WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE.

87

One fellow

beaux dropping pitch, tarred ropes, &c. was so drunk that his companions placed him on a horse, with his face to the tail, to bring him down, themselves being just sober enough to hold him on. Down, however, we all got safely by midnight, and nobody, from the old Lord of 77 to my son Herbert, is the worse for the toil of the day, though we were eight hours from the time we set out till we reached home'.

In 1815, 'The White Doe of Rylstone' was published, being dedicated to Mrs. Wordsworth, a fitting compliment, as the author considered that in this poem he had attained to a greater height of imaginative power than in any other of his works. Many of his admirers, however, consider that he had taken a more lofty flight, when, some years previously, he wrote his celebrated Ode-'Intimations of Immortality' from recollections of early childhood.

The interest in the 'White Doe of Rylstone', as in nearly all Wordsworth's poems, is made to consist in the inner and spiritual life, and the incidents being mostly of a painful nature, it is not likely ever to be popular. The story is that of the Nortons, a family involved in the unfortunate Rising of the North', as sung in the 'Percy' Ballad. With this for a foundation, Wordsworth has interwoven the legend, long-cherished and oft-recited in the neighbourhood, of a white doe which was wont to make a weekly pilgrimage from Rylstone over the fells of Bolton, and was constantly found in the Abbey church-yard during divine service.

Disdaining, as is usual with him, all external aids from his subject, whether description of feudal splendour, or personal prowess, the poet aims only to portray A soul, by force of sorrows, high Uplifted'.

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-'the subduing of the will, and all inferior passions, to the perfect purifying and spiritualizing of the intellectual nature'. Something mysterious and saint-like in the nature of the inferior animal was of course implied in the legend, and this idea is heightened and embellished in the poem, so as to render it a perfectly ideal embodiment of the finer spirit of the scene. Wordsworth has nowhere sanctioned the notion, which some have entertained, that he intended by the White Doe to symbolize the Protestant church, as Dryden in the Hind, the Roman Catholic. Had he worked upon such a design, the poem might have earlier obtained a sectional popularity, which, however, was never an object with its author.

The poem of 'Peter Bell' was published in the year 1819. The dedication is to Southey. It had remained in manuscript for twenty years: but this lengthened delay, between composition and publication, was exceeded in the instance already alluded to of his Drama, entitled 'The Borderers', which was written in 1795, but which did not see the light for nearly half a century, being first published in 1842 : then the' Prelude', which, after all, is the poet's truest biography, was commenced in 1799, and finished in 1805, but was not brought out till 1850.

'Peter Bell' was not likely to escape without severe handling from the critics, for some of his staunchest friends condemned it. Charles Lamb who pronounced the Excursion' to be the best conversational poem extant, and highly extolled some of its nobler passages as Miltonic, and said the reading of it was like spending a day in heaven, yet remarked of 'Peter Bell' that Wordsworth undoubtedly had great thoughts, but that he had left them out here. Even Talfourd, so ardent

in his devotion, speaks of it as a poem written in the first enthusiasm of his system, and exemplifying, amidst beauty and pathos of the finest essence, some of its most startling peculiarities.

Some wicked jester, gifted with more ingenuity and boldness than wit, anticipated the real 'Simon Pure' by a false one, imitating, in a burlesque style, some of the characteristics of the poet's homeliest verse. This grave hoax was perpetrated about a week before the publication of the genuine poem, and appeared in many of the London booksellers' shop-windows, the type and paper nothing differing from the true one, the preface signed W. W., and the supplementary preface quoting as the author's words, an extract from the preface to the 'Lyrical Ballads’.

Another devoted adherent, H. C. Robinson, refers more than once to the attacks on this poem which he was called upon to rebut, but adds, 'this is a storm which I must yield to; Wordsworth has set himself back ten years by its publication. In the following year we find the same friend noting in his Diary the increasing affability of Wordsworth's manner, and that 'he is uniformly so now, and there is absolutely no pretence for what was always an exaggerated charge against him, that he could talk only of his own poetry, and loves only his own words. He is more indulgent than he used to be of the works of others, even contemporaries and rivals, and more open to arguments in favour of changes in his own poems. He has resolved to make some concessions to public taste in "Peter Bell". Several offensive passages will be struck out, such as

"Is it a party in the parlour,

Crammed just as they on earth were crammed ;

Some sipping punch, some drinking tea,
But as you by their faces see—

All silent and all damned" !

Also the overcoarse expression

"But I will bang your bones".

These violations of good taste, and others which may be passed over, no doubt arose from that total absence of any sense of humour in the poet which has been elsewhere alluded to, for as an instrument wanting one of its strings cannot give out a full harmony, so probably to this mental deficiency may be traced many of these discordant verses.

How few men are capable of severely criticising their own writings as Dr. Johnson is said to have done when in a placid humour, as for instance, when one of his papers in the 'Rambler' was read to him, and his opinion of it being asked, he shook his head and answered, 'too wordy'. At another time, when his tragedy of 'Irene' was being read to a company, he left the room, and on being asked the reason, he replied, Sir, I thought it had been better'.

In consequence, perhaps, of the discussions respecting 'Peter Bell', there was a greater demand for it than for any of his previous publications, two editions of 500 copies being required in rapid succession.

If, as we are constantly reminded, history repeats itself, the maxim is certainly no less true of criticism, for let any one wishing to ascertain the opinion of foreigners with regard to Wordsworth, turn to the pages of the History of English Literature' by H. A. Tain, translated by H. Van Laun, 1872, and he will find, in reference to the poems of which we have just been

treating, not only the sentiments, but almost the very phraseology, of some of the Reviews and periodicals of fifty years ago. In his second volume, M. Tain,

after giving in a somewhat satirical vein what he conceives to be Wordsworth's theory of Art, proceeds to say, ‘All this is very well, but on condition that the reader is in his own position; that is, an essentially moral philosopher, and an excessively sensitive man. When I shall have emptied my head of all worldly thoughts, and looked up at the clouds for ten years, to refine my soul, I shall love this poetry. Meanwhile, the web of imperceptible threads by which Wordsworth endeavours to bind together all sentiments and embrace all nature, breaks in my fingers; it is too fragile; it is a woof of woven spider-web, spun by a metaphysical imagination, and tearing as soon as a solid hand tries to touch it.

'Half of his pieces are childish, almost foolish; dull events described in a dull style, one nullity after another, and that on principle. All the poets in the world would not reconcile us to so much tedium. Certainly a cat playing with three dry leaves may furnish a philosophic reflection, and figure forth a wise man sporting with the fallen leaves of life; but eighty lines on such a subject make us yawn· - much worse, smile.

'Doubtless also, the ways of Providence are unfathomable, and a selfish and brutal workman like Peter Bell may be converted by the beautiful conduct of an ass full of virtue and unselfishness; but this sentimental prettiness quickly grows insipid. We are not overpleased to see a grave man seriously imitate the language of nurses, and we murmur to ourselves that, with so many emotions, he must wet many handkerchiefs. We will acknowledge if you like, that your sentiments