Veevers - Jane and Dorothy

I should like to thank the Society of Authors and the Authors Foundation for their kind grant which made research for this book possible.

My thanks are due to everyone at Jane Austens House Museum at Chawton who made my visit there so enjoyable and interesting, and particularly to Annalie Talent for tea and answers to my questions. Thanks also to the staff at Winchester Record Office.

I am very grateful to all my friends and colleagues at the Wordsworth Trust, particularly Jeff Cowton, Rebecca Turner, Anna Szilagyi, Barbara Crossley and Dean Hines for their advice and assistance, but also everyone else who has patiently listened to me and discussed ideas as Jane and Dorothy took shape. However, I should like to mention that any mistakes are entirely my own, and the opinions and theories expressed in the following pages are also my own and do not necessarily reflect the views of the Wordsworth Trust.

Thanks too to my agent Laura Longrigg at MBA, also to Moira Forsyth, Bob Davidson and everyone at Sandstone Press for their patience and support.

And finally, many thanks to my husband, Peter, for his endless reading, rereading, discussing and checking of the manuscript, and for resolving all my technical crises.

Marian Veevers, Grasmere

These are the stanzas from The Minstrel which reminded Dorothy of William.

And oft he traced the uplands, to survey,

When oer the sky advanced the kindling dawn,

The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey,

And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn;

Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn,

Where twilight loves to linger for a while;

And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,

And villager abroad at early toil.

But, lo! the sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile.

And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb,

When all in mist the world below was lost.

'What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,

Like shipwrecked mariner on desert coast,

And view the enormous waste of vapour, tost

In billows, lengthening to the horizon round,

Now scooped in gulfs, with mountains now embossed!

And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound,

Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound!

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,

Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene.

In darkness, and in storm, he found delight:

Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene

The southern sun diffused his dazzling shene.

Even sad vicissitude amused his soul:

And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,

And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,

A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to controul.

(James Beattie the Minstrel Bk 1 xx to xxii)

The Forest

XI. EPODE.

Not to know vice at all, and keep true state,

Is virtue and not fate :

Next to that virtue, is to know vice well,

And her black spite expel,

Which to effect (since no breast is so sure,

Or safe, but shell procure

Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard

Of thoughts to watch, and ward

At the eye and ear, the ports unto the mind,

That no strange, or unkind

Object arrive there, but the heart, our spy,

Give knowledge instantly,

To wakeful reason, our affections king :

Who, in th examining,

Will quickly taste the treason, and commit

Close, the close cause of it.

Tis the securest policy we have,

To make our sense our slave.

But this true course is not embraced by many : 10

By many ! scarce by any.

For either our affections do rebel,

Or else the sentinel,

That should ring larum to the heart, doth sleep;

Or some great thought doth keep

Back the intelligence, and falsely swears,

They are base, and idle fears Whereof the loyal conscience so complains,

Thus, by these subtile trains,

Do several passions invade the mind,

And strike our reason blind,

Of which usurping rank, some have thought love

The first ; as prone to move Most frequent tumults, horrors, and unrests,

In our enflamed breasts :

But this doth from the cloud of error grow,

Which thus we over-blow.

The thing they here call Love, is blind desire,

Armd with bow, shafts, and fire ;

Inconstant, like the sea, of whence tis born,

Rough, swelling, like a storm :

With whom who sails, rides on the surge of fear,

And boils, as if he were

In a continual tempest. Now, true love

No such effects doth prove ;

That is an essence far more gentle, fine,

Pure, perfect, nay divine ;

It is a golden chain let down from heaven,

Whose links are bright and even,

That falls like sleep on lovers, and combines

The soft, and sweetest minds

In equal knots : this bears no brands, nor darts,

To murder different hearts,

But in a calm, and god-like unity,

Preserves community.

O, who is he, that, in this peace, enjoys

The elixir of all joys ?

A form more fresh than are the Eden bowers,

And lasting as her flowers :

Richer than Time, and as times virtue rare

Sober, as saddest care ;

A fixed thought, an eye untaught to glance :

Who, blest with such high chance

Would, at suggestion of a steep desire,

Cast himself from the spire

Of all his happiness ? But soft : I hear

Some vicious fool draw near,

That cries, we dream, and swears theres no such thing,

As this chaste love we sing.

Peace, Luxury, thou art like one of those 60

Who, being at sea, suppose,

Because they move, the continent doth so.

No, Vice, we let thee know,

Though thy wild thoughts with sparrows wings do flie,

Turtles can chastly die ;

And yet (in this t express ourselves more clear)

We do not number here

Such spirits as are only continent,

Because lusts means are spent :

Or those, who doubt the common mouth of fame, 70

And for their place and name,

Cannot so safely sin : their chastity

Is mere necessity.

Nor mean we those, whom vows and conscience

Have filld with abstinence :

Though we acknowledge, who can so abstain,

Makes a most blessed gain.

He that for love of goodness hateth ill,

Is more crown-worthy still,

Than he, which for sins penalty forbears ; 80

His heart sins, though he fears.

But we propose a person like our Dove,

Graced with a Phoenix love ;

A beauty of that clear and sparkling light,

Would make a day of night,

And turn the blackest sorrows to bright joys ;

Whose odorous breath destroys

All taste of bitterness, and makes the air

As sweet as she is fair.

A body so harmoniously composed, 90

As if nature disclosed

All her best symmetry in that one feature !

O, so divine a creature,

Who could be false to? chiefly, when he knows

How only she bestows

The wealthy treasure of her love on him ;

Making his fortune swim

In the full flood of her admired perfection ?

What savage, brute affection,

Would not be fearful to offend a dame 100

Of this excelling frame ?

Much more a noble, and right generous mind,

To virtuous moods inclined

That knows the weight of guilt ; he will refrain

From thoughts of such a strain,

And to his sense object this sentence ever,

Man may securely sin, but safely never.

Among all Lovely Things my Love had been

Among all lovely things my Love had been;

Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew