CHAPTER XXI. SIR GEORGE H. BEAUMONT, BART. IN the year 1803, Wordsworth became intimate with Sir George H. Beaumont', whose family-name has been connected with literature from the days of Queen Elizabeth; and the friendship then commenced, which the Poet reckoned "among the blessings of his life," was continued with mutual affection, till one of the friends, Sir George, was removed by death in 1827. Their names will remain connected together, by tender ties and beautiful associations of nature and art, as long as the grounds of Coleorton retain their beauty, and the creations of Sir George's pencil preserve their colour, and the poems of Wordsworth are read. The occasion of the friendship was an interesting one. Sir George, who was one of the first to discern the genius of Wordsworth, was residing in lodgings with Mr. Coleridge at Greta Hall, Keswick, in 1803, and was made aware of his intimacy with Wordsworth, and of their desire to live in neighbourhood to each other, for the gratification and benefit of intellectual intercourse and assistance. Actuated by love of literature, as well as by a feeling of sincere regard for the two poets, he desired to be the means of bringing He was a descendant of the celebrated dramatist, Francis Beaumont. 2 Dedication to Lyrical Ballads, edit. 1815. about their plan. He chose a beautiful spot near Keswick (Applethwaite), which he purchased, and presented to Wordsworth, whom at that time he had not seen. In doing so, he entertained a hope that one day it would be the site of a residence for him, near Coleridge; and if this design had been realised, Wordsworth would have been associated by immediate neighbourhood with another person, pre-eminent for genius, learning, and industry, Robert Southey. "I had," says Sir George, writing to Wordsworth on October 24th, 1803, "a most ardent desire to bring you and Coleridge together. I thought with pleasure on the increase of enjoyment you would receive from the beauties of nature, by being able to communicate more frequently your sensations to each other, and that this would be a means of contributing to the pleasure and improvement of the world, by stimulating you both to poetical exertions." A beautiful sonnet', by Wordsworth, conveyed an acknowledgment of this thoughtful act of kindness: "BEAUMONT ! it was thy wish that I should rear A seemly cottage in this sunny dell, On favoured ground, thy gift, — where I might dwell That, undivided, we, from year to year, Might work in our high calling." It is interesting to speculate on the probable results of the fulfilment of this design. However, it was not accomplished. Coleridge's health required change of climate; and, instead of taking up his abode in a glen in Cumberland, he was soon to be a voyager on the wide sea, and, after he had traversed 1 Vol. ii. p. 262. 1 it, to be enjoying the warmer breezes of the valleys of Sicily, and of the terraces and gardens of Malta. A letter from Mr. Wordsworth to Sir George Beaumont, written in October, 1803, offers another expression of his gratitude, and supplies some other particulars, which show how great an effort it was to the Poet to write, and how fortunate, therefore, he was in having at hand, through life, pens ever ready to commit his thoughts to paper. If Providence had not blessed him with a wife, a sister, a wife's sister, and a daughter, whose lives were bound up in his life, as his was in theirs, and who felt, — what the world was slow in admitting, that his poems were destined for immortality, and that it was no small privilege to be instrumental in conveying them to posterity, it is probable that many of his verses, muttered by him on the roads, or on the hills, or on the terracewalks of his own garden, would have been scattered to the winds, like the plaintive accents of the deserted Ariadne on the coast of Naxos, 66 Quæ cuncta aerii discerpunt irrita venti," or like the fugitive verses of the Sibyl on the rocky shores of Cumæ. to: The following are extracts from the letter referred To Sir George Beaumont, Bart. "Dear Sir George, "Grasmere, Oct. 14th, 1803. "If any person were to be informed of the particulars of your kindness to me, if it were described to him in all its delicacy and nobleness, and he should afterwards be told that I suffered eight weeks to elapse without writing to you one word of thanks or acknowledgment, he would deem it a thing absolutely impossible. It is nevertheless true. This is, in fact, the first time that I have taken up a pen, not for writing letters, but on any account whatsoever, except once, since Mr. Coleridge showed me the writings of the Applethwaite estate, and told me the little history of what you had done for me, the motives, &c. I need not say that it gave me the most heartfelt pleasure, not for my own sake chiefly, though in that point of view it might well be most highly interesting to me, but as an act which, considered in all its relations as to matter and manner, it would not be too much to say, did honour to human nature; at least, I felt it as such, and it overpowered me. "Owing to a set of painful and uneasy sensations which I have, more or less, at all times about my chest, I deferred writing to you, being at first made still more uncomfortable by travelling, and loathing to do violence to myself, in what ought to be an act of pure pleasure and enjoyment, viz., the expression of my deep sense of your goodness. This feeling was, indeed, so strong in me, as to make me look upon the act of writing to you, not as the work of a moment, but as a thing not to be done but in my best, my purest, and my happiest moments. Many of these I had, but then I had not my pen, ink, and paper before me, my conveniences, 'my appliances and means to boot;' all which, the moment that I thought of them, seemed to disturb and impair the sanctity of my pleasure. I contented myself with thinking over my complacent feelings, and breathing forth solitary gratulations and thanksgivings, which I did in many a sweet and many a wild place, during my late tour. In this shape, procrastination became irresistible to me; at last I said, I will write at home from my own fireside, when I shall be at ease and in comfort. I have now been more than a fortnight at home, but the uneasiness I have mentioned has made me beat off the time when the pen was to be taken up. I do not know from what cause it is, but during the last three years I have never had a pen in my hand for five minutes, before my whole frame becomes one bundle of uneasiness; a perspiration starts out all over me, and my chest is oppressed in a manner which I cannot describe. This is a sad weakness; for I am sure, though it is chiefly owing to the state of my body, that by exertion of mind I might in part control it. So, however, it is; and I mention it, because I am sure when you are made acquainted with the circumstances, though the extent to which it exists nobody can well conceive, you will look leniently upon my silence, and rather pity than blame me; though I must still continue to reproach myself, as I have done bitterly every day for these last eight weeks. "It is now high time to speak of the estate, and what is to be done with it. It is a most delightful situation, and few things would give me greater pleasure than to realise the plan which you had in view for me, of building a house there. But I am afraid, I am sorry to say, that the chances are very much against this, partly on account of the state of my own affairs, and still more from the improbability of Mr. Coleridge's continuing in the country. The writings are at present in my possession, and what I should wish is, that I might be considered at present as steward of the land, with liberty to lay out the |