Wordsworth was the most affectionate of fathers, and allusions4 to his children occur frequently in his poetry. Dora—who was the delight of his later years—has been described at length in The Triad. Shorter and simpler, but more completely successful, is the picture of Catherine in the little poem which begins “Loving she is, and tractable5, though wild,” with its homely6 simile7 for childhood— its own existence sufficient to fill it with gladness:
As a faggot sparkles on the hearth8
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered round
And take delight in its activity.
The next notice of this beloved child is in the sonnet9, “Surprised by joy, impatient as the wind,” written when she had already been removed from his side. She died in 1812, and was closely followed by her brother Thomas. Wordsworth’s grief for these children was profound, violent, and lasting10, to an extent which those who imagine him as not only calm but passionless might have some difficulty in believing. “Referring once,” says his friend Mr. Aubrey de Vere, “to two young children of his who had died about forty years previously11, he described the details of their illnesses with an exactness and an impetuosity of troubled excitement, such as might have been expected if the bereavement12 had taken place but a few weeks before. The lapse13 of time seemed to have left the sorrow submerged indeed, but still in all its first freshness. Yet I afterwards heard that at the time of the illness, at least in the case of one of the two children, it was impossible to rouse his attention to the danger. He chanced to be then under the immediate14 spell of one of those fits of poetic15 inspiration which descended17 on him like a cloud. Till the cloud had drifted, he could see nothing beyond.”
This anecdote18 illustrates19 the fact, which to those who knew Wordsworth well was sufficiently20 obvious, that the characteristic calm of his writings was the result of no coldness of temperament21 but of a deliberate philosophy. The pregnant force of his language in dealing22 with those dearest to him—his wife, his sister, his brother—is proof enough of this. The frequent allusions in his correspondence to the physical exhaustion23 brought on by the act of poetical24 composition indicate a frame which, though made robust25 by exercise and temperance, was by nature excitable rather than strong. And even in the direction in which we should least have expected it, there is reason to believe that there were capacities of feeling in him which never broke from his control. “Had I been a writer of love-poetry,” he is reported to have said, “it would have been natural to me to write it with a degree of warmth which could hardly have been approved by my principles, and which might have been undesirable26 for the reader.”
Wordsworth’s paternal27 feelings, at any rate, were, as has been said, exceptionally strong; and the impossibility of remaining in a house filled with sorrowful memories rendered him doubly anxious to obtain a permanent home. “The house which I have for some time occupied,” he writes to Lord Lonsdale, in January 1813, “is the Parsonage of Grasmere. It stands close by the churchyard, and I have found it absolutely necessary that we should quit a place which, by recalling to our minds at every moment the losses we have sustained in the course of the last year, would grievously retard28 our progress towards that tranquillity29 which it is our duty to aim at.” It happened that Rydal Mount became vacant at this moment, and in the spring of 1813 the Wordsworths migrated to this their favourite and last abode30.
Rydal Mount has probably been oftener described than any other English poet’s home since Shakespeare; and few homes, certainly, have been moulded into such close accordance with their inmates’ nature. The house, which has been altered since Wordsworth’s day, stands looking southward, on the rocky side of Nab Scar, above Rydal Lake. The garden was described by Bishop31 Wordsworth immediately after his uncle’s death, while every terrace-walk and flowering alley32 spoke33 of the poet’s loving care. He tells of the “tall ash-tree, in which a thrush has sung, for hours together, during many years;” of the “laburnum in which the osier cage of the doves was hung;” of the stone steps “in the interstices of which grow the yellow flowering poppy, and the wild geranium or Poor Robin,”—
Gay
With his red stalks upon a sunny day.
And then of the terraces—one levelled for Miss Fenwick’s use, and welcome to himself in aged34 years; and one ascending35, and leading to the “far terrace” on the mountain’s side, where the poet was wont36 to murmur37 his verses as they came. Within the house were disposed his simple treasures: the ancestral almery, on which the names of unknown Wordsworths may be deciphered still; Sir George Beaumont’s pictures of “The White Doe of Rylstone” and “The Thorn,” and the cuckoo clock which brought vernal thoughts to cheer the sleepless38 bed of age, and which sounded its noonday summons when his spirit fled.
Wordsworth’s worldly fortunes, as if by some benignant guardianship39 of Providence40, were at all times proportioned to his successive needs. About the date of his removal to Rydal (in March 1813) he was appointed, through Lord Lonsdale’s interest, to the distributorship of stamps for the county of Westmoreland, to which office the same post for Cumberland was afterwards added. He held this post till August 1842, when he resigned it without a retiring pension, and it was conferred on his second son. He was allowed to reside at Rydal, which was counted as a suburb of Ambleside: and as the duties of the place were light, and mainly performed by a most competent and devoted41 clerk, there was no drawback to the advantage of an increase of income which released him from anxiety as to the future. A more lucrative42 office—the collectorship of Whitehaven—was subsequently offered to him; but he declined it, “nor would exchange his Sabine valley for riches and a load of care.”
Though Wordsworth’s life at Rydal was a retired43 one, it was not that of a recluse44. As years went on he became more and more recognized as a centre of spiritual strength and illumination, and was sought not only by those who were already his neighbours, but by some who became so mainly for his sake. Southey at Keswick was a valued friend, though Wordsworth did not greatly esteem45 him as a poet. De Quincey, originally attracted to the district by admiration46 for Wordsworth, remained there for many years, and poured forth47 a criticism strangely compounded of the utterances48 of the hero-worshipper and the valet-dechambre. Professor Wilson, of the Noctes Ambrosianae, never showed, perhaps, to so much advantage as when he walked by the side of the master whose greatness he was one of the first to detect. Dr. Arnold of Rugby made the neighbouring home at Fox How a focus of warm affections and of intellectual life. And Hartley Coleridge, whose fairy childhood had inspired one of Wordsworth’s happiest pieces, continued to lead among the dales of Westmoreland a life which showed how much of genius and goodness a single weakness can nullify.
Other friends there were, too, less known to fame, but of exceptional powers of appreciation49 and sympathy. The names of Mrs. Fletcher and her daughters, Lady Richardson and Mrs. Davy, should not be omitted in any record of the poet’s life at Rydal. And many humbler neighbours may be recognized in the characters of the Excursion and other poems. The Wanderer, indeed, is a picture of Wordsworth himself—“an idea,” as he says, “of what I fancied my own character might have become in his circumstances.” But the Solitary51 was suggested by a broken man who took refuge in Grasmere from the world in which he had found no peace; and the characters described as lying in the churchyard among the mountains are almost all of them portraits. The clergyman and his family described in Book VII were among the poet’s principal associates in the vale of Grasmere. “There was much talent in the family,” says Wordsworth in the memoranda52 dictated53 to Miss Fenwick; “and the eldest son was distinguished54 for poetical talent, of which a specimen55 is given in my Notes to the Sonnets56 on the Duddon. Once when, in our cottage at Townend, I was talking with him about poetry, in the course of our conversation I presumed to find fault with the versification of Pope, of whom he was an enthusiastic admirer. He defended him with a warmth that indicated much irritation57; nevertheless I could not abandon my point, and said, ‘In compass and variety of sound your own versification surpasses his.’ Never shall I forget the change in his countenance58 and tone of voice. The storm was laid in a moment; he no longer disputed my judgment59; and I passed immediately in his mind, no doubt, for as great a critic as ever lived.”
It was with personages simple and unromantic as these that Wordsworth filled the canvas of his longest poem. Judged by ordinary standards the Excursion appears an epic60 without action, and with two heroes, the Pastor61 and the Wanderer, whose characters are identical. Its form is cumbrous in the extreme, and large tracts62 of it have little claim to the name of poetry. Wordsworth compares the Excursion to a temple of which his smaller poems form subsidiary shrines63; but the reader will more often liken the small poems to gems64, and the Excursion to the rock from which they were extracted. The long poem contains, indeed, magnificent passages, but as a whole it is a diffused65 description of scenery which the poet has elsewhere caught in brighter glimpses; a diffused statement of hopes and beliefs which have crystallized more exquisitely66 elsewhere round moments of inspiring emotion. The Excursion, in short, has the drawbacks of a didactic poem as compared with lyrical poems; but, judged as a didactic poem, it has the advantage of containing teaching of true and permanent value.
I shall not attempt to deduce a settled scheme of philosophy from these discourses67 among the mountains. I would urge only that as a guide to conduct Wordsworth’s precepts68 are not in themselves either unintelligible69 or visionary. For whereas some moralists would have us amend70 nature, and others bid us follow her, there is apt to be something impracticable in the first maxim71, and something vague in the second. Asceticism72, quietism, enthusiasm, ecstasy—all systems which imply an unnatural73 repression74 or an unnatural excitation of our faculties75—are ill-suited for the mass of mankind. And on the other hand, if we are told to follow nature, to develope our original character, we are too often in doubt as to which of our conflicting instincts to follow, what part of our complex nature to accept as our regulating self. But Wordsworth, while impressing on us conformity76 to nature as the rule of life, suggests a test of such conformity which can be practically applied77. “The child is father of the man,”—in the words which stand as introduction to his poetical works, and Wordsworth holds that the instincts and pleasures of a healthy childhood sufficiently indicate the lines on which our maturer character should be formed. The joy which began in the mere1 sense of existence should be maintained by hopeful faith; the simplicity78 which began in inexperience should be recovered by meditation79; the love which originated in the family circle should expand itself over the race of men. And the calming and elevating influence of Nature—which to Wordsworth’s memory seemed the inseparable concomitant of childish years—should be constantly invoked80 throughout life to keep the heart fresh and the eyes open to the mysteries discernible through her radiant veil. In a word, the family affections, if duly fostered, the influences of Nature, if duly sought, with some knowledge of the best books, are material enough to “build up our moral being” and to outweigh81 the less deep-seated impulses which prompt to wrong-doing.
If, then, surrounding influences make so decisive a difference in man’s moral lot, what are we to say of those who never have the chance of receiving those influences aright; who are reared, with little parental82 supervision83, in smoky cities, and spend their lives in confined and monotonous84 labour? One of the most impressive passages in the Excursion is an indignant complaint of the injustice85 thus done to the factory child. Wordsworth was no fanatical opponent of manufacturing industry. He had intimate friends among manufacturers; and in one of his letters he speaks of promising86 himself much pleasure from witnessing the increased regard for the welfare of factory hands of which one of these friends had set the example. But he never lost sight of the fact that the life of the mill-hand is an anomaly—is a life not in the order of nature, and which requires to be justified87 by manifest necessity and by continuous care. The question to what extent we may acquiesce88 in the continuance of a low order of human beings, existing for our enjoyment89 rather than for their own, may be answered with plausibility90 in very different tones; from the Communist who cannot rest content in the inferiority of any one man’s position to any other’s, to the philosopher who holds that mankind has made the most eminent91 progress when a few chosen individuals have been supported in easy brilliancy by a population of serfs or slaves. Wordsworth’s answer to this question is at once conservative and philanthropic. He holds to the distinction of classes, and thus admits a difference in the fulness and value of human lots. But he will not consent to any social arrangement which implies a necessary moral inferiority in any section of the body politic92; and he esteems93 it the statesman’s first duty to provide that all citizens shall be placed under conditions of life which, however humble50, shall not be unfavourable to virtue94.
His views on national education, which at first sight appear so inconsistent, depend on the same conception of national welfare. Wordsworth was one of the earliest and most emphatic95 proclaimers of the duty of the State in this respect. The lines in which he insists that every child ought to be taught to read are, indeed, often quoted as an example of the moralizing baldness of much of his blank verse. But, on the other hand, when a great impulse was given to education (1820–30) by Bell and Lancaster, by the introduction of what was called the “Madras system” of tuition by pupil-teachers, and the spread of infant schools, Wordsworth was found unexpectedly in the opposite camp. Considering as he did all mental requirements as entirely96 subsidiary to moral progress, and in themselves of very little value, he objected to a system which, instead of confining itself to reading—that indispensable channel of moral nutriment— aimed at communicating knowledge as varied97 and advanced as time and funds would allow. He objected to the dissociation of school and home life—to that relegation98 of domestic interests and duties to the background, which large and highly-organized schools, and teachers much above the home level, must necessarily involve. And yet more strongly, and, as it may still seem to many minds, with convincing reason, he objected to an eleemosynary system, which “precludes the poor mother from the strongest motive99 human nature can be actuated by for industry, for forethought, and self-denial.” “The Spartan,” he said, “and other ancient communities, might disregard domestic ties, because they had the substitution of country, which we cannot have. Our course is to supplant100 domestic attachments101, without the possibility of substituting others more capacious. What can grow out of it but selfishness?” The half-century which has elapsed since Wordsworth wrote these words has evidently altered the state of the question. It has impressed on us the paramount102 necessity of national education, for reasons political and social too well known to repeat. But it may be feared that it has also shifted the incidence of Wordsworth’s arguments in a more sinister103 manner, by vastly increasing the number of those homes where domestic influence of the kind which the poet saw around him at Rydal is altogether wanting and school is the best avenue even to moral well-being104. “Heaven and hell,” he writes in 1808, “are scarcely more different from each other than Sheffield and Manchester, &c., differ from the plains and valleys of Surrey, Essex, Cumberland, or Westmoreland.” It is to be feared, indeed, that even “the plains and valleys of Surrey and Essex” contain many cottages whose spiritual and sanitary105 conditions fall far short of the poet’s ideal. But it is of course in the great and growing centres of population that the dangers which he dreads106 have come upon us in their most aggravated107 form. And so long as there are in England so many homes to which parental care and the influences of Nature are alike unknown, no protest in favour of the paramount importance of these primary agencies in the formation of character can be regarded as altogether out of date.
With such severe and almost prosaic108 themes is the greater part of the Excursion occupied. Yet the poem is far from being composed throughout in a prosaic spirit. “Of its bones is coral made;” its arguments and theories have lain long in Wordsworth’s mind, and have accreted109 to themselves a rich investiture of observation and feeling. Some of its passages rank among the poet’s highest flights. Such is the passage in Book I describing the boy’s rapture110 at sunrise; and the picture of a sunset at the close of the same book. Such is the opening of Book IV; and the passage describing the wild joy of roaming through a mountain storm; and the metaphor111 in the same book which compares the mind’s power of transfiguring the obstacles which beset112 her, with the glory into which the moon incorporates the umbrage113 that would intercept114 her beams.
It would scarcely be possible at the present day that a work containing such striking passages, and so much of substance and elevation—however out of keeping it might be with the ruling taste of the day—should appear without receiving careful study from many quarters and warm appreciation in some recognized organs of opinion. Criticism in Wordsworth’s day was both less competent and less conscientious115, and the famous “This will never do” of Jeffrey in the Edinburgh Review was by no means an extreme specimen of the general tone in which the work was received. The judgment of the reviewers influenced popular taste; and the book was as decided116 a pecuniary117 failure as Wordsworth’s previous ventures had been.
And here, perhaps, is a fit occasion to speak of that strangely violent detraction119 and abuse which formed so large an ingredient in Wordsworth’s life,—or rather, of that which is the only element of permanent interest in such a matter,—his manner of receiving and replying to it. No writer, probably, who has afterwards achieved a reputation at all like Wordsworth’s, has been so long represented by reviewers as purely120 ridiculous. And in Wordsworth’s manner of acceptance of this fact we may discern all the strength, and something of the stiffness, of his nature; we may recognize an almost, but not quite, ideal attitude under the shafts121 of unmerited obloquy122. For he who thus is arrogantly123 censured124 should remember both the dignity and the frailty125 of man; he should wholly forgive, and almost wholly forget; but, nevertheless, should retain such serviceable hints as almost any criticism, however harsh or reckless, can afford, and go on his way with no bitter broodings, but yet (to use Wordsworth’s expression in another context) “with a melancholy126 in the soul, a sinking inward into ourselves from thought to thought, a steady remonstrance127, and a high resolve.”
How far his own self-assertion may becomingly be carried in reply, is another and a delicate question. There is almost necessarily something distasteful to us not only in self-praise but even in a thorough self-appreciation. We desire of the ideal character that his faculties of admiration should be, as it were, absorbed in an eager perception of the merits of others,—that a kind of shrinking delicacy128 should prevent him from appraising129 his own achievements with a similar care. Often, indeed, there is something most winning in a touch of humorous blindness: “Well, Miss Sophia, and how do you like the Lady of the Lake?” “Oh, I’ve not read it; papa says there’s nothing so bad for young people as reading bad poetry.”
But there are circumstances under which this graceful130 absence of self-consciousness can no longer be maintained. When a man believes that he has a message to deliver that vitally concerns mankind, and when that message is received with contempt and apathy131, he is necessarily driven back upon himself; he is forced to consider whether what he has to say is after all so important, and whether his mode of saying it be right and adequate. A necessity of this kind was forced upon both Shelley and Wordsworth. Shelley—the very type of self-forgetful enthusiasm—was driven at last by the world’s treatment of him into a series of moods sometimes bitter and sometimes self-distrustful—into a sense of aloofness132 and detachment from the mass of men, which the poet who would fain improve and exalt133 them should do his utmost not to feel. On Wordsworth’s more stubborn nature the effect produced by many years of detraction was of a different kind. Naturally introspective, he was driven by abuse and ridicule134 into taking stock of himself more frequently and more laboriously135 than ever. He formed an estimate of himself and his writings which was, on the whole, (as will now be generally admitted,) a just one; and this view he expressed when occasion offered—in sober language, indeed, but with calm conviction, and with precisely136 the same air of speaking from undoubted knowledge as when he described the beauty of Cumbrian mountains or the virtue of Cumbrian homes.
“It is impossible,” he wrote to Lady Beaumont in 1807, “that any expectations can be lower than mine concerning the immediate effect of this little work upon what is called the public. I do not here take into consideration the envy and malevolence137, and all the bad passions which always stand in the way of a work of any merit from a living poet; but merely think of the pure, absolute, honest ignorance in which all worldlings, of every rank and situation, must be enveloped138, with respect to the thoughts, feelings, and images on which the life of my poems depends. The things which I have taken, whether from within or without, what have they to do with routs139, dinners, morning calls, hurry from door to door, from street to street, on foot or in carriage; with Mr. Pitt or Mr. Fox, Mr. Paul or Sir Francis Burdett, the Westminster election or the borough140 of Honiton? In a word—for I cannot stop to make my way through the harry141 of images that present themselves to me—what have they to do with endless talking about things that nobody cares anything for, except as far as their own vanity is concerned, and this with persons they care nothing for, but as their vanity or selfishness is concerned? What have they to do (to say all at once) with a life without love? In such a life there can be no thought; for we have no thought (save thoughts of pain), but as far as we have love and admiration.
“It is an awful truth, that there neither is nor can be any genuine enjoyment of poetry among nineteen out of twenty of those persons who live, or wish to live, in the broad light of the world—among those who either are, or are striving to make themselves, people of consideration in society. This is a truth, and an awful one; because to be incapable142 of a feeling of poetry, in my sense of the word, is to be without love of human nature and reverence143 for God.
“Upon this I shall insist elsewhere; at present let me confine myself to my object, which is to make you, my dear friend, as easy-hearted as myself with respect to these poems. Trouble not yourself upon their present reception. Of what moment is that compared with what I trust is their destiny?—To console the afflicted144; 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 actively145 and securely virtuous146; this is their office, which I trust they will faithfully perform, long after we (that is, all that is mortal of us,) are mouldered147 in our graves.”
Such words as these come with dignity from the mouth of a man like Wordsworth when he has been, as it were, driven to bay,—when he is consoling an intimate friend, distressed148 at the torrent149 of ridicule which, as she fears, must sweep his self-confidence and his purposes away. He may be permitted to assure her that “my ears are stone-dead to this idle buzz, and my flesh as insensible as iron to these petty stings,” and to accompany his assurance with a reasoned statement of the grounds of his unshaken hopes.
We feel, however, that such an expression of self-reliance on the part of a great man should be accompanied with some proof that no conceit150 or impatience151 is mixed with his steadfast152 calm. If he believes the public to be really unable to appreciate himself, he must show no surprise when they admire his inferiors; he must remember that the case would be far worse if they admired no one at all. Nor must he descend16 from his own unpopular merits on the plea that after catching153 the public attention by what is bad he will retain it for what is good. If he is so sure that he is in the right he can afford to wait and let the world come round to him. Wordsworth’s conduct satisfies both these tests. It is, indeed, curious to observe how much abuse this inoffensive recluse received, and how absolutely he avoided returning it, Byron, for instance, must have seemed in his eyes guilty of something far more injurious to mankind than “a drowsy154 frowsy poem, called the Excursion,” could possibly appear. But, except in one or two private letters, Wordsworth has never alluded155 to Byron at all. Shelley’s lampoon—a singular instance of the random156 blows of a noble spirit, striking at what, if better understood, it would eagerly have revered— Wordsworth seems never to have read. Nor did the violent attacks of the Edinburgh and the Quarterly Reviews provoke him to any rejoinder. To “English Bards157 and Scotch158 Reviewers”—leagued against him as their common prey—he opposed a dignified159 silence; and the only moral injury which he derived160 from their assaults lay in that sense of the absence of trustworthy external criticism which led him to treat everything which he had once written down as if it were a special revelation, and to insist with equal earnestness on his most trifling162 as on his most important pieces—on Goody Blake and The Idiot Boy as on The Cuckoo or The Daffodils. The sense of humour is apt to be the first grace which is lost under persecution163; and much of Wordsworth’s heaviness and stiff exposition of commonplaces is to be traced to a feeling, which he could scarcely avoid, that “all day long he had lifted up his voice to a perverse164 and gainsaying165 generation.”
To the pecuniary loss inflicted166 on him by these adverse167 criticisms he was justly sensible. He was far from expecting, or even desiring, to be widely popular or to make a rapid fortune; but he felt that the labourer was worthy161 of his hire, and that the devotion of years to literature should have been met with some moderate degree of the usual form of recognition which the world accords to those who work for it. In 1820 he speaks of “the whole of my returns from the writing trade not amounting to seven-score pounds,” and as late as 1843, when at the height of his fame, he was not ashamed of confessing the importance which he had always attached to this particular.
“So sensible am I,” he says, “of the deficiencies in all that I write, and so far does everything that I attempt fall short of what I wish it to be, that even private publication, if such a term may be allowed, requires more resolution than I can command. I have written to give vent118 to my own mind, and not without hope that, some time or other, kindred minds might benefit by my labours; but I am inclined to believe I should never have ventured to send forth any verses of mine to the world, if it had not been done on the pressure of personal occasions. Had I been a rich man, my productions, like this Epistle, the Tragedy of the Borderers, &c., would most likely have been confined to manuscript.”
An interesting passage from an unpublished letter of Miss Wordsworth’s, on the White Doe of Rylstone, confirms this statement:—
“My brother was very much pleased with your frankness in
telling us that you did not perfectly168 like his poem. He wishes
to know what your feelings were—whether the tale itself did
not interest you—or whether you could not enter into the
conception of Emily’s character, or take delight in that visionary
communion which is supposed to have existed between her and
the Doe. Do not fear to give him pain. He is far too much
accustomed to be abused to receive pain from it, (at least as far
as he himself is concerned.) My reason for asking you these
questions is, that some of our friends, who are equal admirers of
the White Doe and of my brother’s published poems, think
that this poem will sell on account of the story; that is, that
the story will bear up those points which are above the level of the
public taste; whereas the two last volumes—except by a few
solitary individuals, who are passionately169 devoted to my
brother’s works—are abused by wholesale170.”
“Now as his sole object in publishing this poem at present
would be for the sake of the money, he would not publish it if
he did not think, from the several judgments171 of his friends,
that it would be likely to have a sale. He has no pleasure in
publishing—he even detests172 it; and if it were not that he is
not over wealthy, he would leave all his works to be
published after his death. William himself is sure that the
White Doe will not sell or be admired, except by a very few,
at first; and only yields to Mary’s entreaties173 and mine. We are
determined174, however, if we are deceived this time, to let him
have his own way in future.”
These passages must be taken, no doubt, as representing one aspect only of the poet’s impulses in the matter. With his deep conviction of the world’s real, though unrecognized, need of a pure vein175 of poetry, we can hardly imagine him as permanently176 satisfied to defer177 his own contribution till after his death. Yet we may certainly believe that the need of money helped him to overcome much diffidence as to publication; and we may discern something dignified in his frank avowal178 of this when it is taken in connexion with his scrupulous179 abstinence from any attempt to win the suffrages180 of the multitude by means unworthy of his high vocation181. He could never, indeed, have written poems which could have vied in immediate popularity with those of Byron or Scott. But the criticisms on the first edition of the Lyrical Ballads182 must have shown him that a slight alteration183 of method,—nay even the excision184 of a few pages in each volume, pages certain to be loudly objected to,—would have made a marked difference in the sale and its proceeds. From this point of view, even poems which we may now feel to have been needlessly puerile185 and grotesque186 acquire a certain impressiveness, when we recognize that the theory which demanded their composition was one which their author was willing to uphold at the cost of some years of real physical privation, and of the postponement187 for a generation of his legitimate188 fame.
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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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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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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descended
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18
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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19
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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20
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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21
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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22
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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23
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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24
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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25
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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26
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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27
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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28
retard
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| n.阻止，延迟；vt.妨碍，延迟，使减速 | |
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29
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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30
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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31
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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32
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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33
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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34
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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35
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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36
wont
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|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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37
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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38
sleepless
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|
| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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39
guardianship
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|
| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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40
providence
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|
| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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41
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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42
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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43
retired
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|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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44
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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45
esteem
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|
| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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46
admiration
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|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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47
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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48
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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49
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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50
humble
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|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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51
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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52
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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53
dictated
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|
| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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54
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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55
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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56
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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57
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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58
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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59
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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60
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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61
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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62
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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63
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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64
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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65
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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66
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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67
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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68
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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69
unintelligible
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|
| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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70
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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71
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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72
asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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73
unnatural
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|
| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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74
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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75
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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76
conformity
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|
| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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77
applied
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|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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78
simplicity
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|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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79
meditation
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|
| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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80
invoked
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|
| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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81
outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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82
parental
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|
| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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83
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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84
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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85
injustice
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|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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86
promising
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|
| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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87
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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88
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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89
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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90
plausibility
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| n. 似有道理, 能言善辩 | |
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91
eminent
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|
| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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92
politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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93
esteems
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| n.尊敬，好评( esteem的名词复数 )v.尊敬( esteem的第三人称单数 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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94
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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95
emphatic
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|
| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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96
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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97
varied
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|
| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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98
relegation
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| n.驱逐，贬黜；降级 | |
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99
motive
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|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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100
supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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101
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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102
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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103
sinister
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|
| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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104
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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105
sanitary
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|
| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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106
dreads
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|
| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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107
aggravated
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|
| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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108
prosaic
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|
| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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109
accreted
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| v.共生( accrete的过去式和过去分词 )；合生；使依附；使连接 | |
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110
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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111
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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112
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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113
umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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114
intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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115
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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116
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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117
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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118
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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119
detraction
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| n.减损；诽谤 | |
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120
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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121
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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122
obloquy
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| n.斥责，大骂 | |
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123
arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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124
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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125
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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126
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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127
remonstrance
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|
| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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128
delicacy
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|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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129
appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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130
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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131
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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132
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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133
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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134
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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135
laboriously
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|
| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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136
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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137
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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138
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
routs
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| n.打垮，赶跑( rout的名词复数 )；（体育）打败对方v.打垮，赶跑( rout的第三人称单数 )；（体育）打败对方 | |
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140
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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141
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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142
incapable
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|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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143
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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144
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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146
virtuous
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|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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147
mouldered
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|
| v.腐朽( moulder的过去式和过去分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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148
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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149
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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151
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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157
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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158
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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159
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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160
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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gainsaying
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的现在分词 ) | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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168
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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174
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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suffrages
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| （政治性选举的）选举权，投票权( suffrage的名词复数 ) | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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182
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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184
excision
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| n.删掉；除去 | |
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185
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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186
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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187
postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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188
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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