic genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced." Two years after, the two poets, then personally unknown to each other, were brought together, at Nether Stowey, in Somersetshire. Coleridge was then in his twenty-fourth, and Wordsworth in his twenty-sixth year. A congeniality of pursuit soon ripened into intimacy, and, in September, 1798, accompanied by Miss Wordsworth, they made a tour in Germany. Wordsworth's next publication was the first volume of his "Lyrical Ballads,” published just after he left for the continent, by Joseph Cottle, of Bristol, who purchased the copyright for thirty guineas.2 But it proved a great failure, and Cottle was a loser by the bargain. The critics were very severe upon it. Jeffrey in the "Edinburgh,"3 Byron in his "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," and James Smith in his "Rejected Addresses," and others of less note in the literary world, all fired their shafts of reason and ridicule at him. Many years, therefore, elapsed before Mr. Wordsworth appeared again as a poet. But he was not idle; It was published by Johnson, in St. Paul's Church Yard, from whose shop, but seven years before, had appeared the "Task" of Cowper. a Mr. Cottle deserves to be held for ever in the most grateful remembrance for the constant, unwearied kindness and liberality he showed to Wordsworth and Coleridge. "All the world laughs at Elegiac Stanzas to a Sucking Pig-A Hymn on Washing-daySonnets to one's Grandinother-or Pindarics on Gooseberry-pie; and yet we are afraid it will not be quite easy to convince Mr. Wordsworth that the same ridicule must infallibly attach to most of the pathetic pieces in these volumes."-Edinburgh Review, xi. 218. "We come next to a long story of a 'Blind Highland Boy,' who lived near an arm of the sea, and had taken a most unnatural desire to venture on that perilous element. His mother did all she could to prevent him; but one morning, when the good woman was out of the way, he got into a vessel of his own, and pushed out from the shore "In such a vessel ne'er before Did human creature leave the shore.' And then we are told that if the sea should get rough, 'a beehive would be ship as safe.' But say what was it?' a poetical interlocutor is made to exclaim most naturally; and here followeth the answer, upon which all the pathos and interest of the story depend 'A HOUSEHOLD TUB, like one of those Which women use to wash their clothes!!' This, it will be admitted, is carrying the matter as far as it will well go; nor is there any thing-down to the wiping of shoes, or the evisceration of chickens-which may not be introduced in poetry, if this is tolerated."-Ibid. xi. 225. See page 374. for in the same year that witnessed the failure of his "Lyrical Ballads," he wrote his "Peter Bell," though he kept it by him many years before he published it. Wordsworth married, in the year 1803, Miss Mary Hutchinson, of Penrith, and settled among his beloved lakes-first at Grasmere, and afterward at Rydal Mount. Southey's subsequent retirement to the same beautiful country, and Coleridge's visits to his brother poets, originated the name of the "Lake School of Poetry," by which the opponents of their principles and the critics of the "Edinburgh Review" distinguished the three poets, whose names are so intimately connected. In 1807, he put forth two volumes of his poems, and in the autumn of 1814 appeared, in quarto form, the celebrated "Excursion." It consists of sketches of life and manners among the mountains, intermingled with moral and devotional reflections. It is merely a part of a larger poem, which was to be entitled "The Recluse," and to be prefaced by a minor one delineating the growth of the author's mind, published since his death under the name of "The Prelude."! "The Recluse" was to be divided into three parts-the "Excursion" forms the second of these; the first book of the first part is extant in manuscript, but the rest of the work was never completed. No sooner did "The Excursion" appear, than the critics were down upon it with a vengeance. "This will never do," was the memorable opening of the article in the "Edinburgh."2 A few thought it "would do," and praised it; but while it was still dividing the critics, "Peter Bell" appeared, to throw among them yet greater differences of opinion. The deriders of the poet laughed still louder than before; while his admirers believed, or affected to believe, that it added to the author's fame. Another publication the next year—"The White Doe of Rylstone"-was even more severely handled by one party, while, with "the school," it found still greater favor than any thing that he had written.3 In 1820, he published his noble series of "Sonnets to the River Duddon," which contains some of his finest poetry. Two years after appeared his "Ecclesiastical Sonnets," which were composed at the same time that Southey was writing his "History of the Church." In 1831, he visited Scotland, and, on his way to the Lakes, had an affecting interview-the last he ever had-with Sir Walter, who was rapidly failing, and was about to set off for an Italian clime. The evening of the 22d September was a very sad one in his antique library. Lockhart was there, and Allan, the historical painter. Wordsworth was also feeble in health, and sat with a green shado over his eyes, and bent shoulders, between his daughter and Sir Walter. The The "Prelude" is an autobiographical record of the remembered feelings and incidents of his infancy, boyhood, and adolescence; of his experiences at Cambridge, at London, and at Paris; and of his convictions regarding the causes and consequences of the first, and, par excellence, the French Revolution,-whose ultimate failure he mourns with unfeigned and undisguised regret. "This will never do! It is longer, weaker, and tamer than any of Mr. Wordsworth's other productions: with less boldness of originality, and less even of that extreme simplicity and lowliness of tone which wavered so prettily, in the Lyrical Ballads,' between silliness and pathos."-Elinburgh Review, xxiv. 1. "This, we think, has the merit of being the very worst poem we ever saw imprinted in a quarto volume: and though it was scarcely to be expected, we confess, that Mr. Wordsworth, with ais ambition, should so soon have attained to that distinction, the wonder may, perhaps, inished when we state that it seems to us to consist of a happy union of all the faults, at any of the beauties, which belong to his school of poetry."-1bid. xxv. 355. conversation was melancholy, and Sir Walter remarked that Smollett and Fielding had both been driven abroad by declining health, and had never returned. Next morning he left Abbotsford, and his guests retired with sorrowful hearts. Wordsworth has preserved a memento of his own feelings in a beautiful sonnet. In 1833, he visited Staffa and Iona. The year 1834 was a sort of era in his life, by the publication of his complete works in four volumes. His friends, however, now began to fall around him. That year poor Coleridge bade adieu to his weary life. This must have touched many a chord of association in Wordsworth's heart. In 1836, his wife's sister, and his constant friend and companion, died, and blow followed blow in fatal succession. As if to console him for the loss of so many that were dear to his heart, worldly honors began to be heaped upon him. In 1835, "Blackwood's Magazine" came out strongly in his defence. In 1839, amid the acclamations of the students, he received the degree of Doctor of Civil Law from Oxford University. In 1842, he received a pension of £300 a year, with permission to resign his office of stampdistributor in favor of his son. Next year he was appointed to the laureateship left vacant by the melancholy death of Southey. After this he lived a quiet and dignified life at Rydal, evincing little apparent sympathy with the arduous duties and activities of the every-day world-a world which he left, calmly and peacefully, at a good old age, on the 23d of April, 1850.1 No author in the English language has so divided the critics as William Wordsworth. A few 2 place him in the first class of our poets; while the large majority, certainly, of readers see nothing in his poetry that can fairly give him such a rank. Gladly would I add my humble testimony in unison with that of his ardent admirers, if I honestly could; but, whether right or wrong, I cannot,3 The following inscription on a mural monument in Grasmere Church-near the poet's grave is from the pen of Mr. Keble, the author of "The Christian Year." It is chiefly a translation of the dedication of his "Prælectiones:" To the Memory of WILLIAM Wordsworth, who by special gift and calling of Almighty God, This memorial is placed here by his friends and neighbors And they are no less names than Prof. Wilson, De Quincey, Lockhart, Coleridge, and Talfourd. But that his ardent admirers may have a fair hearing, it is with pleasure I insert the following tribute to the genius and character of Wordsworth, paid by Mr. Talfourd, the author of "Ion," &c., in his speech on the Law of Copyright, in the House of Commons, May 18, 1837: "Let us suppose an author of true original genius, disgusted with the inane phraseology which had usurped the place of poetry, and devoting himself from youth to its service; disdaining the gauds which attract the careless, and unskilled in the moving accidents of fortune-not seeking his triumph in the tempest of the passions, but in the serenity which lies above them-whose works shall be scoffed at, whose name made a by-word-and yet who shall persevere in his high and holy course, gradually impressing thoughtful minds with the sense of truth made visible in the reverest forms of beauty, until he shall create the taste by which he shall be appreciated-influence, one after another, the mester-epirits of his agebe felt pervading every part of the national literature, softening, raising, and enriching it; I cheerfully grant that his style is simple and often vigorous; that his versification is smooth and easy; that his blank verse is manly and idiomatic; that he shows great power of minute and faithful description; and that, throughout his poetry, may be found sentiments of pure morality and deep wisdom, such as must ever exert a happy moral influence. And yet he never moves me; there is no passion in him; there seems to be a want of naturalness in most that he has written; he never warms me to admiration, or molts me to tenderness. Southey himself has, to my mind, well expressed the real fault of both his mystical brethren :-" Both Coleridge and Wordsworth, powerfully as they can write, and profoundly as they and when at last he shall find his confidence in his own aspirations justified, and the name which once was the scorn admitted to be the glory of his age-he shall look forward to the close of his earthly career as the event that shall consecrate his fame and deprive his children of the opening harvest he is beginning to reap. As soon as his copyright becomes valuable, it is gone! This is no imaginary case. I refer to one who in this setting part of Time' has opened a vein of the deepest sentiment and thought before unknown-who has supplied the noblest antidote to the freezing effects of the scientific spirit of the age-who, while he has detected that poetry which is the essence of the greatest things, has cast a glory around the lowliest conditions of humanity, and traced out the subtle links by which they are connected with the highest-of one whose name will now find an echo, not only in the heart of the secluded student, but in that of the busiest of those who are fevered by political controversy of William Wordsworth." Lord Jeffrey, in republishing a portion of his "Contributions to the Edinburgh Review," thus writes, in a note to the article on Wordsworth's "Excursion," thirty years after the article first appeared: "I have spoken in many places rather too bitterly and confidently of the faults of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry, and forgetting that, even on my own view of them, they were but faults of taste, or venial self partiality, have sometimes visited them, I fear, with an asperity which should be reserved for objects of moral reprobation. If I were now to deal with the whole question of his poetical merits, though my judgment might not be substantially dif ferent, I hope I should repress the greater part of these vivacités of expression; and, indeed, so strong has been my feeling in this way, that, considering how much I have always loved many of the attributes of his genius, and how entirely I respect his character, it did at first occur to me whether it was quite fitting that, in my old age and his, I should include in this publication any of those critiques which may have formerly given pain or offence to him or his admirers. But, when I reflected that the mischief, if there really ever was any, was long ago done, and that I still retain, in substance, the opinions which I should now like to have seen more gently expressed, I felt that to omit all notice of them on the present occasion might be held to import a retractation which I am as far as possible from intending, or even be represented as a very shabby way of backing out of rentiments which should either be manfully persisted in, or openly renounced and abandoned as untenable. "I finally resolved, therefore, to reprint my review of The Excursion,' which contains a pretty full view of my griefs and charges against Mr. Wordsworth, set forth, too, I believe, in a more temperate strain than most of my other inculpations-and of which I think I may now venture to say farther that, if the faults are unsparingly noted, the beauties are not penuriously or grudgingly allowed, but commended to the admiration of the reader with at least as much heartiness and good-will. "But I have also reprinted a short paper on the same author's 'White Doe of Rylstone,' in which there certainly is no praise, or notice of beauties, to set against the very unqualified censures of which it is wholly made up. I have done this, however, not merely because I adhere to these censures, but chiefly because it seemed necessary to bring me fairly to issue with those who may not concur in them. I can easily understand that many whose admiration of the Excursion,' or the 'Lyrical Ballads,' rests substantially on the passages which I too should join in admiring, may view with greater indulgence than I can do the tedious and flat passages with which they are interspersed, and may consequently think my censure of these works a great deal too harsh and uncharitable. Between such persons and me, therefore, there may be no radical difference of opinion, or contrariety as to principles of judg ment. But if there be any who actually admire this White Doe of Rylstone,' or Peter Bell the Wagoner,' or the 'Lamentations of Martha Rae,' or the 'Sonnets on the Punishment of Death,' there can be no such ambiguity or means of reconcilement. Now I have been assured not only that there are such persons, but that almost all those who seek to exalt Mr. Wordsworth as the founder of a new school of poetry, consider these as by far his best and most characteristic productions, and would at once reject from their communion any one who did not acknowledge in them the traces of a high inspiration. Now I wish it to be understood that, when I speak with general intolerance or impatience of the school of Mr. Wordsworth, it is to the school holding these tenets, and applying these tests, that I refer; and I really do not see how I could better explain the grounds of my dissent from their doctrines than by, republishing my remarks on this White Doe."" usually think, have been betrayed into the same fault-that of making things easy of comprehension in themselves, difficult to be comprehended by their way of stating them. Instead of going to the natural springs for water, they seem to Ifke the labor of digging wells."' The following estimate of his character, from a recent critic,2 seems to me very just:-"His devotion to external nature had the power and pervasiveness of a passion; his perception of its most minute beauties was exquisitely fine; and his portraitures, both of landscapes and figures, were so distinctly outlined as to impress them on the mind almost as vividly and deeply as the sight of them could have done. But he was defective in the stronger passions, and hence, in spite of the minuteness of his portraitures of character, he failed to produce real human beings capable of stirring the blood; and what was even more serious, he himself was incapacitated from feeling a genial and warm sympathy in the struggles of modern man, on whom he rather looked as from a distant height with the commiseration of some loftier nature. From the characteristics enumerated arose the great faults of his works. His landscape paintings are often much too minute. He dwells too tediously on every small object and detail, and from his over-intense appreciation of them, which magnifies their importance, rejects all extrinsic ornaments, and occasionally, though exceptionally, adopts a style bare and meagre, and even phrases tainted with mean associations. Hence all his personages— being without reality-fail to attract; and even his strong domestic affections, and his love for every thing pure and simple, do not give a sufficient human interest to his poems. His prolixity and tediousness are aggravated by a want of artistic skill in construction; and it is owing to this that he is most perfect in the sonnet, which renders the development of these faults an impossibility, while it gives free play to his naturally pure, tasteful, and lofty diction. His imagination was majestic; his fancy lively and sparkling; and he had a refined and Attic humor, which, however, he seldom called into exercise."3 TINTERN ABBEY. Five years have pass'd; five summers, with the length Of five long winters; and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain springs With a sweet inland murmur. Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild secluded scene impress "This from a friend and a member of the brotherhood is nearly as severe," says a writer in the North British Review, "as any thing Jeffrey ever said of them." Sir Walter Scott, too, expresses his wonder "why Wordsworth will sometimes choose to crawl upon all-fours, when God has given him so noble a countenance to lift to heaven." 2 Chambers' "Papers for the People," vol. v. In making my selections from Wordsworth, I am happy to own my obligations to one of his most ardent admirers, and an accomplished scholar-the American editor of his work |