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 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, picturesque conception, 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. there are servants yonder; it is all easy; come; both of you are bound to come." and accordingly we went. i remember it as one of the saddest dinners; though sterling talked copiously, and our friends, theodore parker one of them, were pleasant and distinguished men. all was so haggard in one's memory, and half consciously in one's anticipations; sad, as if one had been dining in a will, in the crypt of a mausoleum. our conversation was waste and logical, i forget quite on what, not joyful and harmoniously effusive: sterling's silent sadness was painfully apparent through the bright mask he had bound himself to wear. withal one could notice now, as on his last visit, a certain sternness of mood, unknown in better days; as if strange gorgon-faces of earnest destiny were more and more rising round him, and the time for sport were past. he looked always hurried, abrupt, even beyond wont; and indeed was, i suppose, overwhelmed in details of business.
one evening, i remember, he came down hither, designing to have a freer talk with us. we were all sad enough; and strove rather to avoid speaking of what might make us sadder. before any true talk had been got into, an interruption occurred, some unwelcome arrival; sterling abruptly rose; gave me the signal to rise; and we unpolitely walked away, adjourning to his hotel, which i recollect was in the strand, near hungerford market; some ancient comfortable quaint-looking place, off the street; where, in a good warm queer old room, the remainder of our colloquy was duly finished. we spoke of cromwell, among other things which i have now forgotten; on which subject sterling was trenchant, positive, and in some essential points wrong,—as i said i would convince him some day. "well, well!" answered he, with a shake of the head.—we parted before long; bedtime for invalids being come: he escorted me down certain carpeted backstairs, and would not be forbidden: we took leave under the dim skies;—and alas, little as i then dreamt of it, this, so far as i can calculate, must have been the last time i ever saw him in the world. softly as a common evening, the last of the evenings had passed away, and no other would come for me forevermore.
