casualacquaintance scarcely gave her credit for. Sterling much

respected her decision in matters literary; often altering and
modifying where her feeling clearly went against him; and in verses

especially trusting to her ear, which was excellent, while he knew his
own to be worth little. I remember her melodious rich plaintive tone

of voice; and an exceedingly bright smile which she sometimes had,
effulgent with sunny gayety and true humor, among other fine

qualities.
Sterling has lost much in these two hours; how much that has long been

can never again be for him! Twice in one morning, so to speak, has a
mighty wind smitten the corners of his house; and much lies in dismal

ruins round him.
CHAPTER VI.

VENTNOR: DEATH.
In this sudden avalanche of sorrows Sterling, weak and worn as we have

seen, bore up manfully, and with pious valor fronted what had come
upon him. He was not a man to yield to vain wailings, or make

repinings at the unalterable: here was enough to be long mourned
over; but here, for the moment, was very much imperatively requiring

to be done. That evening, he called his children round him; spoke
words of religious admonition and affection to them; said, "He must

now be a Mother as well as Father to them." On the evening of the
funeral, writes Mr. Hare, he bade them good-night, adding these words,

"If I am taken from you, God will take care of you." He had six
children left to his charge, two of them infants; and a dark outlook

ahead of them and him. The good Mrs. Maurice, the children's young
Aunt, present at this time and often afterwards till all ended, was a

great consolation.
Falmouth, it may be supposed, had grown a sorrowful place to him,

peopled with haggard memories in his weak state; and now again, as had
been usual with him, change of place suggested itself as a desirable

alleviation;--and indeed, in some sort, as a necessity. He has
"friends here," he admits to himself, "whose kindness is beyond all

price, all description;" but his little children, if anything befell
him, have no relative within two hundred miles. He is now sole

watcher over them; and his very life is so precarious; nay, at any
rate, it would appear, he has to leave Falmouth every spring, or run

the hazard of worse. Once more, what is to be done? Once more,--and
now, as it turned out, for the last time.

A still gentler climate, greater proximity to London, where his
Brother Anthony now was and most of his friends and interests were:

these considerations recommended Ventnor, in the beautiful
Southeastern corner of the Isle of Wight; where on inquiry an eligible

house was found for sale. The house and its surrounding piece of
ground, improvable both, were purchased; he removed hither" target="_blank" title="ad.到那里 a.那边的">thither in June of

this year 1843; and set about improvements and adjustments on a frank
scale. By the decease of his Mother, he had become rich in money; his

share of the West-India properties having now fallen to him, which,
added to his former incomings, made a revenue he could consider ample

and abundant. Falmouth friends looked lovingly towards him, promising
occasional visits; old Herstmonceux, which he often spoke of

revisiting but never did, was not far off; and London, with all its
resources and remembrances, was now again accessible. He resumed his

work; and had hopes of again achieving something.
The Poem of _Coeur-de-Lion_ has been already mentioned, and the wider

form and aim it had got since he first took it in hand. It was above
a year before the date of these tragedies and changes, that he had

sent me a Canto, or couple of Cantos, of _Coeur-de-Lion_; loyally
again demanding my opinion, harsh as it had often been on that side.

This time I felt right glad to answer in another tone: "That here was
real felicity and ingenuity, on the prescribed conditions; a

decisively rhythmic quality in this composition; thought and
phraseology actually _dancing_, after a sort. What the plan and scope

of the Work might be, he had not said, and I could not judge; but here
was a light opulence of airy fancy, picturesqueconception, vigorous

delineation, all marching on as with cheerful drum and fife, if
without more rich and complicated forms of melody: if a man _would_

write in metre, this sure enough was the way to try doing it." For
such encouragement from that stinted quarter, Sterling, I doubt not,

was very thankful; and of course it might co-operate with the
inspirations from his Naples Tour to further him a little in this his

now chief task in the way of Poetry; a thought which, among my many
almost pathetic remembrances of contradictions to his Poetic tendency,

is pleasant for me.
But, on the whole, it was no matter. With or without encouragement,

he was resolute to persevere in Poetry, and did persevere. When I
think now of his modest, quiet steadfastness in this business of

Poetry; how, in spite of friend and foe, he silently persisted,
without wavering, in the form of utterance he had chosen for himself;

and to what length he carried it, and vindicated himself against us
all;--his character comes out in a new light to me, with more of a

certain central inflexibility and noble silent resolution than I had
elsewhere noticed in it. This summer, moved by natural feelings,

which were sanctioned, too, and in a sort sanctified to him, by the
remembered counsel of his late Wife, he printed the _Tragedy of

Strafford_. But there was in the public no contradiction to the hard
vote I had given about it: the little Book fell dead-born; and

Sterling had again to take his disappointment;--which it must be owned
he cheerfully did; and, resolute to try it again and ever again, went

along with his _Coeur-de-Lion_, as if the public had been all with
him. An honorable capacity to stand single against the whole world;

such as all men need, from time to time! After all, who knows
whether, in his overclouded, broken, flighty way of life, incapable of

long hard drudgery, and so shut out from the solid forms of Prose,
this Poetic Form, which he could well learn as he could all forms, was

not the suitablest for him?
This work of _Coeur-de-Lion_ he prosecuted steadfastly in his new

home; and indeed employed on it henceforth all the available days that
were left him in this world. As was already said, he did not live to

complete it; but some eight Cantos, three or four of which I know to
possess high worth, were finished, before Death intervened, and there

he had to leave it. Perhaps it will yet be given to the public; and
in that case be better received than the others were, by men of

judgment; and serve to put Sterling's Poetic pretensions on a much
truer footing. I can say, that to readers who do prefer a poetic

diet, this ought to be welcome: if you can contrive to love the thing
which is still called "poetry" in these days, here is a decidedly

superior article in that kind,--richer than one of a hundred that you
smilingly consume.

In this same month of June, 1843, while the house at Ventnor was
getting ready, Sterling was again in London for a few days. Of course

at Knightsbridge, now fallen under such sad change, many private
matters needed to be settled by his Father and Brother and him.

Captain Anthony, now minded to remove with his family to London and
quit the military way of life, had agreed to purchase the big family

house, which he still occupies; the old man, now rid of that
encumbrance, retired to a smaller establishment of his own; came

ultimately to be Anthony's guest, and spent his last days so. He was
much lamed and broken, the half of his old life suddenly torn

away;--and other losses, which he yet knew not of, lay close ahead of
him. In a year or two, the rugged old man, borne down by these

pressures, quite gave way; sank into paralytic and other infirmities;
and was released from life's sorrows, under his son Anthony's roof, in

the fall of 1847.--The house in Knightsbridge was, at the time we now
speak of, empty except of servants; Anthony having returned to Dublin,

I suppose to conclude his affairs there, prior to removal. John
lodged in a Hotel.

We had our fair share of his company in this visit, as in all the past
ones; but the intercourse, I recollect, was dim and broken, a

disastrous shadow hanging over it, not to be cleared away by effort.
Two American gentlemen, acquaintances also of mine, had been

recommended to him, by Emerson most likely: one morning Sterling
appeared here with a strenuous proposal that we should come to

Knightsbridge, and dine with him and them. Objections, general
dissuasions were not wanting: The empty dark house, such needless

trouble, and the like;--but he answered in his quizzing way, "Nature
herself prompts you, when a stranger comes, to give him a dinner.