Malays, Lascars, the Tartar, the Chinese,
And Negro Ladies in white muslin gowns.
But Wordsworth’s limitations were inseparably connected with his strength. And just as the flat scenery of Cambridgeshire had only served to intensify4 his love for such elements of beauty and grandeur5 as still were present in sky and fen6, even so the bewilderment of London taught him to recognize with an intenser joy such fragments of things rustic7, such aspects of things eternal, as were to be found amidst that rush and roar. To the frailer8 spirit of Hartley Coleridge the weight of London might seem a load impossible to shake off. “And what hath Nature,” he plaintively9 asked,—
And what hath Nature but the blank void sky
And the thronged11 river toiling12 to the main?
But Wordsworth saw more than this. He became, as one may say, the poet not of London considered as London, but of London considered as a part of the country. Like his own Farmer of Tilsbury Vale—
In the throng10 of the Town like a Stranger is he,
Like one whose own Country’s far over the sea;
And Nature, while through the great city be hies,
Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise.
Among the poems describing these sudden shocks of vision and memory none is more exquisite13 than the Reverie of Poor Susan:
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years;
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
’Tis a note of enchantment14; what ails15 her? She sees
A mountain ascending16, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide17,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
The picture is one of those which come home to many a country heart with one of those sudden “revulsions into the natural” which philosophers assert to be the essence of human joy. But noblest and hest known of all these poems is the Sonnet18 on Westminster Bridge, “Earth hath not anything to show more fair;” in which nature has reasserted her dominion19 over the works of all the multitude of men; and in the early clearness the poet beholds20 the great City—as Sterling21 imagined it on his dying-bed—“not as full of noise and dust and confusion, but as something silent, grand and everlasting22.” And even in later life, when Wordsworth was often in London, and was welcome in any society, he never lost this external manner of regarding it. He was always of the same mind as the group of listeners in his Power of Music:
Now, Coaches and Chariots! Roar on like a stream!
Here are twenty Souls happy as souls in a dream:
They are deaf to your murmurs23, they care not for you,
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!
He never made the attempt,—vulgarized by so many a “fashionable novelist,” and in which no poet has succeeded yet,—to disentangle from that turmoil24 its elements of romance and of greatness; to enter that realm of emotion where Nature’s aspects become the scarcely noted25 accessory of vicissitudes26 that transcend27 her own; to trace the passion or the anguish28 which whirl along some lurid29 vista30 toward a sun that sets in storm, or gaze across silent squares by summer moonlight amid a smell of dust and flowers.
But although Wordsworth passed thus through London unmodified and indifferent, the current of things was sweeping31 him on to mingle32 in a fiercer tumult,—to be caught in the tides of a more violent and feverish33 life. In November 1791 he landed in France, meaning to pass the winter at Orleans and learn French. Up to this date the French Revolution had impressed him in a rather unusual manner,—namely, as being a matter of course. The explanation of this view is a somewhat singular one. Wordsworth’s was an old family, and his connexions were some of them wealthy and well placed in the world; but the chances of his education had been such, that he could scarcely realize to himself any other than a democratic type of society. Scarcely once, he tells us, in his school days had he seen boy or man who claimed respect on the score of wealth and blood; and the manly34 atmosphere of Cambridge preserved even in her lowest days a society
Where all stood thus far
Upon equal ground; that we were brothers all
In honour, as in one community,
Scholars and gentlemen;
while the teachings of nature and the dignity of Cumbrian peasant life had confirmed his high opinion of the essential worth of man. The upheaval36 of the French people, therefore, and the downfall of privilege, seemed to him no portent37 for good or evil, but rather the tardy38 return of a society to its stable equilibrium39. He passed through revolutionized Paris with satisfaction and sympathy, but with little active emotion, and proceeded first to Orleans, and then to Blois, between which places he spent nearly a year. At Orleans he became intimately acquainted with the nobly-born but republican general Beaupuis, an inspiring example of all in the Revolution that was self-devoted and chivalrous40 and had compassion41 on the wretched poor. In conversation with him Wordsworth learnt with what new force the well-worn adages42 of the moralist fall from the lips of one who is called upon to put them at once in action, and to stake life itself on the verity43 of his maxims44 of honour. The poet’s heart burned within him as he listened. He could not indeed help mourning sometimes at the sight of a dismantled45 chapel46, or peopling in imagination the forest-glades in which they sat with the chivalry47 of a bygone day. But he became increasingly absorbed in his friend’s ardour, and the Revolution—mulier formosa superne—seemed to him big with all the hopes of man.
He returned to Paris in October 1792,—a month after the massacres48 of September; and he has described his agitation49 and dismay at the sight of such world-wide destinies swayed by the hands of such men. In a passage which curiously50 illustrates51 that reasoned self-confidence and deliberate boldness which for the most part he showed only in the peaceful incidents of a literary career, he has told us how he was on the point of putting himself forward as a leader of the Girondist party, in the conviction that his singleheartedness of aim would make him, in spite of foreign birth and imperfect speech, a point round which the confused instincts of the multitude might not impossibly rally.
Such a course of action,—which, whatever its other results, would undoubtedly52 have conducted him to the guillotine with his political friends in May 1793,—was rendered impossible by a somewhat undignified hindrance53. Wordsworth, while in his own eyes “a patriot54 of the world,” was in the eyes of others a young man of twenty-two, travelling on a small allowance, and running his head into unnecessary dangers. His funds were stopped, and he reluctantly returned to England at the close of 1792.
And now to Wordsworth, as to many other English patriots55, there came, on a great scale, that form of sorrow which in private life is one of the most agonizing56 of all—when two beloved beings, each of them erring57 greatly, become involved in bitter hate. The new-born Republic flung down to Europe as her battle-gage the head of a king. England, in an hour of horror that was almost panic, accepted the defiance58, and war was declared between the two countries early in 1793. “No shock,” says Wordsworth,
Given to my moral nature had I known
Down to that very moment; neither lapse59
Nor turn of sentiment that might be named
A revolution, save at this one time;
and the sound of the evening gun-fire at Portsmouth seemed at once the embodiment and the premonition of England’s guilt60 and woe61.
Yet his distracted spirit could find no comfort in the thought of France. For in France the worst came to the worst; and everything vanished of liberty except the crimes committed in her name.
Most melancholy62 at that time, O Friend!
Were my day-thoughts, my nights were miserable63.
Through months, through years, long after the last beat
Of those atrocities64, the hour of sleep
To me came rarely charged with natural gifts—
Such ghastly visions had I of despair,
And tyranny, and implements65 of death; . . .
And levity66 in dungeons67, where the dust
Was laid with tears. Then suddenly the scene
Changed, and the unbroken dream entangled68 me
In long orations69, which I strove to plead
Before unjust tribunals,—with a voice
Labouring, a brain confounded, and a sense,
Death-like, of treacherous70 desertion, felt
In the last place of refuge—my own soul.
These years of perplexity and disappointment, following on a season of overstrained and violent hopes, were the sharpest trial through which Wordsworth ever passed. The course of affairs in France, indeed, was such as seemed by an irony71 of fate to drive the noblest and firmest hearts into the worst aberrations72. For first of all in that Revolution, Reason had appeared as it were in visible shape, and hand in hand with Pity and Virtue73; then, as the welfare of the oppressed peasantry began to be lost sight of amid the brawls74 of the factions75 of Paris, all that was attractive and enthusiastic in the great movement seemed to disappear, but yet Reason might still be thought to find a closer realization76 here than among scenes more serene77 and fair; and, lastly, Reason set in blood and tyranny and there was no more hope from France. But those who, like Wordsworth, had been taught by that great convulsion to disdain78 the fetters79 of sentiment and tradition and to look on Reason as supreme80 were not willing to relinquish81 their belief because violence had conquered her in one more battle. Rather they clung with the greater tenacity,— “adhered,” in Wordsworth’s words,
More firmly to old tenets, and to prove
Their temper, strained them more;
cast off more decisively than ever the influences of tradition, and in their Utopian visions even wished to see the perfected race severed82 in its perfection from the memories of humanity, and from kinship with the struggling past.
Through a mood of this kind Wordsworth had to travel now. And his nature, formed for pervading83 attachments84 and steady memories, suffered grievously from the privation of much which even the coldest and calmest temper cannot forego without detriment85 and pain. For it is not with impunity86 that men commit themselves to the sole guidance of either of the two great elements of their being. The penalties of trusting to the emotions alone are notorious; and every day affords some instance of a character that has degenerated87 into a bundle of impulses, of a will that has become caprice. But the consequences of making Reason our tyrant88 instead of our king are almost equally disastrous89. There is so little which Reason, divested90 of all emotional or instinctive91 supports, is able to prove to our satisfaction that a sceptical aridity92 is likely to take possession of the soul. It was thus with Wordsworth; he was driven to a perpetual questioning of all beliefs and analysis of all motives,—
Till, demanding formal proof,
And seeking it in everything, I lost
All feeling of conviction; and, in fine,
Sick, wearied out with contrarieties,
Yielded up moral questions in despair.
In this mood all those great generalized conceptions which are the food of our love, our reverence93, our religion, dissolve away; and Wordsworth tells us that at this time
Even the visible universe
Fell under the dominion of a taste
Less spiritual, with microscopic94 view
Was scanned, as I had scanned the moral world.
He looked on the operations of nature “in disconnection dull and spiritless;” he could no longer apprehend95 her unity35 nor feel her charm. He retained indeed his craving96 for natural beauty, but in an uneasy and fastidious mood,—
Giving way
To a comparison of scene with scene,
Bent97 overmuch on superficial things,
Pampering98 myself with meagre novelties
Of colour and proportion; to the moods
Of time and season, to the moral power,
The affections, and the spirit of the place,
Insensible.
Such cold fits are common to all religions: they haunt the artist, the philanthropist, the philosopher, the saint. Often they are due to some strain of egoism or ambition which has intermixed itself with the impersonal99 desire; sometimes, as in Wordsworth’s case, to the persistent100 tension of a mind which has been bent too ardently101 towards an ideal scarce possible to man. And in this case, when the objects of a man’s habitual102 admiration103 are true and noble, they will ever be found to suggest some antidote104 to the fatigues105 of their pursuit. We shall see as we proceed how a deepening insight into the lives of the peasantry around him,—the happiness and virtue of simple Cumbrian homes,—restored to the poet a serener106 confidence in human nature, amid all the shame and downfall of such hopes in France. And that still profounder loss of delight in Nature herself,—that viewing of all things “in disconnection dull and spiritless,” which, as it has been well said, is the truest definition of Atheism107, inasmuch as a unity in the universe is the first element in our conception of God,—this dark pathway also was not without its outlet108 into the day. For the God in Nature is not only a God of Beauty, but a God of Law; his unity can be apprehended109 in power as well as in glory; and Wordsworth’s mind, “sinking inward upon itself from thought to thought,” found rest for the time in that austere110 religion,—Hebrew at once and scientific, common to a Newton and a Job,—which is fostered by the prolonged contemplation of the mere111 Order of the sum of things.
Not in vain
I had been taught to reverence a Power
That is the visible quality and shape
And image of right reason.
Not, indeed, in vain! For he felt now that there is no side of truth, however remote from human interests, no aspect of the universe, however awful and impersonal, which may not have power at some season to guide and support the spirit of man. When Goodness is obscured, when Beauty wearies, there are some souls which still can cling and grapple to the conception of eternal Law.
Of such stem consolations112 the poet speaks as having restored him in his hour of need. But he gratefully acknowledges also another solace113 of a gentler kind. It was about this time (1795) that Wordsworth was blessed with the permanent companionship of his sister, to whom he was tenderly attached, but whom, since childhood, he had seen only at long intervals114. Miss Wordsworth, after her father’s death, had lived mainly with her maternal115 grandfather, Mr. Cookson, at Penrith, occasionally at Halifax with other relations, or at Forncott with her uncle Dr. Cookson, Canon of Windsor. She was now able to join her favourite brother: and in this gifted woman Wordsworth found a gentler and sunnier likeness116 of himself; he found a love which never wearied, and a sympathy fervid117 without blindness, whose suggestions lay so directly in his mind’s natural course that they seemed to spring from the same individuality, and to form at once a portion of his inmost being. The opening of this new era of domestic happiness demands a separate chapter.
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1
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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3
enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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intensify
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| vt.加强；变强；加剧 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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fen
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| n.沼泽，沼池 | |
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7
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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8
frailer
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| 脆弱的( frail的比较级 )； 易损的； 易碎的 | |
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9
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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13
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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14
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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15
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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16
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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20
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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21
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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22
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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23
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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24
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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27
transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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28
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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29
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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30
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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31
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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32
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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33
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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34
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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35
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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36
upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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38
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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39
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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40
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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41
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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42
adages
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| n.谚语，格言( adage的名词复数 ) | |
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43
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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44
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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45
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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46
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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47
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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48
massacres
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| 大屠杀( massacre的名词复数 )； 惨败 | |
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49
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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50
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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51
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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52
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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53
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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54
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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55
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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56
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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57
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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58
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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59
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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60
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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61
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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62
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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63
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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64
atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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65
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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66
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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67
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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68
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
orations
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| n.（正式仪式中的）演说，演讲( oration的名词复数 ) | |
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70
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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72
aberrations
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| n.偏差( aberration的名词复数 )；差错；脱离常规；心理失常 | |
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73
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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74
brawls
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| 吵架，打架( brawl的名词复数 ) | |
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factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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76
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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77
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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78
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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79
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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81
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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82
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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83
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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84
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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85
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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87
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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89
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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aridity
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| n.干旱，乏味；干燥性；荒芜 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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pampering
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| v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的现在分词 ) | |
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99
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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100
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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101
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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102
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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103
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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104
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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105
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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106
serener
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| serene（沉静的，宁静的，安宁的）的比较级形式 | |
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107
atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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108
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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110
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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111
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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112
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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113
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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114
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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115
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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116
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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117
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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