We, who are alive, hardly know when we are happy. We are always looking ahead, thinking, or at least hoping, that "the best is yet to be." When we ponder and judge the lives of dead men, we say to ourselves, taking credit for the acuteness of our intellectual perception, "That was the climax of their happiness; in those years they lived to the full." There are no three persons, at least in the history of literature, about whom it is easier thus to express ourselves, than about Coleridge, Wordsworth, and his sister Dorothy. Even in their own lifetimes they knew that from 1797 to 1802 they shared a lustrum of sympathy and love and achievement which were proof against worldly accidents and tribulations. In that golden period these three persons were an undivided and indivisible trinity. When the triune spell was broken each of them failed —Coleridge fell into a self-deceiving idleness, morbid imaginings of jealousy and mistrust, an opiate confusion of mind and heart; Wordsworth, arming himself with the shield of a rather self-righteous duty, moved boldly but remorsefully away from "the vision splendid"; Dorothy, overburdened with household cares and perplexed with spiritual disappointments and dismay, surrendered to a senseless melancholy.

The bond between these three persons was spiritual —"three persons and one soul," Coleridge rightly called them. The bond was not, so far as all were concerned, intellectual: Miss Wordsworth was never that. She was sensitive, percipient, but in no sense a "bluestocking." Coleridge and Wordsworth were intellectual, Coleridge formidably so. Together they discussed and philosophized: when Dorothy was with them, they saw and felt. What she gave to her brother she gave to Coleridge also: —

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.

When they disputed about Ben Jonson, as they did one evening in March, 1802, she was agitated and upset. It was she, more than her brother, who mistrusted "the meddling intellect." She read and appreciated literature, of course, but she had undergone no basic intellectual training. Her diaries and her letters are fresh, spontaneous, and natural, not at all elaborate, self-conscious, or stylized, not even carefully and deliberately composed. In matters of the mind she was untamed, undisciplined, choosing her own pasture, yielding herself, as she pleased, to chance impressions and random visitations of mental activity.

Nor, in my opinion, did physical attraction, as it is usually understood, play any part in the strong communion of these three. A true spiritual union is so rare that men have come to dispute its possible reality, and there have consequently been many attempts to explain away this exceptional trinity in terms of sex. Dorothy was in love with Coleridge, it is said; and though no one has yet dared to accuse Wordsworth of incest, it has been put forward in print as an explanation, requiring denial. Such stuff is shallow and vulgar.

So far as I can judge, Dorothy was not "in love," in the ordinary sense of the term, with anyone. She loved Wordsworth and Coleridge, it is true, loved them equally perhaps at one time, and certainly in the same way. She knew, by instinct and by a divine gift of sympathy, what they were striving for and she understood that, without her delicate perception, her sensitive and tender approach, they were too much given to "disputing," to argument and theory. She saw for herself the moods in which they were happiest and most creative and she knew that it was her presence which induced these moods. They told her so. How could she not love them? How could she not be happy? What other woman ever had two men of profoundly original genius so dependent upon her spiritual comfort? There was nothing physical about it. She was surely too busy, too preoccupied, too enchanted, to give much thought to that side of her life. She was creating poets and beyond that she had no desire.

And yet, just as in ourselves we cannot isolate in sealed compartments the intellectual, the spiritual, and the physical, cannot deny their continuous interaction, so it must have been with Dorothy. She cannot have particularly relished the relationships her brother and Coleridge formed with other women. She understood, she did not complain, she went on with her sympathetic service. She did not seek relief for herself by marrying, though according to De Quincey she had several offers, one, he says, from Hazlitt. That could never have succeeded —the delicate, sensitive Dorothy with that awkward, disagreeable fellow who had a permanent chip on his shoulder.

When Wordsworth and Dorothy first started their daily companionship at Racedown in 1795, the Annette episode had already taken place. The bitterness, the disappointment, the remorse, which Wordsworth suffered as a result of his illicit love affair and the enforced neglect of his paternal duty were gradually assuaged by the tender offices of his sister. She did not reproach him, she understood. She understood, I think, that her brother's animal sensations were strong and could not be ignored. She understood also that his imagination was exceptionally powerful and virile. Her task was to nurse, to cultivate, to soften that powerful imagination. He would need also satisfaction for his physical desires: that she foresaw and planned to provide.

The Annette episode must first be closed —not ignored or repudiated but brought to a gentle and affectionate ending. Annette, she rightly felt, was not likely either to get or give happiness by marrying her brother. So much must have been clear from what he told her and from those garrulous and rather illiterate letters. And so she took upon herself most of the burden of that strange romance, wrote affectionate letters full of tender inquiries for the child, went with her brother on that curious visit to Calais in 1802, when they passed a whole month with Annette and the child. How that month was spent, how its daily difficulties were overcome, we do not know; but there was no bitterness any more and the two families, suddenly and dramatically linked in a moment of revolutionary ardor, remained friendly and affectionate. That was Dorothy's gentle work. She rescued her brother from an entanglement, not an embrace.

She rescued him, not for herself, but for Mary Hutchinson, whom he married immediately after this Calais visit. Now he would be complete; he would have the delights of married life, the joy of children, without losing the spiritual understanding which she alone could give him. It is in some ways an affront to set these things down on paper. They were not precisely reasoned and coldly calculated. She felt them to be right: she moved towards them in her wild affectionate way, carrying her brother with her. It is idle and unprofitable to speculate what course he would have pursued without her: he might after all, with his high standards of morality, have married Annette. He might, on the other hand, in his tough matter-of-fact way, have driven the whole incident out of his mind. What is certain is that it is utterly ridiculous to picture Wordsworth as heartlessly scheming to abandon Annette, confer marriage with an air of patronage upon Mary, and enslave his sister to his selfishness. Dorothy understood these things better than he did and, even if she brought them to an issue which suited him, it suited all the actors in this drama too, and it suited the world, which might otherwise have lost the fruits of his great spirit.