Not far from that still ruin all the plain
Lay spotted with a variegated crowd
Of vehicles and travellers, horse and foot,
Wading beneath the conduct of their guide
In loose procession through the shallow stream
Of inland waters; the great sea meanwhile
Heaved at safe distance, far retired. I paused
Longing for skill to paint a scene so bright
And cheerful, but the foremost of the band
As he approached, no salutation given
In the familiar language of the day,
Cried, "Robespierre is dead!"

Great was my transport, etc.1

1 Prelude, book x. p. 228.

CHAPTER III.

GRASMERE, ETC.

THE cottage at the Town End of Grasmere, to which Wordsworth came with his sister, in the last days of last century (December 21, 1799), is, even more than Rydal Mount, "identified with his poetic prime." It had once been a public-house, bearing the sign of the Dove and Olive Bough, from which circumstance it was for a long time, and is still occasionally, named 'Dove Cottage.' It is a small twostoried house. "The front of it faces the lake; behind is a small plot of orchard and garden ground, in which there is a spring and rocks; the enclosure shelves upwards towards the woody sides of the mountains above it."

This plot of orchard ground is ours;
My trees they are, my sister's flowers.

In a still unpublished poem, he writes thus of his settlement at Grasmere, and of his sister

On Nature's invitation do I come,

By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead,
That made the calmest, fairest spot on earth,

1 Memoirs, vol. i. p. 156.

With all its unappropriated good,

My own, and not mine only, for with me
Entrenched, say rather peacefully embowered,
A younger orphan of a home extinct,

The only daughter of my parents, dwells;
Ay, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir;
Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame
No longer breathe, but all be satisfied.

Where'er my footsteps turned,

Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang;
The thought of her was like a flash of light
Or an unseen companionship, a breath,
A fragrance independent of the wind.

Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in,
Now in the clear and open day I feel
Your guardianship: I take it to my heart :
'Tis like the solemn shelter of the night.
But I would call thee beautiful; for mild,
And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art,
Dear valley, having in thy face a smile,
Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased,
Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps, thy lakes,
Its one green island, and its winding shores,
The multitude of little rocky hills,

Thy church, and cottages of mountain stone,
Clustered like stars some few, but single meet,
And lurking dimly in their shy retreats,
Or glancing at each other's cheerful looks,
Like separated stars with clouds between.1

1 See Memoirs, vol. i. pp. 157, 158.

N.B.-Why is this

poem, the first book of The Recluse, still unpublished? Surely the whole of Wordsworth's poetry, and the whole of his sister's journal of their mutual life at Grasmere and elsewhere, should be given to the world without delay.

The above reference to his " sole sister" Dorothy is so exquisite, and hers was a nature so rarely endowed, while their relationship as brother and sister was in many respects unique, that (reserving for another place some remarks upon the influence she wielded over him), I may here quote three other references to her from The Prelude which need no commentary:

And yet I knew a maid,

A young enthusiast, who escaped these bonds;
Her eye was not the mistress of her heart;
Far less did rules prescribed by passive taste,
Or barren intermeddling subtleties,

Perplex her mind; but, wise as women are

She welcomed what was given, and craved no more;
Whate'er the scene presented to her view
That was the best, to that she was attuned

By her benign simplicity of life.

Birds in the bower, and lambs in the green field,
Could they have known her, would have loved;
methought

Her very presence such a sweetness breathed,
That flowers, and trees, and even the silent hills,
And everything she looked on should have had
An intimation how she bore herself

Towards them, and to all creatures.1

Again

I turned to abstract science, and there sought
Work for the reasoning faculty enthroned
Where the disturbances of space and time

Find no admission. Then it wasThanks to the bounteous Giver of all good!

1 Prelude, book xii. p. 323.

That the beloved Sister in whose sight

Those days were passed, now speaking in a voice
Of sudden admonition-like a brook

That did but cross a lonely road, and now

Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn,
Companion never lost through many a league—
Maintained for me a saving intercourse
With my true self; . . .

She, in the midst of all, preserved me still
A Poet, made me seek beneath that name,
And that alone, my office upon earth;

And, lastly,

Led me back through opening day

To those sweet counsels between head and heart Whence grew that genuine knowledge, fraught with peace.

Again

Child of my parents! Sister of my soul !
Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere
Poured out for all the early tenderness
Which I from thee imbibed: and 'tis most true
That later seasons owed to thee no less;
For, spite of thy sweet influence and the touch
Of kindred hands that opened out the springs
Of genial thought in childhood, and in spite
Of all that unassisted I had marked

In life or nature of those charms minute
That win their way into the heart by stealth,
Still, to the very going-out of youth,

I too exclusively esteemed that love,

And sought that beauty, which, as Milton sings,
Hath terror in it. Thou didst soften down
This over-sternness; but for thee, dear Friend!

1 Prelude, book xi. p. 309.