DOROTHY WORDSWORTH'S SCOTCH

JOURNAL

EVERYTHING fresh we learn of Wordsworth deepens the impression of that hardy, imaginative simplicity which is the chief characteristic of his genius. This is one great charm of his sister's diary of the Highland tour of 1803. Miss Wordsworth, who cherished every incident connected with the origin of one of his poems, puts down in this journal, not for public perusal, but for the wife who stays behind with her child, the modest story of their adventures, and yet not a word of it from beginning to end betrays the conscious seeker after æsthetic feelings, or suggests the attendant nymph sharing something of the glow of a poet's inspiration. There is a remarkable self-restraint, not to say fortitude, in the manner in which the constantly recurring bad weather, and not unfrequently severe discomforts of the journey are described, as though nothing better were to be expected. There is not a trace of the feeling that there was any sort of merit in the ideal object of the travellers' search, or any prerogative belonging to a poet who is injuriously treated by the buffets to which ordinary men are liable. The journal is as simple and natural as if there were no poetic reputation either to gain or to

keep up. When any touch of poetry marks the journal, it is as plain that it comes there through the natural ardour of the writer's own-not even her brother's feelings, as it is that when you might conventionally have expected it, it is often not to be found. Miss Wordsworth writes generally with extreme literalness of the incidents of travel, though, of course, as one whose expectations are on the stretch for the beauties of which she has heard so much. Her brother and Coleridge figure not in the least as poets, but simply as fellow-travellers who share her fatigues and enjoyments, and who frequently help her to discern what is most memorable. Anything less like the style of a 'sentimental journey," of a pilgrimage made in order to experience exalted feelings, it is impossible to imagine. Moreover, there is no effort in Miss Wordsworth's diary to look at things with her brother's eyes. She keeps her own eager, lively eyes on everything, and even when she gets hold of a scene which profoundly strikes her, she does not attempt to Wordsworthise upon it, but just defines her own impressions, and there leaves it. A being of completer simplicity than Dorothy Wordsworth I should think it not easy to find again. Principal Shairp, in his very interesting preface, gives us De Quincey's graphic account of her wild bright eyes and abrupt reserve of manner thus:

Her face was of Egyptian brown; rarely in a woman of English birth had I seen a more determinate gipsy tan. Her eyes were not as soft as Mrs. Wordsworth's, nor were they fierce or bold; but they were wild, and startling, and hurried in their motion. Her manner was warm, and even ardent; her sensibility seemed constitutionally deep; and some subtle fire of impassioned intellect

apparently burned within her, which-being alternately pushed forward into a conspicuous expression by the irresistible instincts of her temperament, and then immediately checked in obedience to the decorum of her sex and age and her maidenly condition-gave to her whole demeanour, and to her conversation, an air of embarrassment, and even of self-conflict, that was almost distressing to witness. Even her very utterance and enunciation often suffered in point of clearness and steadiness, from the agitation of her excessive organic sensibility. At times the self-counteraction and selfbaffling of her feelings caused her even to stammer. But the greatest deductions from Miss Wordsworth's attractions, and from the exceeding interest which surrounded her, in right of her character, of her history, and of the relation which she fulfilled towards her brother, were the glancing quickness of her motions, and other circumstances in her deportment (such as her stooping attitude when walking), which gave an ungraceful character to her appearance when out of doors.

But though this bright, eager manner penetrates many portions of her diary, there is no trace in it of the embarrassment or conflict of feeling of which De Quincey speaks, and which may very possibly have been more or less provoked by his own critical glances. What one notes in it is the delicacy of her appreciation of all the human interests of the scenes visited, a considerable power of artless intensity in describing any scene, whether grand or simple, which struck her imagination,— and was oftener simple than grand, and a certain ardent nimbleness in her manner of looking at things, which reminds one very often of the few sets of verses by her published amongst her brother's poems. One is especially often reminded in this

journal of that charming little child's poem by Miss Wordsworth, beginning

What way does the wind come? Which way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow,

Through wood and through vale, and o'er rocky height, Which the goat cannot scale, takes his sounding flight.

The full brightness of that gay and breezy little poem is to be found less frequently than one could wish in the diary of this rather gloomy-weathered tour; but one is very often struck with the pleasure which Miss Wordsworth feels in tracing, just as in that poem, the effect of an influence of which she cannot tell the whence or the whither, and the extreme enjoyment with which she takes note of anything like a godsend. Take this, for instance:

The woman of the house was very kind: whenever we asked her for anything it seemed a fresh pleasure to her that she had it for us; she always answered with a sort of softening-down of the Scotch exclamation, "Hoot! Ho! yes, ye'll get that," and hied to her cupboard in the spence. We were amused with the phrase, "Ye'll get that," in the Highlands, which appeared to us as if it came from a perpetual feeling of the difficulty with which most things are procured We asked for sugar, butter, barley-bread, and milk, and with a smile and a stare more of kindness than wonder, she replied, "Ye'll get that," bringing each article separately. We caroused our cups of coffee, laughing like children at the strange atmosphere in which we were: the smoke came in gusts, and spread along the walls and above our heads in the chimney, where the hens were roosting, like light clouds in the sky. We laughed and laughed again, in spite of the smarting of our eyes, yet had a quieter pleasure in

observing the beauty of the beams and rafters gleaming between the clouds of smoke. They had been crusted over and varnished by many winters, till, where the firelight fell upon them, they were as glossy as black rocks on a sunny day cased in ice. When we had eaten our supper we sat about half an hour, and I think I never had felt so deeply the blessing of a hospitable welcome and a warm fire . . The walls of the whole house were of stone unplastered. It consisted of three apartments,― the cow-house at one end, the kitchen or house in the middle, and the spence at the other end. The rooms were divided, not up to the rigging, but only to the beginning of the roof, so that there was a free passage for light and smoke from one end of the house to the other. I went to bed some time before the family. The door was shut between us, and they had a bright fire, which I could not see; but the light it sent up among the varnished rafters and beams, which crossed each other in almost as intricate and fantastic a manner as I have seen the underboughs of a large beech-tree withered by the depth of the shade above, produced the most beautiful effect that can be conceived. It was like what I should suppose an underground cave or temple to be, with a dripping or moist roof, and the moonlight entering in upon it by some means or other, and yet the colours were more like melted gems. I lay looking up till the light of the fire faded away, and the man and his wife and child had crept into their bed at the other end of the room. I did not sleep much, but passed a comfortable night, for my bed, though hard, was warm and clean: the unusualness of my situation prevented me from sleeping. I could hear the waves beat against the shore of the lake; a little syke" close to the door made a much louder noise; and when I sate up in my bed I could see the lake through an open window-place at the bed's head. Add to this, it rained all night. I was less occupied by the remembrance of the Trossachs, beautiful as they were,