The poet whose works are contained in the present volume was born in the little town of Cockermouth, in Cumberland, on April 7, 1770.  He died at Rydal Mount, in the neighbouring county of Westmoreland, on April 23, 1850.  In this long span of mortal years, events of vast and enduring moment shook the world.  A handful of scattered and dependent colonies in the northern continent of America made themselves into one of the most powerful and beneficent of states.  The ancient monarchy of France, and all the old ordering of which the monarchy had been the keystone, was overthrown, and it was not until after many a violent shock of arms, after terrible slaughter of men, after strange diplomatic combinations, after many social convulsions, after many portentous mutations of empire, that Europe once more settled down for a season into established order and system.  In England almost alone, after the loss of her great possessions across the Atlantic Ocean, the fabric of the State stood fast and firm.  Yet here, too, in these eighty years, an old order slowly gave place to new.  The restoration of peace, after a war conducted with extraordinary tenacity and fortitude, led to a still more wonderful display of ingenuity, industry, and enterprise, in the more fruitful field of commerce and of manufactures.  Wealth, in spite of occasional vicissitudes, increased with amazing rapidity.  The population of England and Wales grew from being seven and a half millions in 1770, to nearly eighteen millions in 1850.  Political power was partially transferred from a territorial aristocracy to the middle and trading classes.  Laws were made at once more equal and more humane.  During all the tumult of the great war which for so many years bathed Europe in fire, through all the throes and agitations in which peace brought forth the new time, Wordsworth for half a century (1799-1850) dwelt sequestered in unbroken composure and steadfastness in his chosen home amid the mountains and lakes of his native region, working out his own ideal of the high office of the Poet.

The interpretation of life in books and the development of imagination underwent changes of its own.  Most of the great lights of the eighteenth century were still burning, though burning low, when Wordsworth came into the world.  Pope, indeed, had been dead for six and twenty years, and all the rest of the Queen Anne men had gone.  But Gray only died in 1771, and Goldsmith in 1774.  Ten years later Johnson’s pious and manly heart ceased to beat.  Voltaire and Rousseau, those two diverse oracles of their age, both died in 1778.  Hume had passed away two years before.  Cowper was forty years older than Wordsworth, but Cowper’s most delightful work was not produced until 1783.  Crabbe, who anticipated Wordsworth’s choice of themes from rural life, while treating them with a sterner realism, was virtually his contemporary, having been born in 1754, and dying in 1832.  The two great names of his own date were Scott and Coleridge, the first born in 1771, and the second a year afterwards.  Then a generation later came another new and illustrious group.  Byron was born in 1788, Shelley in 1792, and Keats in 1795.  Wordsworth was destined to see one more orb of the first purity and brilliance rise to its place in the poetic firmament.  Tennyson’s earliest volume of poems was published in 1830, and In Memoriam, one of his two masterpieces, in 1830.  Any one who realises for how much these famous names will always stand in the history of human genius, may measure the great transition that Wordsworth’s eighty years witnessed in some of men’s deepest feelings about art and life and “the speaking face of earth and heaven.”

Here, too, Wordsworth stood isolated and apart.  Scott and Southey were valued friends, but, as has been truly said, he thought little of Scott’s poetry, and less of Southey’s.  Of Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience he said, “There is something in the madness of this man which interests me more than the sanity of Lord Byron and Walter Scott.”  Coleridge was the only member of the shining company with whom he ever had any real intimacy of mind, for whom he ever nourished real deference and admiration as one “unrelentingly possessed by thirst of greatness, love, and beauty,” and in whose intellectual power, as the noble lines in the Sixth Book of the Prelude so gorgeously attest, he took the passionate interest of a man at once master, disciple, and friend.  It is true to say, as Emerson says, that Wordsworth’s genius was the great exceptional fact of the literature of his period.  But he had no teachers nor inspirers save nature and solitude.

Wordsworth was the son of a solicitor, and all his early circumstances were homely, unpretentious, and rather straitened.  His mother died when he was eight years old, and when his father followed her five years later, two of his uncles provided means for continuing at Cambridge the education which had been begun in the rural grammar-school of Hawkshead.  It was in 1787 that he went up to St. John’s College.  He took his Bachelor’s degree at the beginning of 1791, and there his connection with the university ended.

For some years after leaving Cambridge, Wordsworth let himself drift.  He did not feel good enough for the Church; he shrank from the law; fancying that he had talents for command, he thought of being a soldier.  Meanwhile, he passed a short time desultorily in London.  Towards the end of 1791, through Paris, he passed on to Orleans and Blois, where he made some friends and spent most of a year.  He returned to Paris in October 1792.  France was no longer standing on the top of golden hours.  The September massacres filled the sky with a lurid flame.  Wordsworth still retained his ardent faith in the Revolution, and was even ready, though no better than “a landsman on the deck of a ship struggling with a hideous storm,” to make common cause with the Girondists.  But the prudence of friends at home forced him back to England before the beginning of the terrible year of ’93.  With his return closed that first survey of its inheritance, which most serious souls are wont to make in the fervid prime of early manhood.

It would be idle to attempt any commentary on the bare facts that we have just recapitulated; for Wordsworth himself has clothed them with their full force and meaning in the Prelude.  This record of the growth of a poet’s mind, told by the poet himself with all the sincerity of which he was capable, is never likely to be popular.  Of that, as of so much more of his poetry, we must say that, as a whole, it has not the musical, harmonious, sympathetic quality which seizes us in even the prose of such a book as Rousseau’s Confessions.  Macaulay thought the Prelude a poorer and more tiresome Excursion, with the old flimsy philosophy about the effect of scenery on the mind, the old crazy mystical metaphysics, and the endless wilderness of twaddle; still he admits that there are some fine descriptions and energetic declamations.  All Macaulay’s tastes and habits of mind made him a poor judge of such a poet as Wordsworth.  He valued spirit, energy, pomp, stateliness of form and diction, and actually thought Dryden’s fine lines about to-morrow being falser than the former clay equal to any eight lines in Lucretius.  But his words truly express the effect of the Prelude on more vulgar minds than his own.  George Eliot, on the other hand, who had the inward eye that was not among Macaulay’s gifts, found the Prelude full of material for a daily liturgy, and it is easy to imagine how she fondly lingered, as she did, over such a thought as this ­

                      “There is
  One great society alone on earth: 
  The noble Living and the noble Dead.”

There is, too, as may be found imbedded even in Wordsworth’s dullest work, many a line of the truest poetical quality, such as that on Newton’s statue in the silent Chapel of Trinity College ­

“The marble index of a mind for ever
Voyaging through strange seas of Thought alone.”

Apart, however, from beautiful lines like this, and from many noble passages of high reflection set to sonorous verse, this remarkable poem is in its whole effect unique in impressive power, as a picture of the advance of an elect and serious spirit from childhood and school-time, through the ordeal of adolescence, through close contact with stirring and enormous events, to that decisive stage when it has found the sources of its strength, and is fully and finally prepared to put its temper to the proof.

The three Books that describe the poet’s residence in France have a special and a striking value of their own.  Their presentation of the phases of good men’s minds as the successive scenes of the Revolution unfolded themselves has real historic interest.  More than this, it is an abiding lesson to brave men how to bear themselves in hours of public stress.  It portrays exactly that mixture of persevering faith and hope with firm and reasoned judgment, with which I like to think that Turgot, if he had lived, would have confronted the workings of the Revolutionary power.  Great masters in many kinds have been inspired by the French Revolution.  Human genius might seem to have exhausted itself in the burning political passion of Burke, in the glowing melodrama of fire and tears of Carlyle, Michelet, Hugo; but the ninth, tenth, and eleventh Books of the Prelude, by their strenuous simplicity, their deep truthfulness, their slowfooted and inexorable transition from ardent hope to dark imaginations, sense of woes to come, sorrow for human kind, and pain of heart, breathe the very spirit of the great catastrophe.  There is none of the ephemeral glow of the political exhortation, none of the tiresome falsity of the dithyramb in history.  Wordsworth might well wish that some dramatic tale, endued with livelier shapes and flinging out less guarded words, might set forth the lessons of his experience.  The material was fitting.  The story of these three Books has something of the severity, the self-control, the inexorable necessity of classic tragedy, and like classic tragedy it has a noble end.  The dregs and sour sediment that reaction from exaggerated hope is so apt to stir in poor natures had no place here.  The French Revolution made the one crisis in Wordsworth’s mental history, the one heavy assault on his continence of soul, and when he emerged from it all his greatness remained to him.  After a long spell of depression, bewilderment, mortification, and sore disappointment, the old faith in new shapes was given back.

                  “Nature’s self,
  By all varieties of human love
  Assisted, led me back through opening day
  To those sweet counsels between head and heart
  Whence grew that genuine knowledge, fraught with peace,
  Which, through the later sinkings of this cause,
  Hath still upheld me and upholds me now.”

It was six years after his return from France before Wordsworth finally settled down in the scenes with which his name and the power of his genius were to be for ever associated.  During this interval it was that two great sources of personal influence were opened to him.  He entered upon that close and beloved companionship with his sister, which remained unbroken to the end of their days; and he first made the acquaintance of Coleridge.  The character of Dorothy Wordsworth has long taken its place in the gallery of admirable and devoted women who have inspired the work and the thoughts of great men.  “She is a woman, indeed,” said Coleridge, “in mind I mean, and heart; for her person is such that if you expected to see a pretty woman, you would think her rather ordinary; if you expected to see an ordinary woman, you would think her pretty.”  To the solidity, sense, and strong intelligence of the Wordsworth stock she added a grace, a warmth, a liveliness peculiarly her own.  Her nature shines transparent in her letters, in her truly admirable journal, and in every report that we have of her.  Wordsworth’s own feelings for her, and his sense of the debt that he owed to her faithful affection and eager mind, he has placed on lasting record.

The intimacy with Coleridge was, as has been said, Wordsworth’s one strong friendship, and must be counted among the highest examples of that generous relation between great writers.  Unlike in the quality of their genius, and unlike in force of character and the fortunes of life, they remained bound to one another by sympathies that neither time nor harsh trial ever extinguished.  Coleridge had left Cambridge in 1794, had married, had started various unsuccessful projects for combining the improvement of mankind with the earning of an income, and was now settled in a small cottage at Nether Stowey, in Somersetshire, with an acre and a half of land, from which he hoped to raise corn and vegetables enough to support himself and his wife, as well as to feed a couple of pigs on the refuse.  Wordsworth and his sister were settled at Racedown, near Crewkerne, in Dorsetshire.  In 1797 they moved to Alfoxden, in Somersetshire, their principal inducement to the change being Coleridge’s society.  The friendship bore fruit in the production of Lyrical Ballads in 1798, mainly the work of Wordsworth, but containing no less notable a contribution from Coleridge than the Ancient Mariner.  The two poets only received thirty guineas for their work, and the publisher lost his money.  The taste of the country was not yet ripe for Wordsworth’s poetic experiment.

Immediately after the publication of the Lyrical Ballads, the two Wordsworths and Coleridge started from Yarmouth for Hamburg.  Coleridge’s account in Satyrane’s Letters, published In the Biographia Literaria, of the voyage and of the conversation between the two English poets and Klopstock, is worth turning to.  The pastor told them that Klopstock was the German Milton.  “A very German Milton indeed,” they thought.  The Wordsworths remained for four wintry months at Goslar, in Saxony, while Coleridge went on to Ratzeburg, Goettingen, and other places, mastering German, and “delving in the unwholesome quicksilver mines of metaphysic depths.”  Wordsworth made little way with the language, but worked diligently at his own verse.

When they came back to England, Wordsworth and his sister found their hearts turning with irresistible attraction to their own familiar countryside.  They at last made their way to Grasmere.  The opening book of the Recluse, which is published for the first time in the present volume, describes in fine verse the emotions and the scene.  The face of this delicious vale is not quite what it was when

                  “Cottages of mountain stone
  Clustered like stars some few, but single most,
  And lurking dimly in their shy retreats,
  Or glancing at each other cheerful looks
  Like separated stars with clouds between.”

But it is foolish to let ourselves be fretted by the villa, the hotel, and the tourist.  We may well be above all this in a scene that is haunted by a great poetic shade.  The substantial features and elements of beauty still remain, the crags and woody steeps, the lake, “its one green island and its winding shores; the multitude of little rocky hills.”  Wordsworth was not the first poet to feel its fascination.  Gray visited the Lakes in the autumn of 1769, and coming into the vale of Grasmere from the north-west, declared it to be one of the sweetest landscapes that art ever attempted to imitate, an unsuspected paradise of peace and rusticity.  We cannot indeed compare the little crystal mere, set like a gem in the verdant circle of the hills, with the grandeur and glory of Lucerne, or the radiant gladness and expanse of Como:  yet it has an inspiration of its own, to delight, to soothe, to fortify, and to refresh.

  “What want we? have we not perpetual streams,
  Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields,
  And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds,
  And thickets full of songsters, and the voice
  Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound
  Heard now and then from morn to latest eve,
  Admonishing the man who walks below
  Of solitude and silence in the sky. 
  These have we, and a thousand nooks of earth
  Have also these, but nowhere else is found,
  Nowhere (or is it fancy?) can be found
  The one sensation that is here;...’tis the sense
  Of majesty, and beauty, and repose,
  A blended holiness of earth and sky,
  Something that makes this individual spot,
  This small abiding-place of many men,
  A termination, and a last retreat,
  A centre, come from wheresoe’er you will,
  A whole without dependence or defect,
  Made for itself, and happy in itself,
  Perfect contentment, Unity entire.”

In the Grasmere vale Wordsworth lived for half a century, first in a little cottage at the northern corner of the lake, and then (1813) in a more commodious house at Rydal Mount at the southern end, on the road to Ambleside.  In 1802 he married Mary Hutchinson, of Penrith, and this completed the circle of his felicity.  Mary, he once said, was to his ear the most musical and most truly English in sound of all the names we have.  The name was of harmonious omen.  The two beautiful sonnets that he wrote on his wife’s portrait long years after, when “morning into noon had passed, noon into eve,” show how much her large heart and humble mind had done for the blessedness of his home.

Their life was almost more simple than that of the dalesmen their neighbours.  “It is my opinion,” ran one of his oracular sayings to Sir George Beaumont, “that a man of letters, and indeed all public men of every pursuit, should be severely frugal.”  Means were found for supporting the modest home out of two or three small windfalls bequeathed by friends or relatives, and by the time that children had begun to come Wordsworth was raised to affluence by obtaining the post of distributor of stamps for Westmoreland and part of Cumberland.  His life was happily devoid of striking external incident.  Its essential part lay in meditation and composition.

He was surrounded by friends.  Southey had made a home for himself and his beloved library a few miles over the hills, at Keswick.  De Quincey, with his clever brains and shallow character, took up his abode in the cottage which Wordsworth had first lived in at Grasmere.  Coleridge, born the most golden genius of them all, came to and fro in those fruitless unhappy wanderings which consumed a life that once promised to be so rich in blessing and in glory.  In later years Dr. Arnold built a house at Fox How, attracted by the Wordsworths and the scenery; and other lesser lights came into the neighbourhood.  “Our intercourse with the Wordsworths,” Arnold wrote on the occasion of his first visit in 1832, “was one of the brightest spots of all; nothing could exceed their friendliness, and my almost daily walks with him were things not to be forgotten.  Once and once only we had a good fight about the Reform Bill during a walk up Greenhead Ghyll to see the unfinished sheep-fold, recorded in Michael.  But I am sure that our political disagreement did not at all interfere with our enjoyment of each other’s society; for I think that in the great principles of things we agreed very entirely.”  It ought to be possible, for that matter, for magnanimous men, even if they do not agree in the great principles of things, to keep pleasant terms with one another for more than one afternoon’s walk.  Many pilgrims came, and the poet seems to have received them with cheerful equanimity.  Emerson called upon him in 1833, and found him plain, elderly, whitehaired, not prepossessing.  “He led me out into his garden, and showed me the gravel walk in which thousands of his lines were composed.  He had just returned from Staffa, and within three days had made three sonnets on Fingal’s Cave, and was composing a fourth when he was called in to see me.  He said, ’If you are interested in my verses, perhaps you will like to hear these lines.’  I gladly assented, and he recollected himself for a few moments, and then stood forth and repeated, one after the other, the three entire sonnets with great animation.  This recitation was so unlooked for and surprising ­he, the old Wordsworth, standing apart, and reciting to me in a garden-walk, like a schoolboy declaiming ­that I at first was near to laugh; but recollecting myself, that I had come thus far to see a poet, and he was chanting poems to me, I saw that he was right and I was wrong, and gladly gave myself up to hear.  He never was in haste to publish; partly because he corrected a good deal....  He preferred such of his poems as touched the affections to any others; for whatever is didactic ­what theories of society, and so on ­might perish quickly, but whatever combined a truth with an affection was good to-day and good for ever” (English Traits, ch. i.).

Wordsworth was far too wise to encourage the pilgrims to turn into abiding sojourners in his chosen land.  Clough has described how, when he was a lad of eighteen (1837), with a mild surprise he heard the venerable poet correct the tendency to exaggerate the importance of flowers and fields, lakes, waterfalls, and scenery.  “People come to the Lakes,” said Wordsworth, “and are charmed with a particular spot, and build a house, and find themselves discontented, forgetting that these things are only the sauce and garnish of life.”

In spite of a certain hardness and stiffness, Wordsworth must have been an admirable companion for anybody capable of true elevation of mind.  The unfortunate Haydon says, with his usual accent of enthusiasm, after a saunter at Hampstead, “Never did any man so beguile the time as Wordsworth.  His purity of heart, his kindness, his soundness of principle, his information, his knowledge, and the intense and eager feelings with which he pours forth all he knows, affect, interest, and enchant one” (Autobiog. , 384).  The diary of Crabb Robinson, the correspondence of Charles Lamb, the delightful autobiography of Mrs. Fletcher, and much less delightfully the autobiography of Harriet Martineau, all help us to realise by many a trait Wordsworth’s daily walk and conversation.  Of all the glimpses that we get, from these and many other sources, none are more pleasing than those of the intercourse between Wordsworth and Scott.  They were the two manliest and most wholesome men of genius of their time.  They held different theories of poetic art, but their affection and esteem for one another never varied, from the early days when Scott and his young wife visited Wordsworth in his cottage at Grasmere, down to that sorrowful autumn evening (1831) when Wordsworth and his daughter went to Abbotsford to bid farewell to the wondrous potentate, then just about to start on his vain search for new life, followed by “the might of the whole earth’s good wishes.”

Of Wordsworth’s demeanour and physical presence, De Quincey’s account, silly, coxcombical, and vulgar, is the worst; Carlyle’s, as might be expected from his magical gift of portraiture, is the best.  Carlyle cared little for Wordsworth’s poetry, had a real respect for the antique greatness of his devotion to Poverty and Peasanthood, recognised his strong intellectual powers and strong character, but thought him rather dull, bad-tempered, unproductive, and almost wearisome, and found his divine reflections and unfathomabilities stinted, scanty, uncertain, palish.  From these and many other disparagements, one gladly passes to the picture of the poet as he was in the flesh at a breakfast-party given by Henry Taylor, at a tavern in St. James’s Street, in 1840.  The subject of the talk was Literature, its laws, practices, and observances: ­“He talked well in his way; with veracity, easy brevity and force; as a wise tradesman would of his tools and workshop, and as no unwise one could.  His voice was good, frank, and sonorous, though practically clear, distinct, and forcible, rather than melodious; the tone of him business-like, sedately confident; no discourtesy, yet no anxiety about being courteous:  a fine wholesome rusticity, fresh as his mountain breezes, sat well on the stalwart veteran, and on all he said and did.  You would have said he was a usually taciturn man, glad to unlock himself to audience sympathetic and intelligent, when such offered itself.  His face bore marks of much, not always peaceful, meditation; the look of it not bland or benevolent, so much as close, impregnable, and hard; a man multa tacere loquive paratus, in a world where he had experienced no lack of contradictions as he strode along!  The eyes were not very brilliant, but they had a quiet clearness; there was enough of brow, and well shaped; rather too much of cheek (’horse-face,’ I have heard satirists say), face of squarish shape and decidedly longish, as I think the head itself was (its ‘length’ going horizontal); he was large-boned, lean, but still firm-knit, tall, and strong-looking when he stood; a right good old steel-gray figure, with rustic simplicity and dignity about him, and a vivacious strength looking through him which might have suited one of those old steel-gray Markgrafs [Graf = Grau,’Steel-gray’] whom Henry the Fowler set up to ward the ‘marches,’ and do battle with the intrusive heathen, in a stalwart and judicious manner.”

Whoever might be his friends within an easy walk, or dwelling afar, the poet knew how to live his own life.  The three fine sonnets headed Personal Talk, so well known, so warmly accepted in our better hours, so easily forgotten in hours not so good between pleasant levities and grinding preoccupations, show us how little his neighbours had to do with the poet’s genial seasons of “smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought.”

For those days Wordsworth was a considerable traveller.  Between 1820 and 1837 he made long tours abroad, to Switzerland, to Holland, to Belgium, to Italy.  In other years he visited Wales, Scotland, and Ireland.  He was no mechanical tourist, admiring to order and marvelling by regulation; and he confessed to Mrs. Fletcher that he fell asleep before the Venus de Medici at Florence.  But the product of these wanderings is to be seen in some of his best sonnets, such as the first on Calais Beach, the famous one on Westminster Bridge, the second of the two on Bruges, where “the Spirit of Antiquity mounts to the seat of grace within the mind ­a deeper peace than that in deserts found” ­and in some other fine pieces.

In weightier matters than mere travel, Wordsworth showed himself no mere recluse.  He watched the great affairs then being transacted in Europe with the ardent interest of his youth, and his sonnets to Liberty, commemorating the attack by France upon the Swiss, the fate of Venice, the struggle of Hofer, the resistance of Spain, give no unworthy expression to some of the best of the many and varied motives that animated England in her long struggle with Bonaparte.  The sonnet to Toussaint l’Ouverture concludes with some of the noblest lines in the English language.  The strong verses on the expected death of Mr. Fox are alive with a magnanimous public spirit that goes deeper than the accidents of political opinion.  In his young days he had sent Fox a copy of the Lyrical Ballads, with a long letter indicating his sense of Fox’s great and generous qualities.  Pitt he admits that he could never regard with complacency.  “I believe him, however,” he said, “to have been as disinterested a man, and as true a lover of his country, as it was possible for so ambitious a man to be.  His first wish (though probably unknown to himself) was that his country should prosper under his administration; his next that it should prosper.  Could the order of these wishes have been reversed, Mr. Pitt would have avoided many of the grievous mistakes into which, I think, he fell.”  “You always went away from Burke,” he once told Haydon, “with your mind filled; from Fox with your feelings excited; and from Pitt with wonder at his having had the power to make the worse appear the better reason.”

Of the poems composed under the influence of that best kind of patriotism which ennobles local attachments by associating them with the lasting elements of moral grandeur and heroism it is needless to speak.  They have long taken their place as something higher even than literary classics.  As years began to dull the old penetration of a mind which had once approached, like other youths, the shield of human nature from the golden side, and had been eager to “clear a passage for just government,” Wordsworth lost his interest in progress.  Waterloo may be taken for the date at which his social grasp began to fail, and with it his poetic glow.  He opposed Catholic emancipation as stubbornly as Eldon, and the Reform Bill as bitterly as Croker.  For the practical reforms of his day, even in education, for which he had always spoken up, Wordsworth was not a force.  His heart clung to England as he found it.  “This concrete attachment to the scenes about him,” says Mr. Myers, “had always formed an important element In his character.  Ideal politics, whether in Church or State, had never occupied his mind, which sought rather to find its informing principles embodied in the England of his own day.”  This flowed, we may suppose, from Burke.  In a passage in the seventh Book of the Prelude, he describes, in lines a little prosaic but quite true, how he sat, saw, and heard, not unthankful nor uninspired, the great orator

  “While he forewarns, denounces, launches forth
  Against all systems built on abstract rights.”

The Church, as conceived by the spirit of Laud, and described by Hooker’s voice, was the great symbol of the union of high and stable institution with thought, faith, right living, and “sacred religion, mother of form and fear.”  As might be expected from such a point of view, the church pieces, to which Wordsworth gave so much thought, are, with few exceptions, such as the sonnet on Seathwaite Chapel, formal, hard, and very thinly enriched with spiritual graces or unction.  They are ecclesiastical, not religious.  In religious poetry, the Church of England finds her most affecting voice, not in Wordsworth, but in the Lyra Innocentium and the Christian Year.  Wordsworth abounds in the true devotional cast of mind, but less than anywhere else does it show in his properly ecclesiastical verse.

It was perhaps natural that when events no longer inspired him, Wordsworth should have turned with new feelings towards the classic, and discovered a virtue in classic form to which his own method had hitherto made him a little blind.  Towards the date of Waterloo, he read over again some of the Latin writers, in attempting to prepare his son for college.  He even at a later date set about a translation of the Aeneid of Virgil, but the one permanent result of the classic movement in his mind is Laodamia.  Earlier in life he had translated some books of Ariosto at the rate of a hundred lines a day, and he even attempted fifteen of the sonnets of Michael Angelo, but so much meaning is compressed into so little room in those pieces that he found the difficulty insurmountable.  He had a high opinion of the resources of the Italian language.  The poetry of Dante and of Michael Angelo, he said, proves that if there be little majesty and strength in Italian verse, the fault is in the authors and not in the tongue.

Our last glimpse of Wordsworth in the full and peculiar power of his genius is the Ode Composed on an evening of extraordinary splendour and beauty.  It is the one exception to the critical dictum that all his good work was done in the decade between 1798 and 1808.  He lived for more than thirty years after this fine composition.  But he added nothing more of value to the work that he had already done.  The public appreciation of it was very slow.  The most influential among the critics were for long hostile and contemptuous.  Never at any time did Wordsworth come near to such popularity as that of Scott or of Byron.  Nor was this all.  For many years most readers of poetry thought more even of Lalla Rookh than of the Excursion.  While Scott, Byron, and Moore were receiving thousands of pounds, Wordsworth received nothing.  Between 1830 and 1840 the current turned in Wordsworth’s direction, and when he received the honour of a doctor’s degree at the Oxford Commemoration in 1839, the Sheldonian theatre made him the hero of the day.  In the spring of 1843 Southey died, and Sir Robert Peel pressed Wordsworth to succeed him in the office of Poet-Laureate.  “It is a tribute of respect,” said the Minister, “justly due to the first of living poets.”  But almost immediately the light of his common popularity was eclipsed by Tennyson, as it had earlier been eclipsed by Scott, by Byron, and in some degree by Shelley.  Yet his fame among those who know, among competent critics with a right to judge, to-day stands higher than it ever stood.  Only two writers have contributed so many lines of daily popularity and application.  In the handbooks of familiar quotations Wordsworth fills more space than anybody save Shakespeare and Pope.  He exerted commanding influence over great minds that have powerfully affected our generation.  “I never before,” said George Eliot in the days when her character was forming itself (1839), “met with so many of my own feelings expressed just as I should like them,” and her reverence for Wordsworth remained to the end.  J.S.  Mill has described how important an event in his life was his first reading of Wordsworth.  “What made his poems a medicine for my state of mind was that they expressed not mere outward beauty, but states of feeling and of thought coloured by feeling, under the excitement of beauty.  I needed to be made to feel that there was real permanent happiness in tranquil contemplation.  Wordsworth taught me this, not only without turning away from, but with greatly increased interest in the common feelings and common destiny of human beings” (Autobiog., 148).  This effect of Wordsworth on Mill is the very illustration of the phrase of a later poet of our own day, one of the most eminent and by his friends best beloved of all those whom Wordsworth had known, and on whom he poured out a generous portion of his own best spirit: ­

  Time may restore us in his course
  Goethe’s sage mind and Byron’s force. 
  But where will Europe’s latter hour
  Again find Wordsworth’s healing power?

It is the power for which Matthew Arnold found this happy designation that compensates us for that absence of excitement of which the heedless complain in Wordsworth’s verse ­excitement so often meaning mental fever, hysterics, distorted passion, or other fitful agitation of the soul.

Pretensions are sometimes advanced as to Wordsworth’s historic position, which involve a mistaken view of literary history.  Thus, we are gravely told by the too zealous Wordsworthian that the so-called poets of the eighteenth century were simply men of letters; they had various accomplishments and great general ability, but their thoughts were expressed in prose, or in mere metrical diction, which passed current as poetry without being so.  Yet Burns belonged wholly to the eighteenth century (1759-96), and no verse-writer is so little literary as Burns, so little prosaic; no writer more truly poetic in melody, diction, thought, feeling, and spontaneous song.  It was Burns who showed Wordsworth’s own youth “How verse may build a princely throne on humble truth.”  Nor can we understand how Cowper is to be set down as simply a man of letters.  We may, too, if we please, deny the name of poetry to Collins’s tender and pensive Ode to Evening; but we can only do this on critical principles, which would end in classing the author of Lycidas and Comus, of the Allegro and Penseroso, as a writer of various accomplishments and great general ability, but at bottom simply a man of letters and by no means a poet.  It is to Gray, however, that we must turn for the distinctive character of the best poetry of the eighteenth century.  With reluctance we will surrender the Pindaric Odes, though not without risking the observation that some of Wordsworth’s own criticism on Gray is as narrow and as much beside the mark as Jeffrey’s on the Excursion.  But the Ode on Eton College is not to have grudged to it the noble name and true quality of poetry, merely because, as one of Johnson’s most unfortunate criticisms expresses it, the ode suggests nothing to Gray which every beholder does not equally think and feel.  To find beautiful and pathetic language, set to harmonious numbers, for the common impressions of meditative minds, is no small part of the poet’s task.  That part has never been achieved by any poet in any tongue with more complete perfection and success than in the immortal Elegy, of which we may truly say that it has for nearly a century and a half given to greater multitudes of men more of the exquisite pleasure of poetry than any other single piece in all the glorious treasury of English verse.  It abounds, as Johnson says, “with images which find a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo.”  These moving commonplaces of the human lot Gray approached through books and studious contemplation; not, as Wordsworth approached them, by daily contact with the lives and habit of men and the forces and magical apparitions of external nature.  But it is a narrow view to suppose that the men of the eighteenth century did not look through the literary conventions of the day to the truths of life and nature behind them.  The conventions have gone, or are changed, and we are all glad of it.  Wordsworth effected a wholesome deliverance when he attacked the artificial diction, the personifications, the allegories, the antithèses, the barren rhymes and monotonous metres, which the reigning taste had approved.  But while welcoming the new freshness, sincerity, and direct and fertile return on nature, that is a very bad reason why we should disparage poetry so genial, so simple, so humane, and so perpetually pleasing, as the best verse of the rationalistic century.

What Wordsworth did was to deal with themes that had been partially handled by precursors and contemporaries, in a larger and more devoted spirit, with wider amplitude of illustration, and with the steadfastness and persistency of a religious teacher.  “Every great poet is a teacher,” he said; “I wish to be considered as a teacher or as nothing.”  It may be doubted whether his general proposition is at all true, and whether it is any more the essential business of a poet to be a teacher than it was the business of Handel, Beethoven, or Mozart.  They attune the soul to high states of feeling; the direct lesson is often as nought.  But of himself no view could be more sound.  He is a teacher, or he is nothing.  “To console the afflicted; to add sunshine to daylight by making the happy happier; to teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, and feel, and therefore to become more actively and sincerely virtuous” ­that was his vocation; to show that the mutual adaptation of the external world and the inner mind is able to shape a paradise from the “simple produce of the common day” ­that was his high argument.

Simplification was, as I have said elsewhere, the keynote of the revolutionary time.  Wordsworth was its purest exponent, but he had one remarkable peculiarity, which made him, in England at least, not only its purest but its greatest.  While leading men to pierce below the artificial and conventional to the natural man and natural life, as Rousseau did, Wordsworth still cherished the symbols, the traditions, and the great institutes of social order.  Simplification of life and thought and feeling was to be accomplished without summoning up the dangerous spirit of destruction and revolt.  Wordsworth lived with nature, yet waged no angry railing war against society.  The chief opposing force to Wordsworth in literature was Byron.  Whatever he was in his heart, Byron in his work was drawn by all the forces of his character, genius, and circumstances to the side of violent social change, and hence the extraordinary popularity of Byron in the continental camp of emancipation.  Communion with nature is in Wordsworth’s doctrine the school of duty.  With Byron nature is the mighty consoler and the vindicator of the rebel.

A curious thing, which we may note in passing, is that Wordsworth, who clung fervently to the historic foundations of society as it stands, was wholly indifferent to history; while Byron, on the contrary, as the fourth canto of Childe Harold is enough to show, had at least the sentiment of history in as great a degree as any poet that ever lived, and has given to it by far the most magnificent expression.  No doubt, it was history on its romantic, rather than its philosophic or its political side.

On Wordsworth’s exact position in the hierarchy of sovereign poets, a deep difference of estimate still divides even the most excellent judges.  Nobody now dreams of placing him so low as the Edinburgh Reviewers did, nor so high as Southey placed him when he wrote to the author of Philip van Artevelde in 1829 that a greater poet than Wordsworth there never has been nor ever will be.  An extravagance of this kind was only the outburst of generous friendship.  Coleridge deliberately placed Wordsworth “nearest of all modern writers to Shakespeare and Milton, yet in a kind perfectly unborrowed and his own.”  Arnold, himself a poet of rare and memorable quality, declares his firm belief that the poetical performance of Wordsworth is, after that of Shakespeare and Milton, undoubtedly the most considerable in our language from the Elizabethan age to the present time.  Dryden, Pope, Gray, Cowper, Goldsmith, Burns, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, Keats ­“Wordsworth’s name deserves to stand, and will finally stand, above them all.”  Mr. Myers, also a poet, and the author of a volume on Wordsworth as much distinguished by insight as by admirable literary grace and power, talks of “a Plato, a Dante, a Wordsworth,” all three in a breath, as stars of equal magnitude in the great spiritual firmament.  To Mr. Swinburne, on the contrary, all these panegyrical estimates savour of monstrous and intolerable exaggeration.  Amid these contentions of celestial minds it will be safest to content ourselves with one or two plain observations in the humble positive degree, without hurrying into high and final comparatives and superlatives.

One admission is generally made at the outset.  Whatever definition of poetry we fix upon, whether that it is the language of passion or imagination formed into regular numbers; or, with Milton, that it should be “simple, sensuous, impassioned;” in any case there are great tracts in Wordsworth which, by no definition and on no terms, can be called poetry.  If we say with Shelley, that poetry is what redeems from decay the visitations of the divinity in man, and is the record of the best and happiest moments of the best and happiest minds, then are we bound to agree that Wordsworth records too many moments that are not specially good or happy, that he redeems from decay frequent visitations that are not from any particular divinity in man, and treats them all as very much on a level.  Mr. Arnold is undoubtedly right in his view that, to be receivable as a classic, Wordsworth must be relieved of a great deal of the poetical baggage that now encumbers him.

The faults and hindrances in Wordsworth’s poetry are obvious to every reader.  For one thing, the intention to instruct, to improve the occasion, is too deliberate and too hardly pressed.  “We hate poetry,” said Keats, “that has a palpable design upon us.  Poetry should be great and unobtrusive.”  Charles Lamb’s friendly remonstrance on one of Wordsworth’s poems is applicable to more of them:  “The instructions conveyed in it are too direct; they don’t slide into the mind of the reader while he is imagining no such matter.”

Then, except the sonnets and half a score of the pieces where he reaches his topmost height, there are few of his poems that are not too long, and it often happens even that no degree of reverence for the teacher prevents one from finding passages of almost unbearable prolixity.  A defence was once made by a great artist for what, to the unregenerate mind, seemed the merciless tardiness of movement in one of Goethe’s romances, that it was meant to impress on his readers the slow march and the tedium of events in human life.  The lenient reader may give Wordsworth the advantage of the same ingenious explanation.  We may venture on a counsel which is more to the point, in warning the student that not seldom in these blocks of afflicting prose, suddenly we come upon some of the profoundest and most beautiful passages that the poet ever wrote.  In deserts of preaching we find, almost within sight of one another, delightful oases of purest poetry.  Besides being prolix, Wordsworth is often cumbrous; has often no flight; is not liquid, is not musical.  He is heavy and self-conscious with the burden of his message.  How much at his best he is, when, as in the admirable and truly Wordsworthian poem of Michael, he spares us a sermon and leaves us the story.  Then, he is apt to wear a somewhat stiff-cut garment of solemnity, when not solemnity, but either sternness or sadness, which are so different things, would seem the fitter mood.  In truth Wordsworth hardly knows how to be stern, as Dante or Milton was stern; nor has he the note of plangent sadness which strikes the ear in men as morally inferior to him as Rousseau, Keats, Shelley, or Coleridge; nor has he the Olympian air with which Goethe delivered sage oracles.  This mere solemnity is specially oppressive in some parts of the Excursion ­the performance where we best see the whole poet, and where the poet most absolutely identifies himself with his subject.  Yet, even in the midst of these solemn discoursings, he suddenly introduces an episode in which his peculiar power is at its height.  There is no better instance of this than the passage in the second Book of the Excursion, where he describes with a fidelity, at once realistic and poetic, the worn-out almsman, his patient life and sorry death, and then the unimaginable vision in the skies, as they brought the ancient man down through dull mists from the mountain ridge to die.  These hundred and seventy lines are like the landscape in which they were composed; you can no more appreciate the beauty of the one by a single or a second perusal, than you can the other in a scamper through the vale on the box of the coach.  But any lover of poetry who will submit himself with leisure and meditation to the impressions of the story, the pity of it, the naturalness of it, the glory and the mystic splendours of the indifferent heavens, will feel that here indeed is the true strength which out of the trivial raises expression for the pathetic and the sublime.

Apart, however, from excess of prolixity and of solemnity, can it be really contended that in purely poetic quality ­in aerial freedom and space, in radiant purity of light or depth and variety of colour, in penetrating and subtle sweetness of music, in supple mastery of the instrument, in vivid spontaneity of imagination, in clean-cut sureness of touch ­Wordsworth is not surpassed by men who were below him in weight and greatness?  Even in his own field of the simple and the pastoral has he touched so sweet and spontaneous a note as Burns’s Daisy, or the Mouse?  When men seek immersion or absorption in the atmosphere of pure poesy, without lesson or moral, or anything but delight of fancy and stir of imagination, they will find him less congenial to their mood than poets not worthy to loose the latchet of his shoe in the greater elements of his art.  In all these comparisons, it is not merely Wordsworth’s theme and motive and dominant note that are different; the skill of hand is different, and the musical ear and the imaginative eye.

To maintain or to admit so much as this, however, is not to say the last word.  The question is whether Wordsworth, however unequal to Shelley in lyric quality, to Coleridge or to Keats in imaginative quality, to Burns in tenderness, warmth, and that humour which is so nearly akin to pathos, to Byron in vividness and energy, yet possesses excellences of his own which place him in other respects above these master-spirits of his time.  If the question is to be answered affirmatively, it is clear that only in one direction must we look.  The trait that really places Wordsworth on an eminence above his poetic contemporaries, and ranks him, as the ages are likely to rank him, on a line just short of the greatest of all time, is his direct appeal to will and conduct.  “There is volition and self-government in every line of his poetry, and his best thoughts come from his steady resistance to the ebb and flow of ordinary desires and regrets.  He contests the ground inch by inch with all despondent and indolent humours, and often, too, with movements of inconsiderate and wasteful joy” (R.H.  Hutton).  That would seem to be his true distinction and superiority over men to whom more had been given of fire, passion, and ravishing music.  Those who deem the end of poetry to be intoxication, fever, or rainbow dreams, can care little for Wordsworth.  If its end be not intoxication, but on the contrary a search from the wide regions of imagination and feeling for elements of composure deep and pure, and of self-government in a far loftier sense than the merely prudential, then Wordsworth has a gift of his own in which he was approached by no poet of his time.  Scott’s sane and humane genius, with much the same aims, yet worked with different methods.  He once remonstrated with Lockhart for being too apt to measure things by some reference to literature.  “I have read books enough,” said Scott, “and observed and conversed with enough of eminent and splendidly cultivated minds; but I assure you, I have heard higher sentiments from the lips of poor uneducated men and women, when exerting the spirit of severe yet gentle heroism under difficulties and afflictions, or speaking their simple thoughts as to circumstances in the lot of friends and neighbours, than I ever yet met with out of the pages of the Bible.  We shall never learn to respect our real calling and destiny, unless we have taught ourselves to consider everything as moonshine compared with the education of the heart.”  This admirable deliverance of Scott’s is, so far as it goes, eminently Wordsworthian; but Wordsworth went higher and further, striving not only to move the sympathies of the heart, but to enlarge the understanding, and exalt and widen the spiritual vision, all with the aim of leading us towards firmer and austerer self-control.

Certain favourers of Wordsworth answer our question with a triumphant affirmative, on the strength of some ethical, or metaphysical, or theological system which they believe themselves to find in him.  But is it credible that poets can permanently live by systems?  Or is not system, whether ethical, theological, or philosophical, the heavy lead of poetry?  Lucretius is indisputably one of the mighty poets of the world, but Epicureanism is not the soul of that majestic muse.  So with Wordsworth.  Thought is, on the whole, predominant over feeling in his verse, but a prevailing atmosphere of deep and solemn reflection does not make a system.  His theology and his ethics, and his so-called Platonical metaphysics, have as little to do with the power of his poetry over us, as the imputed Arianism or any other aspect of the theology of Paradise Lost has to do with the strength and the sublimity of Milton, and his claim to a high perpetual place in the hearts of men.  It is best to be entirely sceptical as to the existence of system and ordered philosophy in Wordsworth.  When he tells us that “one impulse from a vernal wood may teach you more of man, of moral evil and of good, than all the sages can,” such a proposition cannot be seriously taken as more than a half-playful sally for the benefit of some too bookish friend.  No impulse from a vernal wood can teach us anything at all of moral evil and of good.  When he says that it is his faith, “that every flower enjoys the air it breathes,” and that when the budding twigs spread out their fan to catch the air, he is compelled to think “that there was pleasure there,” he expresses a charming poetic fancy and no more, and it is idle to pretend to see in it the fountain of a system of philosophy.  In the famous Ode on Intimations of Immortality, the poet doubtless does point to a set of philosophic ideas, more or less complete; but the thought from which he sets out, that our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting, and that we are less and less able to perceive the visionary gleam, less and less alive to the glory and the dream of external nature, as infancy recedes further from us, is, with all respect for the declaration of Mr. Ruskin to the contrary, contrary to notorious fact, experience, and truth.  It is a beggarly conception, no doubt, to judge as if poetry should always be capable of a prose rendering; but it is at least fatal to the philosophic pretension of a line or a stanza if, when it is fairly reduced to prose, the prose discloses that it is nonsense, and there is at least one stanza of the great Ode that this doom would assuredly await.  Wordsworth’s claim, his special gift, his lasting contribution, lies in the extraordinary strenuousness, sincerity, and insight with which he first idealises and glorifies the vast universe around us, and then makes of it, not a theatre on which men play their parts, but an animate presence, intermingling with our works, pouring its companionable spirit about us, and “breathing grandeur upon the very humblest face of human life.”  This twofold and conjoint performance, consciously and expressly ­perhaps only too consciously ­undertaken by a man of strong inborn sensibility to natural impressions, and systematically carried out in a lifetime of brooding meditation and active composition, is Wordsworth’s distinguishing title to fame and gratitude.  In “words that speak of nothing more than what we are,” he revealed new faces of nature; he dwelt on men as they are, men themselves; he strove to do that which has been declared to be the true secret of force in art, to make the trivial serve the expression of the sublime.  “Wordsworth’s distinctive work,” Mr. Ruskin has justly said (Modern Painters, ii, “was a war with pomp and pretence, and a display of the majesty of simple feelings and humble hearts, together with high reflective truth in his analysis of the courses of politics and ways of men; without these, his love of nature would have been comparatively worthless.”

Yet let us not forget that he possessed the gift which to an artist is the very root of the matter.  He saw Nature truly, he saw her as she is, and with his own eyes.  The critic whom I have just quoted boldly pronounces him “the keenest eyed of all modern poets for what is deep and essential in nature.”  When he describes the daisy, casting the beauty of its star-shaped shadow on the smooth stone, or the boundless depth of the abysses of the sky, or the clouds made vivid as fire by the rays of light, every touch is true, not the copying of a literary phrase, but the result of direct observation.

It is true that Nature has sides to which Wordsworth was not energetically alive ­Nature “red in tooth and claw.”  He was not energetically alive to the blind and remorseless cruelties of life and the world.  When in early spring he heard the blended notes of the birds, and saw the budding twigs and primrose tufts, it grieved him, amid such fair works of nature, to think “what man has made of man.”  As if nature itself, excluding the conscious doings of that portion of nature which is the human race, and excluding also nature’s own share in the making of poor Man, did not abound in raking cruelties and horrors of her own. “Edel sei der Mensch,” sang Goethe in a noble psalm, “Hulfreich und gut, Denn das allein unterscheidet ihn, Von allen Wesen die wir kennen.” “Let man be noble, helpful, and good, for that alone distinguishes him from all beings that we know.  No feeling has nature:  to good and bad gives the sun his light, and for the evildoer as for the best shine moon and stars.”  That the laws which nature has fixed for our lives are mighty and eternal, Wordsworth comprehended as fully as Goethe, but not that they are laws pitiless as iron.  Wordsworth had not rooted in him the sense of Fate ­of the inexorable sequences of things, of the terrible chain that so often binds an awful end to some slight and trivial beginning.

This optimism or complacency in Wordsworth will be understood if we compare his spirit and treatment with that of the illustrious French painter whose subjects and whose life were in some ways akin to his own.  Millet, like Wordsworth, went to the realities of humble life for his inspiration.  The peasant of the great French plains and the forest was to him what the Cumbrian dalesman was to Wordsworth.  But he saw the peasant differently.  “You watch figures in the fields,” said Millet, “digging and delving with spade or pick.  You see one of them from time to time straightening his loins, and wiping his face with the back of his hand.  Thou shalt eat thy bread in the sweat of thy brow.  Is that the gay lively labour in which some people would have you believe?  Yet it is there that for me you must seek true humanity and great poetry.  They say that I deny the charm of the country; I find in it far more than charms, I find infinite splendours.  I see in it, just as they do, the little flowers of which Christ said that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of them.  I see clearly enough the sun as he spreads his splendour amid the clouds.  None the less do I see on the plain, all smoking, the horses at the plough.  I see in some stony corner a man all worn out, whose han han have been heard ever since daybreak ­trying to straighten himself a moment to get breath.”  The hardness, the weariness, the sadness, the ugliness, out of which Millet’s consummate skill made pictures that affect us like strange music, were to Wordsworth not the real part of the thing.  They were all absorbed in the thought of nature as a whole, wonderful, mighty, harmonious, and benign.

We are not called upon to place great men of his stamp as if they were collegians in a class-list.  It is best to take with thankfulness and admiration from each man what he has to give.  What Wordsworth does is to assuage, to reconcile, to fortify.  He has not Shakespeare’s richness and vast compass, nor Milton’s sublime and unflagging strength, nor Dante’s severe, vivid, ardent force of vision.  Probably he is too deficient in clear beauty of form and in concentrated power to be classed by the ages among these great giants.  We cannot be sure.  We may leave it to the ages to decide.  But Wordsworth, at any rate, by his secret of bringing the infinite into common life, as he evokes it out of common life, has the skill to lead us, so long as we yield ourselves to his influence, into inner moods of settled peace, to touch “the depth and not the tumult of the soul,” to give us quietness, strength, steadfastness, and purpose, whether to do or to endure.  All art or poetry that has the effect of breathing into men’s hearts, even if it be only for a space, these moods of settled peace, and strongly confirming their judgment and their will for good, ­whatever limitations may be found besides, however prosaic may be some or much of the detail, ­is great art and noble poetry, and the creator of it will always hold, as Wordsworth holds, a sovereign title to the reverence and gratitude of mankind.