’Thereafter came
    One, whom with thee friendship had early prized;
    She came, no more a phantom to adorn
    A moment, but an inmate of the heart;
    And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined,
    To penetrate the lofty and the low;
    Even as one essence of pervading light
    Shines in the brightness of ten thousand stars,
    And the meek worm that feeds her lonely lamp
    Couched in the dewy grass.’

I have been led away from my narrative; but I wished to record the feelings which had arisen within me with regard to this excellent lady; she who has been, as ——­ has so happily expressed it in his letter to you, ‘almost like the Poet’s guardian angel for near fifty years.’

* * * * *

I may here mention, that throughout the conversation Wordsworth’s manner was animated, and that he took pleasure in it evidently.  His words were very choice:  each sentence seemed faultless.  No one could have listened to his talk for five minutes, even on ordinary topics, without perceiving that he was a remarkable man.  Not that he was brilliant; but there was sustained vigour, and that mode of expression which denotes habitual thoughtfulness.

When the clock struck four, I thought it time for me to go.  Wordsworth told me to say to his friends in America, that he and his wife were well; that they had had a great grief of late, in the loss of their only daughter, which he supposed they would never get over.  This explained, as I have already mentioned, the sadness of his manner.  Such strength of the affections in old age we rarely see.  And yet the Poet has himself condemned, as you remember, in ‘The Excursion,’ long and persevering grief for objects of our love ‘removed from this unstable world,’ reminding one so sorrowing of

                              ’that state
    Of pure, imperishable blessedness
    Which reason promises, and Holy Writ
    Ensures to all believers.’

But, as if foreseeing his own case, he has added, with touching power,

    ’And if there be whose tender frames have drooped
    Even to the dust, apparently through weight
    Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power
    An agonising sorrow to transmute;
    Deem not that proof is here of hope withheld
    When wanted most; a confidence impaired
    So pitiably, that having ceased to see
    With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love
    Of what is lost, and perish through regret.’

The weakness of his bodily frame it was which took away his power of tranquil endurance.  Bowed down by the weight of years, he had not strength to sustain this further burden, grief for a much-loved child.  His mind, happily, retained its clearness, though his body was decaying.

* * * * *