Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 132.djvu/309

Rh Still, life, cheerfulness, and labor survive, and there are signs of them everywhere. Turning from the moat and doorless arch, and casting our eyes from raftered roof to boarded floor, we see that the great hall is filled with little hillocks of what is familiarly called "sharps," or food for fattening cattle. Descending the ruined steps, we perceive that in the centre of the great quadrangular court are unwieldy cider-butts brought out to dry, round about which poultry pick up grain; and against an ancient building, near a broad archway, rises a grated hutch. Here not only do rabbits munch in one compartment, but two motherless kittens disport themselves in another, which are being "brought up by hand" by children not far off. All this would have attracted the poet almost more than the surrounding ruins. So would the tangled garden, and the summer-house, now converted into an aviary; so doubtless did the luxuriant orchards. We almost see him beneath the apple-blossoms of spring and the rosy fruit of autumn.

We do actually see what best represents him on entering the large, wainscoted dining-room of the house. This is a copy of his portrait by Pickersgill, which surmounts the high and antique mantelpiece, and has been presented as an heirloom to Brinsop Court by Lord Saye and Seal, Archdeacon of Hereford. It was from the original of this picture, now at St. John's College, Cambridge, that the engraving was taken which forms the frontispiece to Wordsworth's "Life and Works." It is now easy to call before the mind's eye the forms of the poet and his companions. The portrait, the quaint apartment, the Gothic window, the cedar, lawn, moat, all aid the imagination. We see first Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson, who, having lived eighteen years in Nadnorth, came to reside at Brinsop Court, where they passed twenty-one years more. It was on the eve of their marriage, in the Vale of Grasmere, that Wordsworth composed the twenty-third of his published "Miscellaneous Sonnets," which we venture to reproduce: —  It was of this "indulgent lord" that Wordsworth writes, in a letter to Professor Reed, dated Brinsop Court, September 27, 1845; and sonnet and letter not only form a touching homily, but testify to the loving, sympathetic spirit of the writer. It says: —


 * This letter is written by the side of my brother-in-law, who, eight years ago, became a cripple, confined to his chair by the accident of his horse falling with him in the high-road, where he lay without power to move either hand or leg, but left in perfect possession of his faculties. His bodily sufferings are by this time somewhat abated, but they still continue severe. His patience and cheerfulness are so admirable that I could not forbear mentioning him to you. He is an example to us all, and most undeserving should we be if we did not profit by it. His family have lately succeeded in persuading him to have his portrait taken as he sits in his armchair. It is an excellent likeness, the best I ever saw, and will be invaluable to his family.

It may not be out of place here to say that this portrait, painted by Lucy, is now in the possession of Mr. Hutchinson's daughter, at West Malvern, and conveys, even to a stranger, the impression of the "patience and cheerfulness" mentioned by his brother-in-law. When Wordsworth wrote the foregoing, his wife was also probably at the side of her crippled brother, since they were at Brinsop Court together.

The portraits of the two men remain, but of the wife and sister no picture is left to aid the imagination. Mrs. Wordsworth refused to sit either for portrait or photograph, having a wholesome dread of all publicity. Both she and her husband disliked the idea of laying bare the sanctity of private life to the world, and it was with much difficulty that the poet's biographer could prevail on her to furnish him with those details most interesting to the public. Still, it is to Mrs. Wordsworth and her sister, Sara Hutchinson, as well as to Wordsworth's sister Dorothy, and daughter Dora, that much of his poetry is due. Devoted to him and to his genius, they never wearied of encouraging him to write, or of accompanying him on his long and fatiguing walks. When his eyesight failed, his wife, the beloved companion of half a century, was his untiring amanuensis, and it is not surprising that he should