That you would see every object with and through your lost brother,
and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of
comfort to you, I felt, and well knew, from my own experience in
sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this, I did not dare to
tell you so; but I send you some poor lines, which I wrote under this
conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home.
and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of
comfort to you, I felt, and well knew, from my own experience in
sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this, I did not dare to
tell you so; but I send you some poor lines, which I wrote under this
conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home.
William Wordsworth
Of course
the news came flying up to us from all quarters, and it has disordered
me from head to foot. At such circumstances I believe we feel as much
for others as for ourselves; just as a violent blow occasions the same
pain as a wound, and he who breaks his shin feels as acutely at the
moment as the man whose leg is shot off. In fact, I am writing to you
merely because this dreadful shipwreck has left me utterly unable to
do anything else. It is the heaviest calamity Wordsworth has ever
experienced, and in all probability I shall have to communicate it to
him, as he will very likely be here before the tidings can reach him.
What renders any near loss of this kind so peculiarly distressing is,
that the recollection is perpetually freshened when any like event
occurs, by the mere mention of shipwreck, or the sound of the wind. Of
all deaths it is the most dreadful, from the circumstances of terror
which accompany it. . . . "
(See 'The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey', vol. ii. p. 321. )
The following is part of a letter from Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth
on the same subject. It is undated:
"MY DEAR MISS WORDSWORTH,--
I wished to tell you that you would one day feel the kind of peaceful
state of mind and sweet memory of the dead, which you so happily
describe, as now almost begun; but I felt that it was improper, and
most grating to the feelings of the afflicted, to say to them that the
memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part, not
only of their dreams, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness.
That you would see every object with and through your lost brother,
and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of
comfort to you, I felt, and well knew, from my own experience in
sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this, I did not dare to
tell you so; but I send you some poor lines, which I wrote under this
conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home.
. . .
"Why is he wandering on the sea? --
Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.
By slow degrees he'd steal away
Their woes, and gently bring a ray
(So happily he'd time relief,)
Of comfort from their very grief.
He'd tell them that their brother dead,
When years have passed o'er their head,
Will be remembered with such holy,
True and tender melancholy,
That ever this lost brother John
Will be their heart's companion.
His voice they'll always hear,
His face they'll always see;
There's naught in life so sweet
As such a memory. "
(See 'Final Memorials of Charles Lamb', by Thomas Noon Talfourd, vol.
ii. pp. 233, 234. )--Ed.
* * * * *
"WHEN, TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY WORLD"
Composed 1800 to 1805. --Published 1815
[The grove still exists; but the plantation has been walled in, and is
not so accessible as when my brother John wore the path in the manner
here described.
the news came flying up to us from all quarters, and it has disordered
me from head to foot. At such circumstances I believe we feel as much
for others as for ourselves; just as a violent blow occasions the same
pain as a wound, and he who breaks his shin feels as acutely at the
moment as the man whose leg is shot off. In fact, I am writing to you
merely because this dreadful shipwreck has left me utterly unable to
do anything else. It is the heaviest calamity Wordsworth has ever
experienced, and in all probability I shall have to communicate it to
him, as he will very likely be here before the tidings can reach him.
What renders any near loss of this kind so peculiarly distressing is,
that the recollection is perpetually freshened when any like event
occurs, by the mere mention of shipwreck, or the sound of the wind. Of
all deaths it is the most dreadful, from the circumstances of terror
which accompany it. . . . "
(See 'The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey', vol. ii. p. 321. )
The following is part of a letter from Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth
on the same subject. It is undated:
"MY DEAR MISS WORDSWORTH,--
I wished to tell you that you would one day feel the kind of peaceful
state of mind and sweet memory of the dead, which you so happily
describe, as now almost begun; but I felt that it was improper, and
most grating to the feelings of the afflicted, to say to them that the
memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part, not
only of their dreams, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness.
That you would see every object with and through your lost brother,
and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of
comfort to you, I felt, and well knew, from my own experience in
sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this, I did not dare to
tell you so; but I send you some poor lines, which I wrote under this
conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home.
. . .
"Why is he wandering on the sea? --
Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.
By slow degrees he'd steal away
Their woes, and gently bring a ray
(So happily he'd time relief,)
Of comfort from their very grief.
He'd tell them that their brother dead,
When years have passed o'er their head,
Will be remembered with such holy,
True and tender melancholy,
That ever this lost brother John
Will be their heart's companion.
His voice they'll always hear,
His face they'll always see;
There's naught in life so sweet
As such a memory. "
(See 'Final Memorials of Charles Lamb', by Thomas Noon Talfourd, vol.
ii. pp. 233, 234. )--Ed.
* * * * *
"WHEN, TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY WORLD"
Composed 1800 to 1805. --Published 1815
[The grove still exists; but the plantation has been walled in, and is
not so accessible as when my brother John wore the path in the manner
here described.
