CHAPTER XV. "An uncomplaining apathy displaced WORDSWORTH. My former state of gloom. came on again with a deeper hue of blackness, soon after the decease of my angel-wife. For a time, indeed, I seemed wonderfully supported. I bore the funeral, and the condolences of our friends, with something like fortitude. I found some consolation too from the remembrance of my Agnes' happy death: I felt thankful that she had none of those appalling struggles, those wrenchings of the flesh and spirit, that sometimes take place in the hours of dissolution. Her soul," meet for the inheritance of the saints in light," had been summoned thither in as gentle a manner, and after as little amount of suffering, as it was possible to expect; few of the children of Adam put off their outward tabernacle so easily. And then her blessed state of mind occurred, with a soothing power, to my first thoughts about her. The bridegroom came at an hour when she expected Him not, and at a time when she was not aware; but she was found with her lamp trimmed, and her light burning; and the voice of her Lord sounded sweetly in her ear: though her earthly delights were of no common kind-of no debasing character, yet she left them all without a murmur, and went forth rejoicingly to meet Him! Oh! who that had seen her die, had not said, "let me die the death of the righteous.” All this I recalled to mind, and for a time it comforted me; but, it may have been partly from the deranged state of my health, as well as the overpowering nature of my calamity, I soon was again environed with the deepest gloom and prostration of spirit. The world, and this state of being altogether, appeared to me one vast cold desert, where there was no comfort and no hope. I found it again difficult to pray. I tried to draw near to God, even the "God of all consolation"—but the "heavens seemed iron" to my prayer. I fancied it rebounded back on me again. My serious friends came with counsel and advice. I turned from them in silent hopelessness, and said within myself "Lover and friend hast thou put away from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness." Agnes had made a will, I found, sometime previous to her illness, in which she had, with the exception of a legacy to her brother, left me the whole of the property that was in her power, without the slightest restriction or restraint. She had remarked in it, she wished I would continue to pay all her pensioners the weekly or quarterly sums she had allowed them, and that she knew I should have pleasure in so doing. Thus had she given me another proof of her devoted love! I felt unable to continue my accustomed exhortations and public services. I wrote to Mr. Wesley to this effect. The answer I received to the letter was somewhat less kind and sympathetic than I had expected. He knew not, as I did, the extent of my loss. He concluded-and as I now think, perhaps, with justice-that my spiritual life had declined; that I had in some way or other neglected its duties, or forsaken its spirit; or, he asked, how should I have been given up to such unchristian grief and depression? He exhorted me finally, to continue my accustomed labours, that in so doing I should at length find peace and resignation. I put by that letter-and it was the first of his, that I felt any thing but pleasure from-with something of displacency: "he does not understand my case," thought I; "he cannot enter into its peculiarities. I begin to think, however excellent Mr. Wesley may be as an awakener of men's consciences, as an instructor in religion, he is not the sort of man, one would choose as a sympathizing friend; perhaps the very exaltation of his character and office, in a degree unfits him for it." Thus I reasoned, but very erroneously. I have discovered since, there was a well of tenderness in his heart, that was deep, if not always apparent; he sometimes thought it necessary to adopt the stern tones of a reprover, where he believed severity would be a kindness: but he delighted not in it; it did not seem, as in the case of John Knox, a part and parcel of his nature. However, the effect of this letter on my mind. was a slight degree of estrangement: I did not reply to it. My time hung heavy on my hands. I could do nothing but walk restlessly about. How I envied those persons who could shut themselves up in their houses, and there stay till the withering grief was past. It seemed impossible to me to remain quietly in one place; move I must, or my brain would whirl with the pressure of thought. I would set off from home, and wander miles round the country, without aim or object, except the vain one of getting away from myself. My dear mother tried all her powers of soothing. I felt grateful, and tried to cheer up a little in her presence. She pressed upon my consideration the blessed state of my sainted wife, and the possibility of receiving comfort from communing with her spirit. Thus she, who so well understood me, appealed to my imagination, in order if possible to rouse it into consolatory exercise. If I had had the control of my mind at that period, I have no doubt she would not have thus urged these ideas in vain-but I had not. I believe, indeed, self-command was for a season out of my power. I was like a |