[Footnote A: It is
unfortunate
that in this, as in many other similar
occasions in these delightful volumes by the poet's nephew, the
reticence as to names--warrantable perhaps in 1851, so soon after the
poet's death--has now deprived the world of every means of knowing to
whom many of Wordsworth's letters were addressed.
occasions in these delightful volumes by the poet's nephew, the
reticence as to names--warrantable perhaps in 1851, so soon after the
poet's death--has now deprived the world of every means of knowing to
whom many of Wordsworth's letters were addressed.
William Wordsworth
I think of this till I am so deeply impressed with it, that I
consider the manner in which I was rescued from my dejection and
despair almost as an interposition of Providence. A person reading the
poem with feelings like mine will have been awed and controlled,
expecting something spiritual or supernatural. What is brought
forward? A lonely place, 'a pond, by which an old man _was_, far from
all house or home:' not _stood_, nor _sat_, but _was_--the figure
presented in the most naked simplicity possible. This feeling of
spirituality or supernaturalness is again referred to as being strong
in my mind in this passage. How came he here? thought I, or what can
he be doing? I then describe him, whether ill or well is not for me to
judge with perfect confidence; but this I _can_ confidently affirm,
that though I believe God has given me a strong imagination, I cannot
conceive a figure more impressive than that of an old man like this,
the survivor of a wife and ten children, travelling alone among the
mountains and all lonely places, carrying with him his own fortitude
and the necessities which an unjust state of society has laid upon
him. You speak of his speech as tedious. Every thing is tedious when
one does not read with the feelings of the author. 'The Thorn' is
tedious to hundreds; and so is 'The Idiot Boy' to hundreds. It is in
the character of the old man to tell his story, which an impatient
reader must feel tedious. But, good heavens! such a figure, in such a
place; a pious, self-respecting, miserably infirm and pleased old man
telling such a tale! "
Ed.
[Footnote A: It is unfortunate that in this, as in many other similar
occasions in these delightful volumes by the poet's nephew, the
reticence as to names--warrantable perhaps in 1851, so soon after the
poet's death--has now deprived the world of every means of knowing to
whom many of Wordsworth's letters were addressed. Professor Dowden asks
about it--and very naturally:
"Was it the letter to Mary and Sara" (Hutchinson) "about 'The
Leech-Gatherer,' mentioned in Dorothy's Journal of 14th June
1802? "
Ed. ]
* * * * *
"I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE"
Composed May 21, 1802. --Published 1807 [A]
[In the cottage of Town-end, one afternoon in 1801, my sister read to me
the sonnets of Milton. I had long been well acquainted with them, but I
was particularly struck on that occasion with the dignified simplicity
and majestic harmony that runs through most of them--in character so
totally different from the Italian, and still more so from Shakespeare's
fine sonnets. I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced
three sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote, except an
irregular one at school. Of these three the only one I distinctly
remember is 'I grieved for Buonaparte, etc. '; one of the others was
never written down; the third, which was I believe preserved, I cannot
particularise. --I. F. ]
One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty," afterwards called "Poems
dedicated to National Independence and Liberty. " From the edition of
1815 onwards, it bore the title '1801'. --Ed.
I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain
And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood [1]
Of that Man's mind--what can it be?
consider the manner in which I was rescued from my dejection and
despair almost as an interposition of Providence. A person reading the
poem with feelings like mine will have been awed and controlled,
expecting something spiritual or supernatural. What is brought
forward? A lonely place, 'a pond, by which an old man _was_, far from
all house or home:' not _stood_, nor _sat_, but _was_--the figure
presented in the most naked simplicity possible. This feeling of
spirituality or supernaturalness is again referred to as being strong
in my mind in this passage. How came he here? thought I, or what can
he be doing? I then describe him, whether ill or well is not for me to
judge with perfect confidence; but this I _can_ confidently affirm,
that though I believe God has given me a strong imagination, I cannot
conceive a figure more impressive than that of an old man like this,
the survivor of a wife and ten children, travelling alone among the
mountains and all lonely places, carrying with him his own fortitude
and the necessities which an unjust state of society has laid upon
him. You speak of his speech as tedious. Every thing is tedious when
one does not read with the feelings of the author. 'The Thorn' is
tedious to hundreds; and so is 'The Idiot Boy' to hundreds. It is in
the character of the old man to tell his story, which an impatient
reader must feel tedious. But, good heavens! such a figure, in such a
place; a pious, self-respecting, miserably infirm and pleased old man
telling such a tale! "
Ed.
[Footnote A: It is unfortunate that in this, as in many other similar
occasions in these delightful volumes by the poet's nephew, the
reticence as to names--warrantable perhaps in 1851, so soon after the
poet's death--has now deprived the world of every means of knowing to
whom many of Wordsworth's letters were addressed. Professor Dowden asks
about it--and very naturally:
"Was it the letter to Mary and Sara" (Hutchinson) "about 'The
Leech-Gatherer,' mentioned in Dorothy's Journal of 14th June
1802? "
Ed. ]
* * * * *
"I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE"
Composed May 21, 1802. --Published 1807 [A]
[In the cottage of Town-end, one afternoon in 1801, my sister read to me
the sonnets of Milton. I had long been well acquainted with them, but I
was particularly struck on that occasion with the dignified simplicity
and majestic harmony that runs through most of them--in character so
totally different from the Italian, and still more so from Shakespeare's
fine sonnets. I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced
three sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote, except an
irregular one at school. Of these three the only one I distinctly
remember is 'I grieved for Buonaparte, etc. '; one of the others was
never written down; the third, which was I believe preserved, I cannot
particularise. --I. F. ]
One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty," afterwards called "Poems
dedicated to National Independence and Liberty. " From the edition of
1815 onwards, it bore the title '1801'. --Ed.
I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain
And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood [1]
Of that Man's mind--what can it be?
