Southey, writing to his friend, C. W. W. Wynn, on the 3rd of April 1805, says:
"DEAR WYNN,
I have been grievously shocked this evening by the loss of the "Abergavenny", of which Wordsworth"s brother was captain. Of course the news came flying up to us from all quarters, and it has disordered me from head to foot. At such circ.u.mstances I believe we feel as much for others as for ourselves; just as a violent blow occasions the same pain as a wound, and he who breaks his shin feels as acutely at the moment as the man whose leg is shot off. In fact, I am writing to you merely because this dreadful shipwreck has left me utterly unable to do anything else. It is the heaviest calamity Wordsworth has ever experienced, and in all probability I shall have to communicate it to him, as he will very likely be here before the tidings can reach him.
What renders any near loss of this kind so peculiarly distressing is, that the recollection is perpetually freshened when any like event occurs, by the mere mention of shipwreck, or the sound of the wind. Of all deaths it is the most dreadful, from the circ.u.mstances of terror which accompany it...."
(See "The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey", vol. ii. p. 321.)
The following is part of a letter from Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth on the same subject. It is undated:
"MY DEAR MISS WORDSWORTH,--
I wished to tell you that you would one day feel the kind of peaceful state of mind and sweet memory of the dead, which you so happily describe, as now almost begun; but I felt that it was improper, and most grating to the feelings of the afflicted, to say to them that the memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part, not only of their dreams, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness.
That you would see every object with and through your lost brother, and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of comfort to you, I felt, and well knew, from my own experience in sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this, I did not dare to tell you so; but I send you some poor lines, which I wrote under this conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home.
"Why is he wandering on the sea?-- Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.
By slow degrees he"d steal away Their woes, and gently bring a ray (So happily he"d time relief,) Of comfort from their very grief.
He"d tell them that their brother dead, When years have pa.s.sed o"er their head, Will be remembered with such holy, True and tender melancholy, That ever this lost brother John Will be their heart"s companion.
His voice they"ll always hear, His face they"ll always see; There"s naught in life so sweet As such a memory."
(See "Final Memorials of Charles Lamb", by Thomas Noon Talfourd, vol.
ii. pp. 233, 234.)--Ed.
"WHEN, TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY WORLD"
Composed 1800 to 1805.--Published 1815
[The grove still exists; but the plantation has been walled in, and is not so accessible as when my brother John wore the path in the manner here described. The grove was a favourite haunt with us all while we lived at Town-end.--I. F.]
This was No. VI. of the "Poems on the Naming of Places." For several suggested changes in MS. see Appendix I. p. 385.--Ed.
When, to the attractions of the busy world, Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen A habitation in this peaceful Vale, Sharp season followed of continual storm In deepest winter; and, from week to week, 5 Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill At a short distance from my cottage, stands A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof 10 Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place Of refuge, with an uninc.u.mbered floor.
Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth 15 To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds That, for protection from the nipping blast, Hither repaired.--A single beech-tree grew Within this grove of firs! and, on the fork Of that one beech, appeared a thrush"s nest; 20 A last year"s nest, conspicuously built At such small elevation from the ground As gave sure sign that they, who in that house Of nature and of love had made their home Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long 25 Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes, A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock, Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, From the remotest outskirts of the grove,-- Some nook where they had made their final stand, 30 Huddling together from two fears--the fear Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven In such perplexed and intricate array; 35 That vainly did I seek, beneath [1] their stems A length of open s.p.a.ce, where to and fro My feet might move without concern or care; And, baffled thus, though earth from day to day Was fettered, and the air by storm disturbed, 40 I ceased the shelter to frequent, [2]--and prized, Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.
The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, 45 By chance retiring from the glare of noon To this forsaken covert, there I found A h.o.a.ry pathway traced between the trees, And winding on with such an easy line Along a natural opening, that I stood 50 Much wondering how I could have sought in vain [3]
For what was now so obvious. [4] To abide, For an allotted interval of ease, Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; [5] 55 And with the sight of this same path--begun, Begun and ended, in the shady grove, [6]
Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind [7]
That, to this opportune recess allured, He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 60 A heart more wakeful; and had worn the track [8]
By pacing here, unwearied and alone, [A]
In that habitual restlessness of foot That haunts the Sailor measuring [9] o"er and o"er His short domain upon the vessel"s deck, 65 While she pursues her course [10] through the dreary sea.
When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite"s pleasant sh.o.r.e, And taken thy first leave of those green hills And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth, Year followed year, my Brother! and we two, 70 Conversing not, knew little in what mould Each other"s mind was fashioned; [11] and at length When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, Between us there was little other bond Than common feelings of fraternal love. 75 But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carried Undying recollections; Nature there Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still Was with thee; and even so didst thou become A _silent_ Poet; from the solitude 80 Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart Still couchant, an inevitable ear, And an eye practised like a blind man"s touch.
--Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone; Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 85 Could I withhold thy honoured name,--and now I love the fir-grove [12] with a perfect love.
Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong; And there I sit at evening, when the steep 90 Of Silver-how, and Grasmere"s peaceful [13] lake, And one green island, gleam between the stems Of the dark firs, a visionary scene!
And, while I gaze upon the spectacle Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight 95 Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee, My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost.
Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou, Muttering the verses which I muttered first Among the mountains, through the midnight watch 100 Art pacing thoughtfully [14] the vessel"s deck In some far region, here, while o"er my head, At every impulse of the moving breeze, The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, [B]
Alone I tread this path;--for aught I know, 105 Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store Of undistinguishable sympathies, Mingling most earnest wishes for the day When we, and others whom we love, shall meet A second time, in Grasmere"s happy Vale. 110
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
... between ... 1815.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed, I ceased that Shelter to frequent,--1815.
... the shelter ... 1827.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
Much wondering at my own simplicity How I could e"er have made a fruitless search 1815.]
[Variant 4:
... At the sight Conviction also flashed upon my mind That this same path (within the shady grove Begun and ended) by my Brother"s steps Had been impressed.--...
These additional lines appeared only in 1815 and 1820.]