A GOOD WORD FOR WINTER. 29 



winter-evening seclusion, by the twanging horn of the post 

 man on the bridge ! That horn has rung in my ears ever 

 since I first heard it, during the consulate of the second 

 Adams. Wordsworth strikes a deeper note ; but does it not 

 sometimes come over one (just the least in the world) that 

 one would give anything for a bit of nature pure and simple, 

 without quite so strong a flavour of W. W. ? W. W. is, of 

 course, sublime and all that but ! For my part, I will make 

 a clean breast of it, and confess that I can t look at a moun 

 tain without fancying the late laureate s gigantic Roman nose 

 thrust between me and it, and thinking of Dean Swift s pro 

 fane version of Romanes rerum dominos into Roman nose! 

 a rareun! dom your nose! But do I judge verses, then, by 

 the impression made on me by the man who wrote them ? 

 Not so fast, my good friend, but, for good or evil, the cha 

 racter and its intellectual product are inextricably interfused. 

 If I remember aright, Wordsworth himself (except in his 

 magnificent skating-scene in the * Prelude ) has not much to 

 say for winter out of doors. I cannot recall any picture by 

 him of a snow-storm. The reason may possibly be that in 

 the Lake Country even the winter storms bring rain rather 

 than snow. He was thankful for the Christmas visits of 

 Crabb Robinson, because they helped him through the 

 winter. His only hearty praise of winter is when, as General 

 Fevrier, he defeats the French : 



Humanity, delighting to behold 

 A fond reflection of her own decay, 

 Hath painted Winter like a traveller old, 

 Propped on a staff, and, through the sullen day, 

 In hooded mantle, limping o er the plain 

 As though his weakness were disturbed by pain : 

 Or, if a juster fancy should allow 

 An undisputed symbol of command, 

 The chosen sceptre is a withered bough 

 Infirmly grasped within a withered hand. 

 These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn ; 

 But mighty Winter the device shall scorn. 



The Scottish poet Grahame, in his Sabbath/ says man 

 fully : 



Now is the time 

 To visit Nature in her grand attire ; 



and he has one little picture which no other poet has sur 

 passed : 



High-ridged the whirled drift has almost reached 

 The powdered keystone of the churchyard porch : 

 Mute hangs the hooded bell ; the tombs lie buried. 



