‘My dear Sir,—I am gratified by your readiness to
serve me in the affair of my intended publication, but I am obliged to defer
it, and by a cause which you will be most sorry to hear, viz., the recent death
of my dear and amiable son, Thomas. He
died this day six weeks past of the measles; he was seen by the medical
attendant about twelve at noon, pronounced to be as favourably held as child
could be, and his dissolution took place in less than five hours from that
time. An inflammation in the lungs carried him off thus suddenly. You must
remember him well; he was our second son (six years and a half old), and, I
recollect well, made one of the party that fine afternoon when we all drank tea
together with Dr. Bell in his garden.
This sudden blow, coming when we were just beginning to recover from one
equally sudden, has overwhelmed us. Last summer we lost a sweet little girl, four years old, and brother and
sister now rest side [by side] in Grasmere churchyard, where we hope that our
dust will one day mingle with theirs. If at some future time I can force my
mind to the occupation which was thus lamentably interrupted, as I trust I
shall be able to do, then I will again have recourse to your kindness in this
concern. We find it absolutely necessary to quit a residence
| WORDSWORTH ON SCOTT'S POETRY | 125 |
‘It gives me much satisfaction to learn that your time has passed so agreeably in Scotland. May sorrow that is perpetually travelling about the world be long in finding you! I am glad that Sharp is in expectation of returning to Parliament; if you see him, remember me affectionately to him, and be so good as to communicate to him our loss. I am obliged to Miss Rogers for her remembrance of me; pray present my regards to her in return. Mrs. W., my sister, and Miss Hutchinson join in kind remembrances to you,
‘And believe me, my dear sir, faithfully yours,
‘P.S. You make no mention of the volume of your poems which you promised. I am disappointed at this. What you say of W. Scott 1 reminds me of an epigram something like the following—
|
Tom writes his verses with huge
speed,
Faster than printer’s boy can set ‘en,
Faster far than we can read,
And only not so fast as we forget ‘en.
|
|
1 ‘Did yon ever see much worse songs than those in Rokeby?’ asks Moore of Mr. Power. There was a growing impression that Scott’s poetry was falling off. |
| 126 | ROGERS AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES |
‘Mrs. W., poor woman! who sits by me, says, with a kind of sorrowful smile, “This is spite, for you know that Mr. Scott’s verses are the delight of the times, and that thousands can repeat scores of pages.”’
