A WALK WITH THE POET. 107 intellect of his beloved sister, a circumstance which proved a source of great sorrow to all who had enjoyed the happiness of her society. From the notes just referred to, we learn that Wordsworth looked upon carelessness in the finish of a poem, almost as an offence, but, with reference to the revising and correcting of poems, Justice Coleridge remarks, 'No doubt he carried this, in his own case, to excess, when he corrected so largely in the decline of life, poems written in early manhood, under a state of feelings and powers which it was impossible to reproduce, and yet which was necessary, generally speaking, for successful alteration. I cannot but agree with many who think that on this account the earlier copies of his poems are more valuable than the later'. A walk with the Poet on a drizzly muddy day is thus commemorated. 'The turf was sponging out water at every step, through which he stalked as regardless as if he were of iron, and with the same fearless, unchanged pace, over rough and smooth, slippery and sound. We went up by the old road from Ambleside to Keswick. This old road was very steep, after the fashion of former days, crossing the hill strait over its highest point. A new cut had been made, somewhat diminishing its steepness, but still leaving it a very inconvenient and difficult ascent. At length another alteration was made, and the road was carried on a level, round the foot of the hill. Arnold pointed these out to me, and, quizzing my politics, said, the first denoted old Tory corruption, the second bit by bit, the third Radical Reform'. In the March of 1837, Wordsworth, accompanied by Mr. H. C. Robinson, started on a long-desired pilgrimage to Rome. Having reached his 67th year, it was desirable for him to travel leisurely. They therefore bought a carriage in which to pursue their journey. As on former occasions of foreign tour, Wordsworth wrote nothing on the spot, but trusted to the vividness of his memory, in some instances, perhaps, to his dreams, for there are verses under the title, ' Memorials of a Tour in Italy', which might as well have been written after nodding in his arm-chair at Rydal, and, with reference to a sonnet on seeing the picture of the Baptist, by Raffaelle, in the gallery at Florence, the poet himself says, 'It was very hot weather during the week we staid at Florence, and never having been there before, I went through much hard service. I am, therefore, not ashamed to confess, I fell asleep before this picture, and sitting with my back towards the Venus de Medicis'. Aware, perhaps, that this want of enthusiasm might appear somewhat strange in one claiming to be a lover and judge of works of art, (a claim, possibly, somewhat problematic), Wordsworth cites the example of Buonaparte, who slept soundly up to the moment when one of his great battles was fought, and when some sycophant remarked upon it as a proof of his great calmness of mind, said frankly, that he slept because, from bodily exhaustion, he could not help it. He notices also the fact, that criminals, on the night previous to their execution, seldom awake before they are called, a proof that the body is the master of us far more than we are willing to allow. His companion informs us that, when at Nismes, he took him to see the Maison Carreé and the Arena. He acknowledged their beauty but experienced no great pleasure from such sights, saying that he was unable, from ignorance, to enjoy them; that he received an impression, and that was all. 'I have no science', he would say, ' and can refer nothing to principle'. This explains much of his indifference to objects of general interest. He was, on the other hand, delighted by two beautiful little girls playing with flowers near the Arena; and was heard saying to himself, 'Oh you darlings! I wish I could put you in my pocket and carry you to Rydal Mount'. He was sufficiently impressed with the Coliseum. The Pantheon seemed to him hardly worth notice, compared with St. Peter's. 'We looked also', says H. C. R., 'into the church at St. Onofrio, where Tasso lies buried; also Guidi the poet. Wordsworth is no hunter after sentimental relics. He professes to be regardless of places that have only an outward connection with a great man, but no influence on his works. Hence he cares nothing for the burying place of Tasso, but has a deep interest in Vaucluse. The distinction is founded on just views, and real, not affected, sympathy'. On observing the diminutive size of the celebrated Tarpeian rock, he wrote the sonnet beginning 'Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill? We have all of us, at some time or other, been deluded by the blandishments of the poets, and it is consolatory, therefore, to find the bard of Rydal admitting himself, in this respect, to have been led astray like less philosophic mortals, and that, when at Florence, he took an excursion of fifteen miles to Pelagio, and thence walked to the Benedictine monastery, which has been an object of interest to all English travellers, chiefly because her great poet has introduced it into a simile : 'He called His legions, angel forms, who lay entranced, With the music of Milton's lines ringing in his ears, and with imagination kindled, in the expectation of finding a convent buried in shady woods, Wordsworth confesses his disappointment, on arriving there, to see a building situated in an open crescent of the hill, and commanding an extensive prospect. He noticed, however, an avenue of pines planted near, which, from the great height to which some of the trees attain, is an imposing object, and mentions, that the natural growth of the valley is such as might cause an abundant fall of leaves in the autumn. His companion, gifted with eminent conversational powers, would, doubtless, entertain him on the way, with lively descriptions of his own experiences of baffled expectations when wandering on classic ground. Of these, an amusing sample may be taken from a letter of his, dated from Naples. 'I, in mercy, spare you an enumeration of all the wonders of my last journey. I merely say that from my bed I could see the lurid light from the burning mountain, that I made the usual excursion to the Phlegræan Fields, saw the passage into hell through which Æneas went, and even beheld Acheron itself and the Elysian fields. — To be sure that same Virgil did bounce most shamefully. Would you believe it? The lake of Avernus is a round muddy pond, and the abode of the blessed looks not a bit better than a hop-garden. So Cumæ, and Baiæ, and Ischia, and Capua, are all like gentlemen's seats, with none but servants kept there to shew them to visitors. Vesuvius is but an upstart of yesterday. All Naples, and the country around, betray the fire that is burning beneath. Every now and then a little shake of the earth reminds people of their peril. Peril did I say? There is none St. Januarius is a sufficient protection. Then to Syracuse - an awful place. This city of two millions of men, is shrunk to a mean town on a tongue of land. Not a spot worth seeing to the bodily eye, but to the eye of memory how glorious! I was taken to a dirty cistern: seventy women were washing, with their clothes tucked up, and themselves standing in a pool, disgusting scene - What do you bring me here for? "Why, sir, this is the fountain of Arethusa "!!! Oh, those rascally poets again, say I. Plato did right to banish the liars from his republic. The day before, I was in good spirits, for I saw the very rock that the Cyclops hurled at Ulysses'. a The travellers returned in August, after an interesting journey of nearly six months' duration. In In the following year, 1838, the University of Durham took the lead in conferring an academic distinction on Wordsworth, in recognition of the public service rendered by him to the literature of the country. reply to the congratulations of an American friend, on the estimation in which his genius was held through that vast continent, he writes, 'I wish I could feel as lively as you do on this subject, or even on the general destiny of those works. Pray do not be long surprised at this declaration. There is a difference of more than the length of your life, I believe, between our ages. I am standing on the brink of that vast ocean I must sail so soon; I must speedily lose sight of the shore; and could not once have conceived how little I now am troubled by the thought of how long, or how short a |