The Flower of Rydal
A ‘DEY, withered flower lies by me, which I gathered on a sweet July morning, beside the doorway of AYordsworth’s cottage on Eydal Mount, and it tempts me to a word of reminiscence of this extraordinary man. I had come up from Ambleside to spend an hour with him, as he always gave a hearty welcome to the few Americans who wandered in to his secluded home. His cottage stands at the summit of a deeply-shaded hill, and is covered all over with ivy and with woodbine. The cottage was just what I expected in appearance, but not its illustrious occupant. Instead of a grave, pensive man, in scholastic black, I found a most affable, smiling, lovable old man, dressed in a well-worn coat of Hue (with metal buttons,) and checked breeches, and with a broad-brimmed white hat l3dng by his side. He looked like a substantial farmer, just come in for his “nooning;” and his greeting had a broad heartiness in it, that took me all aback. His face was long and thin — his complexion highly florid — his hair fell upon his shoulders, and over his half-closed eyes he wore a pair of large green spectacles.
Without any preliminaries, he entered at once into a genial and most familiar conversation, talked of America with great enthusiasm, particularly of his friend Washington Irving, and of Mrs. Sigourney, who had once paid him a delightful visit. For years lie had hoped to see our country for himself, but the duties of a small ofl&ce which he held, and on which he was partially dependent, had prevented the undertaking.
His library was not large, but among his books he showed me with evident pleasure a beautiful copy of Professor Reed’s American edition of his poetry, which he preferred above any English edition that had yet been produced. Had Wordsworth been a richer man, he would hardly have been a great collector of books. When a visitor once said to his servant, “Is this your master’s study?” “No, sir,” replied the man,” my master’s study is out ofdoorsy
I was not surprised, therefore, to hear presently from the old poet an invitation to walk out into his grounds, and see the neighboring views. As we moved
THE I^LOWEH OF EYDAL. 85
about through the well-trimmed walks, he talked on with the most lively enthusiasm. “Yonder is Rydal Water.” And there it lay, a mere shellful of water, environed round by bold towering hills. In front, over the steeple of the parish church, was Grassmere the lake along whose beach Coleridge was wont to wander, and beside which he composed the “Ancient Mariner.” Beyond was Helvellyn the mountain king, with his retinue of a hundred hills, and at his feet lay EoBEET SouRiEY.
Of all these scenes, and the great men who had haunted them during years gone by, the aged man talked on until we reached again his cottage door. He then bade me farewell, with a parting “God bless you;” I pulled this little flower, (then fresh and bright,) and turned slowly away from Eydal Mount. That cottage is now a lonely spot. The venerable interpreter of nature no longer leans on his staff beneath that door-way. Within a stone’s throw of that “Mount” is a plain tomb, on which more than one moistened eye has read the name of William Wordsworth.