Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth/Volume 1/Chapter 4
IV
DOROTHY WORDSWORTH'S JOURNAL WRITTEN AT GRASMERE
(From 10th October 1801 to 29th December 1801)
Saturday, 10th October 1801.—Coleridge went to Keswick, after we had built Sara's seat.
Thursday, 15th.— . . . Coleridge came in to Mr. Luff's while we were at dinner. William and I walked up Loughrigg Fell, then by the waterside. . . .
Saturday, 24th.—Attempted Fairfield, but misty, and we went no further than Green Head Gill to the sheepfold; mild, misty, beautifully soft. Wm. and Tom put out the boat. . . .
Sunday, 25th.—Rode to Legberthwaite with Tom, expecting Mary. . . . Went upon Helvellyn. Glorious sights. The sea at Cartmel. The Scotch mountains beyond the sea to the right. Whiteside large, and round, and very soft, and green, behind us. Mists above and below, and close to us, with the sun amongst them. They shot down to the coves. Left John Stanley's[1] at 10 minutes past 12. Returned thither 14 past 4, drank tea, ate heartily. Before we went on Helvellyn we got bread and cheese. Paid 4/ for the whole. Reached home at nine o'clock. A soft grey evening; the light of the moon, but she did not shine on us. Mary and I sate in C.'s room a while. ****** Tuesday, 10th [November].—Poor C. left us, and we came home together. We left Keswick at 2 o'clock and did not arrive at Grasmere till 9 o'clock. I burnt myself with Coleridge's aquafortis. C. had a sweet day for his ride. Every sight and every sound reminded me of him—dear, dear fellow, of his many talks to us, by day and by night, of all dear things. I was melancholy, and could not talk, but at last I eased my heart by weeping—nervous blubbering says William. It is not so. O! how many, many reasons have I to be anxious for him.
Wednesday, 11th.— . . . Put aside dearest C.'s letters, and now, at about 7 o'clock, we are all sitting by a nice fire. Wm. with his book and a candle, and Mary writing to Sara.
November 16th.— . . . Wm. is now, at 7 o'clock, reading Spenser. Mary is writing beside me. The little syke[2] murmurs.[3] We are quiet and happy, but poor Peggy Ashburner coughs, as if she would cough her life away. I am going to write to Coleridge and Sara. Poor C.! I hope he was in London yesterday. . . .
Tuesday, 17th.—A very rainy morning. We walked into Easedale before dinner. The coppices a beautiful brown. The oaks many, a very fine leafy shade. We stood a long time to look at the corner birch tree. The wind was among the light thin twigs, and they yielded to it, this way and that.
Wednesday, 18th.—We sate in the house in the morning reading Spenser. Wm. and Mary walked to Rydale. Very pleasant moonlight. The lakes beautiful. The church an image of peace. Wm. wrote some lines upon it.[4] Mary and I walked as far as the Wishing Gate before supper. We stood there a long time, the whole scene impressive. The mountains indistinct, the Lake calm and partly ruffled. A sweet sound of water falling into the quiet Lake.[3] A storm was gathering in Easedale, so we returned; but the moon came out, and opened to us the church and village. Helm Crag in shade, the larger mountains dappled like a sky. We stood long upon the bridge. Wished for Wm. . . .
******
Friday, 20th.—We walked in the morning to Easedale. In the evening we had cheerful letters from Coleridge and Sara.
Saturday, 21st.—We walked in the morning, and paid one pound and 4d. for letters. William out of spirits. We had a pleasant walk and spent a pleasant evening. There was a furious wind and cold at night. Mr. Simpson drank tea with us, and helped William out with the boat. Wm. and Mary walked to the Swan, homewards, with him. A keen clear frosty night. I went into the orchard while they were out.
Sunday, 22nd.—We wrote to Coleridge.
******
Tuesday, 24th.— . . . It was very windy, and we heard the wind everywhere about us as we went along the lane, but the walls sheltered us. John Green's house looked pretty under Silver How. As we were going along we were stopped at once, at the distance perhaps of 50 yards from our favourite birch tree. It was yielding to the gusty wind with all its tender twigs. The sun shone upon it, and it glanced in the wind like a flying sunshiny shower. It was a tree in shape, with stem and branches, but it was like a spirit of water. The sun went in, and it resumed its purplish appearance, the twigs still yielding to the wind, but not so visibly to us. The other birch trees that were near it looked bright and cheerful, but it was a creature by its own self among them. . . . We went through the wood. It became fair. There was a rainbow which spanned the lake from the island-house to the foot of Bainriggs. The village looked populous and beautiful. Catkins are coming out; palm trees budding; the alder, with its plum-coloured buds. We came home over the stepping-stones. The lake was foamy with white waves. I saw a solitary butter-flower in the wood. . . . Reached home at dinner time. Sent Peggy Ashburner some goose. She sent me some honey, with a thousand thanks. "Alas! the gratitude of men has," etc.[5] I went in to set her right about this, and sate a while with her. She talked about Thomas's having sold his land. "I," says she, "said many a time he's not come fra London to buy our land, however." Then she told me with what pains and industry they had made up their taxes, interest, etc. etc., how they all got up at 5 o'clock in the morning to spin and Thomas carded, and that they had paid off a hundred pounds of the interest. She said she used to take much pleasure in the cattle and sheep. "O how pleased I used to be when they fetched them down, and when I had been a bit poorly I would gang out upon a hill and look over't fields and see them, and it used to do me so much good you cannot think." Molly said to me when I came in, "Poor body! she's very ill, but one does not know how long she may last. Many a fair face may gang before her." We sate by the fire without work for some time, then Mary read a poem of Daniel. . . . Wm. read Spenser, now and then, a little aloud to us. We were making his waistcoat. We had a note from Mrs. C., with bad news from poor C.—very ill. William went to John's Grove. I went to find him. Moonlight, but it rained. . . . He had been surprised, and terrified, by a sudden rushing of winds, which seemed to bring earth, sky, and lake together, as if the whole were going to enclose him in. He was glad he was in a high road.
In speaking of our walk on Sunday evening, the 22nd November, I forgot to notice one most impressive sight. It was the moon and the moonlight seen through hurrying driving clouds immediately behind the Stone-Man upon the top of the hill, on the forest side. Every tooth and every edge of rock was visible, and the Man stood like a giant watching from the roof of a lofty castle. The hill seemed perpendicular from the darkness below it. It was a sight that I could call to mind at any time, it was so distinct.
Wednesday, 25th November.—It was a showery morning and threatened to be a wettish day, but the sun shone once or twice. We were engaged to Mr. Lloyd's and Wm. and Mary were determined to go that it might be over. I accompanied them to the thorn beside Rydale water. I parted from them first at the top of the hill, and they called me back. It rained a little, and rained afterwards all the afternoon. I baked bread, and wrote to Sara Hutchinson and Coleridge. I passed a pleasant evening, but the wind roared so, and it was such a storm that I was afraid for them. They came in at nine o'clock, no worse for their walk, and cheerful, blooming, and happy.
Thursday, 26th.—Mr. Olliff called before Wm. was up to say that they would drink tea with us this afternoon. We walked into Easedale, to gather mosses, and to fetch cream. I went for the cream, and they sate under a wall. It was piercing cold.
******
Thursday, 3rd December 1801.—Wm. walked into Easedale. Hail and snow. . . . I wrote a little bit of my letter to Coleridge. . . .
Friday, 4th.— . . . Wm. translating The Prioress's Tale. William and Mary walked after tea to Rydale. I finished the letter to Coleridge, and we received a letter from him and Sara. C.'s letter written in good spirits. A letter of Lamb's about George Dyer with it.[6]
Saturday, 5th.— . . . Wm. finished The Prioress's Tale, and after tea Mary and he wrote it out. . . .
Sunday, 6th.—A very fine beautiful sunshiny morning. Wm. worked a while at Chaucer, then we set forward to walk into Easedale. . . . We walked backwards and forwards in the flat field, which makes the second course of Easedale, with that beautiful rock in the field beside us, and all the rocks and the woods and the mountains enclosing us round. The sun was shining among them, the snow thinly scattered upon the tops of the mountains. In the afternoon we sate by the fire: I read Chaucer aloud, and Mary read the first canto of The Fairy Queen. After tea Mary and I walked to Ambleside for letters. . . . It was a sober starlight evening. The stars not shining as it were with all their brightness when they were visible, and sometimes hiding themselves behind small greying clouds, that passed soberly along. We opened C.'s letter at Wilcock's door. We thought we saw that he wrote in good spirits, so we came happily homewards where we arrived 2 hours after we left home. It was a sad melancholy letter, and prevented us all from sleeping.
Monday Morning, 7th.—We rose by candlelight. A showery unpleasant morning, after a downright rainy night. We determined, however, to go to Keswick if possible, and we set off a little after 9 o'clock. When we were upon the Raise, it snowed very much; and the whole prospect closed in upon us, like a moorland valley, upon a moor very wild. But when we were at the top of the Raise we saw the mountains before us. The sun shone upon them, here and there; and Wytheburn vale, though wild, looked soft. The day went on cheerfully and pleasantly. Now and then a hail shower attacked us; but we kept up a good heart, for Mary is a famous jockey. . . . We reached Greta Hall at about one o'clock. Met Mrs. C. in the field. Derwent in the cradle asleep. Hartley at his dinner. Derwent the image of his father. Hartley well. We wrote to C. Mrs. C. left us at 12 past 2. We drank tea by ourselves, the children playing about us. Mary said to Hartley, "Shall I take Derwent with me?" "No," says H., "I cannot spare my little brother," in the sweetest tone possible, "and he can't do without his mamma." "Well," says Mary, "why can't I be his mamma? Can't he have more mammas than one?" "No," says H. "What for?" "Because they do not love, and mothers do." "What is the difference between mothers and mammas?" Looking at his sleeves, "Mothers wear sleeves like this, pulling his own tight down, and mammas" (pulling them up, and making a bustle about his shoulders) "so." We parted from them at 4 o'clock. It was a little of the dusk when we set off. Cotton mills lighted up. The first star at Nadel Fell, but it was never dark. We rode very briskly. Snow upon the Raise. Reached home at seven o'clock. William at work with Chaucer, The God of Love. Sate latish. I wrote a letter to Coleridge.
Tuesday, 8th December 1801.—A dullish, rainyish morning. Wm. at work with Chaucer. I read Bruce's Lochleven. . . . William worked at The Cuckoo and the Nightingale till he was tired. . . .
Wednesday Morning, 9th December.— . . . I read Palemon and Arcite. . . . William writing out his alteration of Chaucer's Cuckoo and Nightingale. . . . When I had finished a letter to C., . . . Mary and I walked into Easedale, and backwards and forwards in that large field under George Rawson's white cottage. We had intended gathering mosses, and for that purpose we turned into the green lane, behind the tailor's, but it was too dark to see the mosses. The river came galloping past the Church, as fast as it could come; and when we got into Easedale we saw Churn Milk Force, like a broad stream of snow at the little foot-bridge. We stopped to look at the company of rivers, which came hurrying down the vale, this way and that. It was a valley of streams and islands, with that great waterfall at the head, and lesser falls in different parts of the mountains, coming down to these rivers. We could hear the sound of the lesser falls, but we could not see them. We walked backwards and forwards till all distant objects, except the white shape of the waterfall and the lines of the mountains, were gone. We had the crescent moon when we went out, and at our return there were a few stars that shone dimly, but it was a grey cloudy night.
Thursday, 10th December.— . . . We walked into Easedale to gather mosses, and then we went . . . up the Gill, beyond that little waterfall. It was a wild scene of crag and mountain. One craggy point rose above the rest irregular and rugged, and very impressive it was. We were very unsuccessful in our search after mosses. Just when the evening was closing in, Mr. Clarkson came to the door. It was a fine frosty evening. We played at cards.
******
Saturday, 12th.— . . . Snow upon the ground. . . . All looked cheerful and bright. Helm Crag rose very bold and craggy, a Being by itself, and behind it was the large ridge of mountain, smooth as marble and snow white. All the mountains looked like solid stone, on our left, going from Grasmere, i.e. White Moss and Nab Scar. The snow hid all the grass, and all signs of vegetation, and the rocks showed themselves boldly everywhere, and seemed more stony than rock or stone. The birches on the crags beautiful, red brown and glittering. The ashes glittering spears with their upright stems. The hips very beautiful, and so good!! and, dear Coleridge! I ate twenty for thee, when I was by myself. I came home first. They walked too slow for me. Wm. went to look at Langdale Pikes. We had a sweet invigorating walk. Mr. Clarkson came in before tea. We played at cards. Sate up late. The moon shone upon the waters below Silver How, and above it hung, combining with Silver How on one side, a bowl-shaped moon, the curve downwards, the white fields, glittering roof of Thomas Ashburner's house, the dark yew tree, the white fields gay and beautiful. Wm. lay with his curtains open that he might see it.
Sunday, 13th.—Mr. Clarkson left us, leading his horse. . . . The boy brought letters from Coleridge, and from Sara. Sara in bad spirits about C.
Monday, 14th December.—Wm. and Mary walked to Ambleside in the morning to buy mouse-traps. . . . I wrote to Coleridge a very long letter while they were absent. Sate by the fire in the evening reading.
******
Thursday, 17th.—Snow in the night and still snowing. . . . Ambleside looked excessively beautiful as we came out—like a village in another country; and the light cheerful mountains were seen, in the long distance, as bright and as clear as at mid-day, with the blue sky above them. We heard waterfowl calling out by the lake side. Jupiter was very glorious above the Ambleside hills, and one large star hung over the corner of the hills on the opposite side of Rydale water.
Friday, 18th December 1801.—Mary and Wm. walked round the two lakes. I staid at home to make bread. I afterwards went to meet them, and I met Wm. Mary had gone to look at Langdale Pikes. It was a cheerful glorious day. The birches and all trees beautiful, hips bright red, mosses green. I wrote to Coleridge.
******
Sunday, 20th December.—It snowed all day. It was a very deep snow. The brooms were very beautiful, arched feathers with wiry stalks pointed to the end, smaller and smaller. They waved gently with the weight of the snow.
Monday 21st being the shortest day, Mary walked to Ambleside for letters. It was a wearisome walk, for the snow lay deep upon the roads and it was beginning to thaw. I stayed at home. Wm. sate beside me, and read The Pedlar. He was in good spirits, and full of hope of what he should do with it. He went to meet Mary, and they brought four letters—two from Coleridge, one from Sara, and one from France. Coleridge's were melancholy letters. He had been very ill. We were made very unhappy. Wm. wrote to him, and directed the letter into Somersetshire. I finished it after tea. In the afternoon Mary and I ironed.
Tuesday, 22nd.— . . . Wm. composed a few lines of The Pedlar. We talked about Lamb's tragedy as we went down the White Moss. We stopped a long time in going to watch a little bird with a salmon-coloured breast, a white cross or T upon its wings, and a brownish back with faint stripes. . . . It began to pick upon the road at the distance of four yards from us, and advanced nearer and nearer till it came within the length of W.'s stick, without any apparent fear of us. As we came up the White Moss, we met an old man, who I saw was a beggar by his two bags hanging over his shoulder; but, from half laziness, half indifference, and wanting to try him, if he would speak, I let him pass. He said nothing, and my heart smote me. I turned back, and said, "You are begging?" "Ay," says he. I gave him something. William, judging from his appearance, joined in, "I suppose you were a sailor?" "Ay," he replied, "I have been 57 years at sea, 12 of them on board a man-of-war under Sir Hugh Palmer." "Why have you not a pension?" "I have no pension, but I could have got into Greenwich hospital, but all my officers are dead." He was 75 years of age, had a freshish colour in his cheeks, grey hair, a decent hat with a binding round the edge, the hat worn brown and glossy, his shoes were small thin shoes low in the quarters, pretty good. They had belonged to a gentleman. His coat was frock shaped, coming over his thighs. It had been joined up at the seams behind with paler blue, to let it out, and there were three bell-shaped patches of darker blue behind, where the buttons had been. His breeches were either of fustian, or grey cloth, with strings hanging down, whole and tight. He had a checked shirt on, and a small coloured handkerchief tied round his neck. His bags were hung over each shoulder, and lay on each side of him, below his breast. One was brownish and of coarse stuff, the other was white with meal on the outside, and his blue waistcoat was whitened with meal. ****** We overtook old Fleming at Rydale, leading his little Dutchman-like grandchild along the slippery road. The same face seemed to be natural to them both—the old man and the little child—and they went hand in hand, the grandfather cautious, yet looking proud of his charge. He had two patches of new cloth at the shoulder-blades of his faded claret-coloured coat, like eyes at each shoulder, not worn elsewhere. I found Mary at home in her riding-habit, all her clothes being put up. We were very sad about Coleridge. . . . We stopped to look at the stone seat at the top of the hill. There was a white cushion upon it, round at the edge like a cushion, and the rock behind looked soft as velvet, of a vivid green, and so tempting! The snow too looked as soft as a down cushion. A young foxglove, like a star, in the centre. There were a few green lichens about it, and a few withered brackens of fern here and there upon the ground near, all else was a thick snow; no footmark to it, not the foot of a sheep. . . . We sate snugly round the fire. I read to them the Tale of Constance and the Syrian monarch, in the Man of Lawe's Tale, also some of the Prologue. . . .
Wednesday, 23rd.— . . . Mary wrote out the Tales from Chaucer for Coleridge. William worked at The Ruined Cottage and made himself very ill. . . . A broken soldier came to beg in the morning. Afterwards a tall woman, dressed somewhat in a tawdry style, with a long checked muslin apron, a beaver hat, and throughout what are called good clothes. Her daughter had gone before, with a soldier and his wife. She had buried her husband at Whitehaven, and was going back into Cheshire.
Thursday, 24th.—Still a thaw. Wm., Mary, and I sate comfortably round the fire in the evening, and read Chaucer. Thoughts of last year. I took out my old Journal.
Friday, 25th.—Christmas Day. We received a letter from Coleridge. His letter made us uneasy about him. I was glad I was not by myself when I received it.
Saturday, 26th.— . . . We walked to Rydale. Grasmere Lake a beautiful image of stillness, clear as glass, reflecting all things. The wind was up, and the waters sounding. The lake of a rich purple, the fields a soft yellow, the island yellowish-green, the copses red-brown, the mountains purple, the church and buildings, how quiet they were! Poor Coleridge, Sara, and dear little Derwent here last year at this time. After tea we sate by the fire comfortably. I read aloud The Miller's Tale. Wrote to Coleridge. . . . Wm. wrote part of the poem to Coleridge.[7]
Sunday, 27th.—A fine soft beautiful mild day, with gleams of sunshine. William went to take in his boat. I sate in John's Grove a little while. Mary came home. Mary wrote some lines of the third part of his poem, which he brought to read to us, when we came home. . . .
Monday, 28th of December.—William, Mary, and I set off on foot to Keswick. We carried some cold mutton in our pockets, and dined at John Stanley's, where they were making Christmas pies. The sun shone, but it was coldish. We parted from Wm. upon the Raise. He joined us opposite Sara's rock. He was busy in composition, and sate down upon the wall. We did not see him again till we arrived at John Stanley's. There we roasted apples in the room. After we had left John Stanley's, Wm. discovered that he had lost his gloves. He turned back, but they were gone. Wm. rested often. Once he left his Spenser, and Mary turned back for it, and found it upon the bank, where we had last rested. . . . We reached Greta Hall at about 12 past 5 o'clock. The children and Mrs. C. well. After tea, message came from Wilkinson, who had passed us on the road, inviting Wm. to sup at the Oak. He went. Met a young man (a predestined Marquis) called Johnston. He spoke to him familiarly of the L. B. He had seen a copy presented by the Queen to Mrs. Harcourt. Said he saw them everywhere, and wondered they did not sell. We all went weary to bed. . . .
Tuesday, 29th.—A fine morning. A thin fog upon the hills which soon disappeared. The sun shone. Wilkinson went with us to the top of the hill. We turned out of the road at the second mile stone, and passed a pretty cluster of houses at the foot of St. John's Vale. The houses were among tall trees, partly of Scotch fir, and some naked forest trees. We crossed a bridge just below these houses, and the river winded sweetly along the meadows. Our road soon led us along the sides of dreary bare hills, but we had a glorious prospect to the left of Saddleback, half-way covered with snow, and underneath the comfortable white houses and the village of Threlkeld. These houses and the village want trees about them. Skiddaw was behind us, and dear Coleridge's desert home. As we ascended the hills it grew very cold and slippery. Luckily, the wind was at our backs, and helped us on. A sharp hail shower gathered at the head of Martindale, and the view upwards was very grand—wild cottages, seen through the hurrying hail-shower. The wind drove, and eddied about and about, and the hills looked large and swelling through the storm. We thought of Coleridge. O! the bonny nooks, and windings, and curlings of the beck, down at the bottom of the steep green mossy banks. We dined at the public-house on porridge, with a second course of Christmas pies. We were well received by the landlady, and her little Jewish daughter was glad to see us again. The husband a very handsome man. While we were eating our dinner a traveller came in. He had walked over Kirkstone, that morning. We were much amused by the curiosity of the landlord and landlady to learn who he was, and by his mysterious manner of letting out a little bit of his errand, and yet telling nothing. He had business further up in the vale. He left them with this piece of information to work upon, and I doubt not they discovered who he was and all his business before the next day at that hour. The woman told us of the riches of a Mr. Walker, formerly of Grasmere. We said, "What, does he do nothing for his relations? He has a sickly sister at Grasmere." "Why," said the man, "I daresay if they had any sons to put forward he would do it for them, but he has children of his own."
(N.B.—His fortune is above £60,000, and he has two children!!)
The landlord went about a mile and a half with us to put us in the right way. The road was often very slippery, the wind high, and it was nearly dark before we got into the right road. I was often obliged to crawl on all fours, and Mary fell many a time. A stout young man whom we met on the hills, and who knew Mr. Clarkson, very kindly set us into the right road, and we inquired again near some houses and were directed, by a miserable, poverty-struck, looking woman, who had been fetching water, to go down a miry lane. We soon got into the main road and reached Mr. Clarkson's at tea time. Mary H. spent the next day with us, and we walked on Dunmallet before dinner, but it snowed a little. The day following, being New Year's Eve, we accompanied Mary to Howtown Bridge.
- ↑ The landlord of Wytheburn Inn.—Ed.
- ↑ A Cumberland word for a rillet.—Ed.
- ↑ 3.0 3.1 Compare To a Highland Girl, 1. 8—
A murmur near the silent lake.Ed - ↑ Probably some of the lines afterwards included in The Excursion.—Ed.
- ↑ See, in the "Poetical Works," Simon Lee, II. 95, 96, vol. i. p. 268.—Ed.
- ↑ An unprinted letter.—Ed.
- ↑ See Stanzas, written in my Pocket Copy of Thomson's Castle of Indolence, "Poetical Works," vol. ii. p. 305.—Ed.