she could make him see, and be moved by, what she had seen is
proved by this: "17th.-- ... I saw a robin chasing a scarlet butterfly
this morning"; and "Sunday, 18th.-- ... William wrote the poem on _The
Robin and the Butterfly_." No, beautiful beyond praise as the journals
are, it is certain that she was more beautiful than they. And what a
discerning, illuminative eye she had! "As I lay down on the grass, I
observed the glittering silver line on the ridge of the backs of the
sheep, owing to their situation respecting the sun, which made them
look beautiful, but with something of strangeness, like animals of
another kind, as if belonging to a more splendid world...." What a
woman to go a-gipsying through the world with!

Then comes the end.... "Thursday, 8th July.-- In the afternoon, after
we had talked a little, William fell asleep. I read _The Winter's
Tale_; then I went to bed but did not sleep. The swallows stole in and
out of their nest, and sat there, _whiles_ quite still; _whiles_ they
sung low for two minutes or more at a time, just like a muffled robin.
William was looking at _The Pedlar_ when I got up. He arranged it,
and after tea I wrote it out--280 lines.... The moon was behind....
We walked first to the top of the hill to see Rydale. It was dark and
dull, but our own vale was very solemn--the shape of Helm Crag was
quite distinct though black. We walked backwards and forwards on the
White Moss path; there was a sky like white brightness on the lake....
O beautiful place! Dear Mary, William. The hour is come.... I must
prepare to go. The swallows, I must leave them, the wall, the garden,
the roses, all. Dear creatures, they sang last night after I was in
bed; seemed to be singing to one another, just before they settled to
rest for the night. Well, I must go. Farewell."

Next day she set out with William to meet her secret dread, knowing
that life in Rydale could never be the same again. Wordsworth married
Mary Hutchinson on the 4th October, 1802. The secret is no secret now,
for Dorothy was a crystal vase.

_NOCTES AMBROSIANAE_

Weather has sent me indoors, chance to an old book. I have been
reading _Noctes Ambrosianae_ again. Bad buffoonery as much of it is and
full to the throttle of the warm-watery optimism induced by whisky,
yet as fighting literature it is incalculably better than its modern
substitute in _Blackwood_. The sniper who monthly tries to pinch out
his adversaries there--Mrs. Par