And Then There Were Two

Through metaphor in Tintern Abbey, William Wordsworth emphasizes the inevitability of transition from activity to passivity and the distinct but equal significance of both experience and thought. He explores this development within human life and within nature as similar but separate entities. However, the true value of Tintern Abbey rests, not on an independent study, but on an interpersonal relationship. The poem pivots when Wordsworth’s ambiguous audience converges from the ethereal “reader” to his corporeal sister, Dorothy. At this hinge, a lonely, wandering discourse on the losses of youth becomes insight to an intimate moment, as well as a hymn to life.

Before introducing the relationship between him and his sister, Wordsworth recognizes interconnectedness within the span of a single life. He identifies “the aching joys of youth” (85) as necessary “anchor(s)” (110) for the mature “joy of elevated thoughts” (95-96). Wordsworth immortalizes this dependent union through natural parallels. Human life connects “from joy to joy” (126) as nature connects “the landscape with the quiet of the sky” (8). The progression of Wordsworth’s perspective on Tintern Abbey is consistent throughout the poem as a model for his personal development. “These waters, rolling from their mountain springs” (3) embody his tumultuous youth, but he now notices them for “their sweet inland murmur” (4). Similarly, the “little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love” (35-36), overlooked in youth, in recollection provide Wordsworth with “sensations sweet” (27). Wordsworth’s observations have become more keen and thoughtful. The “hedgerows” (15) that he once heedlessly glanced over with “wild eyes” (120) are, in actuality, “hardly hedgerows” (15) but “little lines of sportive wood run wild” (15-16). Young Wordsworth’s goals were grand; hence, details were insignificant. Through closer inspection of the more subtle facets of nature, Wordsworth learns to “see into the life of things” (50); through a personal examination of similar precision, Wordsworth learns to see inside himself. The poet recognizes the modification of his own individual assessment in his simultaneously changing perspective on nature. The “steep and lofty cliffs” (5) that once inspired Wordsworth to further explore the “wild secluded scene” (6) in which he discovered them, now “impress thoughts of more deep seclusion” (7). However, just as nature has provided pleasure through its inherent beauty and has worked as a model to aid Wordsworth’s introspection, his self-awareness also performs a more obscure function than simply granting him a more complete comprehension of himself.

Wordsworth thoroughly identifies and understands his internal changes, as is evident by his profuse proof of the “abundant recompense” (89) of maturity. However, the purpose of this knowledge is indistinct, which allots the poem a venue for deeper meaning. Specifically, it is the unacknowledged undertones of loneliness, felt in “the dreary intercourse of daily life” (132) and recognized in nature, that leave the poem incomplete. Wordsworth has spent the past “five summers with the length of five long winters” (1-2) “in lonely rooms” (26). He feels insignificant and lost “mid the din of towns and cities” (26-27), just as the “plots of cottage-ground…among the woods and copses lose themselves” (11, 13). And if “these orchard tufts…with their green and simple hue” (11, 14) fail to “disturb the wild green landscape” (14-15), Wordsworth has little hope of affecting the wild world in which he lives. He attempts to address this chaotic scene with his peaceable poetry, just as the hermit sends up “wreaths of smoke…in silence from among the trees” (18, 19). However, both are delivered “with some uncertain notice” (20). The hermit and the poet both have messages that are futile unless received. However, there is no indication that they are, for the hermit, “by his fire” (22), and Wordsworth, by his memories, “(sit) alone” (23).

In order to subdue Wordsworth’s fear of not being heard, he searches for a definitive audience. In the last stanza of the poem, Wordsworth hastily turns to his “dearest friend” (116), his sister Dorothy. She, too, serves a dual purpose. Wordsworth more clearly hears “the language of (his) former heart” (117) in her voice. Hence, she confirms Wordsworth’s memories of “what (he) was once” (121). But more than verify his ability to recollect the past, Dorothy can redeem his losses by living on in his legacy, and Wordsworth makes sure that she does so. By imparting his own painstaking “exhortations” (147) on the benefits and deficiencies of age, Wordsworth prepares Dorothy for “when these wild ecstasies shall be matured into a sober pleasure” (139-140) and prevents her from struggling with the “sad perplexity” (61) that accompanied his transition. Though Wordsworth’s “many wanderings” (157), both mental and physical, are valuable “for themselves” (160), his martyrdom gains purpose with audience. Dorothy’s presence provides Wordsworth with the security that, even “if (he) should be where (he) can no more hear (her) voice” (148-149), within his own personal conclusions, “there is life and food for future years” (65-66).

Though Wordsworth’s dependency on Dorothy in Tintern Abbey demonstrates the necessity of human compassion and personal connection, the poem is still also a celebration of the nature of the world and the nature of man. The thematic display of dualities throughout Tintern Abbey leads naturally to the joint objectives of the poem as a whole. For example, within nature, the same color is used in adjacent lines to describe a “green and simple hue” (14) within in its supposedly contrasting “wild green landscape” (15). Furthermore, Wordsworth proves that nature serves the purpose of its own “dizzy raptures” (86) with “no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied” (82-83), yet in memory can be “felt in the blood, and felt along the heart” (29) “with warmer love” (155). Additionally, these very conclusions on the losses of youth and the “gifts (that) have followed” (87-88) both grant Wordsworth the ability to understand himself and help to assure that Dorothy’s mind will similarly “be a mansion for all lovely forms” (141). Just as these suppositions build upon themselves, widening the lens of perspective one step further reveals that the poem also serves two ends. Wordsworth sets out to display a personal story about growing older. The example of his life acts as the proof of his consequential theory on youth and maturity. However, even though Wordsworth has incarnated his concept and achieved its ultimate goal, to “become a living soul” (47), his life only becomes valuable when acknowledged by his sister. So, through the revelation of his insecurities, Wordsworth inadvertently proves that life’s essential mission is to live on after death—to have a “dwelling-place” (142) in memory.

The two morals of Tintern Abbey seem very separate. One deals with man as an isolated being, the other with man as a part of network of relationships. However, the two are not only connected but dependent on each other. Tintern Abbey is a work in progress. Wordsworth’s sometimes disjointed dissertation is actually an insight into his internal dialogue. We eavesdrop on Wordsworth as he “repose(s)…under this dark sycamore” (10) and speaks to his former self, the “sylvan Wye” (57), in order to understand his present conscience. Not until the final stanza does Wordsworth unearth a function for his findings. However, the function is not as straight-forward and proven as his philosophy on life in nature; its assignment is manufactured from theory, and its achievement rests on faith. Yet, the reliability of this faith is not completely unpredictable. Once again, nature’s model provides answers. But rather than an explanation, nature makes a prediction of the behavior of man. Nature, in both its vitality and serenity, is connected by “a sense sublime of something fare more deeply interfused” (96-97). It resides in “the light of the setting suns, and the round ocean, and in the living air, and the blue sky” (98-100), and all things inexplicably magical in nature, including “the mind of man” (100). However, “the mind that is within us” (127) is challenged by “evil tongues” (128), “rash judgements” (129), and “the sneers of selfish men” (129). Wordsworth believes that nature will prove not to “betray the heart that loved her” (123-124), and that Dorothy, at least, will be able to overcome “the still, sad music of humanity” (92) and carry on his message. Though Wordsworth specifically addresses Dorothy for fear that she is his only audience, we, as readers, can identify with her. Therefore, at the end of Tintern Abbey, we are left with our own decision: to realize Wordsworth’s insecure suspicions by disregarding his message or to “remember (Wordsworth) and these (his) exhortations” (146-147) and, by benefiting from our own new-found self-awareness, to make “these steep woods, these lofty cliffs and this green pastoral landscape…more dear, both for themselves, and for (our) sake” (160).