for be it known that I am quite as noisy as ever I was, and should take as much delight as ever in showering stones through the hole of the staircase against your room door, and hearing with what good earnest "you fool!" was vociferated in indignation against me in return. O dear Lightfoot, what a blessing it is to have a boy's heart! it is as great a blessing in carrying one through this world as to have a child's spirit will be in fitting us for the next. . .

I sometimes think with wonder how few acquaintances I made at Oxford; except yourself and Burnett, not one whom I should feel any real pleasure in meeting. Of all the months in my life (happily they did not amount to years), those which were passed at Oxford were the most unprofitable. What Greek I took there I literally left there, and could not help losing; and all I learned was a little swimming (very little, the worse luck) and a little boating, which is greatly improved, now that I have a boat of my own upon this delightful lake. I never remember to have dreamed of Oxforda sure proof how little it entered into my moral being; of school, on the contrary, I dream perpetually. . . .

Vol. I.

ROBERT SOUTHEY TO GROSVENOR C. BEDFORD.

KESWICK, November 17, 1808.

Let not Gifford suppose me a troublesome man to deal with, pertinacious about trifles, or standing upon punctilios of authorship. No, Grosvenor, I am a quiet, patient, easy-going hack of the mule breed; regular as clock-work in my pace, sure-footed, bearing the burden which is laid on me, and only obstinate in choosing my own path. If Gifford could see me by this fireside, where, like Nicodemus, one candle suffices me in a large room, he would see a man in a coat "still more threadbare than his own" when he wrote his "Imitation," working hard and getting little-a bare maintenance, and hardly that; writing poems and history for posterity, with his whole heart and soul; one daily progressive in learning, not so learned as he is poor, and not so poor as proud, not so proud as happy. Grosvenor, there is not a lighter-hearted nor a happier man on the face of this wide world.

Your godson thinks that I have nothing to do but to play with him, and anybody who saw what reason he has for his opinion would be disposed to agree with him. I wish you could see my beautiful boy!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH TO SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.

GRASSMERE, June 3, 1805.

I write you from the moss-hut at the top of my orchard, the sun just sinking behind the hills in front of the entrance, and his light falling upon the green moss of the side opposite me. A linnet is singing in the tree above, and the children of some of our neighbors, who have been to-day little John's visitors, are playing below, equally noisy and happy. The green fields in the level area of the vale, and part of the lake, lie before me in quietness. I have just been reading two newspapers, full of factious brawls about Lord Melville and his delinquencies, ravage of the French in the West Indies, victories of the English in the East, fleets of ours roaming the sea in search of enemies whom they cannot find, etc., etc., etc.; and I have asked myself more than once lately, if my affections can be in the right place, caring as I do so little about what the world seems to care so much for. All this seems to me, "a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." It is pleasant in such a mood to turn one's thoughts to a good man and a dear friend. I have, therefore, taken up the pen to write to you.

*

I have the pleasure to say that I finished my poem about a fortnight ago. I had looked forward to the day as a most happy one; and I was indeed grateful to God for giving me life to complete the work, such as it is. But it was not a happy day for me; I was dejected on many accounts: when I looked back upon the performance, it seemed to have a dead weight about it, the reality so far short of the expectation. It was the first long labor that I had finished; and the doubt whether I should ever live to write "The Recluse," and the sense which I had of this poem being so far below what I seemed capable of executing, depressed me much; above all, many heavy thoughts of my poor departed brother hung upon me, the joy which I should have had in showing him the manuscript, and a thousand other vain fancies and dreams. I have spoken of this, because it was a state of feeling new to me, the occasion being new. This work may be considered as a sort of portico to "The Recluse," part of the same building, which I hope to be able, erelong, to begin with in earnest; and if I am permitted to bring it to a conclusion, and to write, fur*The Prelude."

ther, a narrative poem of the epic kind, I shall consider the task of my life as over. I ought to add, that I have the satisfaction of finding the present poem not quite of so alarming a length as I apprehended.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH TO LADY BEAUMONT.

COLEORTON, May 21, 1807.

Though I am to see you so soon, I cannot but write a word or two to thank you for the interest you take in my poems, as evinced by your solicitude about their immediate reception. I write partly to thank you for this and to express the pleasure it has given me, and partly to remove any uneasiness from your mind which the disappointments you sometimes meet with in this labor of love may occasion. I see that you have many battles to fight for me; more than, in the ardor and confidence of your pure and elevated mind, you had ever thought of being summoned to; but be assured that this opposition is nothing more than what I distinctly foresaw that you and my other friends would have to encounter. I say this, not to give myself credit for an eye of prophecy, but to allay any vexatious thoughts on my