MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY
1837
During my whole life I had felt a strong desire to visit Rome
and the other celebrated cities and regions of Italy, but did not
think myself justified in incurring the necessary expense till I
received from Mr. Moxon, the publisher of a large edition of my
poems, a sum sufficient to enable me to gratify my wish without
encroaching upon what I considered due to my family. My excellent
friend H. C. Robinson readily consented to accompany me, and in
March 1837, we set off from London, to which we returned in
August, earlier than my companion wished or I should myself have
desired had I been, like him, a bachelor. These Memorials of that
tour touch upon but a very few of the places and objects that
interested me, and, in what they do advert to, are for the most
part much slighter than I could wish. More particularly do I
regret that there is no notice in them of the South of France, nor
of the Roman antiquities abounding in that district, especially of
the Pont de Degard, which, together with its situation, impressed
me full as much as any remains of Roman architecture to be found
in Italy. Then there was Vaucluse, with its Fountain, its
Petrarch, its rocks of all seasons, its small plots of lawn in
their first vernal freshness, and the blossoms of the peach and
other trees embellishing the scene on every side. The beauty of
the stream also called forcibly for the expression of sympathy
from one who from his childhood had studied the brooks and
torrents of his native mountains. Between two and three hours did
I run about climbing the steep and rugged crags from whose base
the water of Vaucluse breaks forth. "Has Laura's Lover," often
said I to myself, "ever sat down upon this stone? or has his foot
ever pressed that turf?" Some, especially of the female sex, would
have felt sure of it: my answer was (impute it to my years), "I
fear not." Is it not in fact obvious that many of his love verses
must have flowed I do not say from a wish to display his own
talent, but from a habit of exercising his intellect in that way
rather than from an impulse of his heart? It is otherwise with his
Lyrical poems, and particularly with the one upon the degradation
of his country: there he pours out his reproaches, lamentations,
and aspirations like an ardent and sincere patriot. But enough: it
is time to turn to my own effusions, such as they are.
_____________
TO
HENRY CRABB ROBINSON
COMPANION! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered,
In whose experience trusting, day by day
Treasures I gained with zeal that neither feared
The toils nor felt the crosses of the way,
These records take, and happy should I be
Were but the Gift a meet Return to thee
For kindnesses that never ceased to flow,
And prompt self-sacrifice to which I owe
Far more than any heart but mine can know.
W. WORDSWORTH.
RYDAL MOUNT, Feb. 14th, 1842.
