The Poem
[Sir
George Beaumont painted two pictures of this subject, one of which he gave
to Mrs. Wordsworth, saying she ought to have it; but Lady Beaumont
interfered, and after Sir George's death she gave it to Sir Uvedale Price,
at whose house at Foxley I have seen it.—I. F.]
Placed by Wordsworth among his "Epitaphs and
Elegiac Pieces."—Ed.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
|
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: I saw thee every day; and all the while Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! So like, so very like, was day to day! Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there; It trembled, but it never passed away. How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep; No mood, which season takes away, or brings: I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. Ah! Then, if mine had been the Painter's hand, To express what then I saw; and add the gleam, The light that never was, on sea or land, The consecration, and the Poet's dream; I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile Amid a world how different from this! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven;— Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine The very sweetest had to thee been given. A Picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, Such Picture would I at that time have made: And seen the soul of truth in every part, A stedfast peace that might not be betrayed. So once it would have been,—'tis so no more; I have submitted to a new control: A power is gone, which nothing can restore; A deep distress hath humanised my Soul. Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea, and be what I have been: The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend, If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but commend; This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. O 'tis a passionate Work!—yet wise and well, Well chosen is the spirit that is here; That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, love to see the look with which it braves, Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time, The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! Such happiness, wherever it be known, Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be borne! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.— Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. Note Contents 1805 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 |
| 1807 | |
|
1820 |
|
1827 |
The edition of 1832 returns to the text of 1807.a
return
Variant 2:
| 1845 | |
|
1807 |
The whole of this stanza was omitted in the editions of 1820-1843.
return
Variant 3:
| 1815 | |
|
1807 |
| 1837 | |
|
1807 |
Footnote A:
The original title, in MS, was Verses
suggested, etc,—Ed.
return to
footnote mark
Footnote B: Miss Arnold wrote to
me, in December 1893:
"I have never doubted that the Peele Castle of Wordsworth is the Piel off Walney Island. I know that my brother Matthew so believed, and I went with him some years ago from Furness Abbey over to Piel, visiting it as the subject of the picture and the poem."
Ed.
return
Sub-Footnote a:
Many years ago Principal Shairp wrote
to me,
"Have you noted how the two lines, 'The light that never was,' etc., stood in the edition of 1827? I know no other such instance of a change from commonplace to perfection of ideality."
The Principal had not remembered at the time
that the "perfection of ideality" was in the original edition of 1807. The
curious thing is that the prosaic version of 1820 and 1827 ever took its
place. Wordsworth's return to his original reading was one of the wisest
changes he introduced into the text of 1832.—Ed.
return to footnote mark
Note: There is a Peele Castle, on a small rocky island,
close to the town of Peele, in the Isle of Man; yet separated from it,
much as St. Michael's Mount in Cornwall is separated from the mainland.
This castle was believed by many to be the one which Sir George painted,
and which gave rise to the foregoing lines. I visited it in 1879, being
then ignorant that any other Peele Castle existed; and although, the day
being calm, and the season summer, I thought Sir George had idealized his
subject much—(as I had just left Coleorton, where the picture still
exists)—I accepted the customary opinion. But
I am now convinced, both from the testimony of the Arnold familyB, and as the result of a visit to Piel Castle,
near Barrow in Furness, that Wordsworth refers to it. The late Bishop of
Lincoln, in his uncle's Memoirs (vol. i. p. 299), quotes the line
"I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged pile,"
and adds,
"He had spent four weeks there of a college summer vacation at the house of his cousin, Mr. Barker."
This house was at Rampside, the village
opposite Piel, on the coast of Lancashire. The "rugged pile," too, now
"cased in the unfeeling armour of old time," painted by Beaumont, is
obviously this Piel Castle near Barrow. I took the engraving of his
picture with me, when visiting it: and although Sir George—after the
manner of landscape artists of his day—took many liberties with his
subjects, it is apparent that it was this, and not Peele Castle in Mona,
that he painted. The "four summer weeks" referred to in the first stanza,
were those spent at Piel during the year 1794.
With the last
verse of these Elegiac Stanzas compare stanzas ten and eleven of
the Ode, Intimations of Immortality, vol. viii.
One of
the two pictures of "Peele Castle in a Storm"—engraved by S. W.
Reynolds, and published in the editions of Wordsworth's poems of 1815 and
1820—is still in the Beaumont Gallery at Coleorton Hall.
The poem is so memorable that I have arranged to make this picture of
"Peele Castle in a Storm," the vignette to vol. xv. of this edition. It
deserves to be noted that it was to the pleading of Barron Field that we
owe the restoration of the original line of 1807,
'The light that never was, on sea or land.'
An interesting account of Piel Castle will
be found in Hearne and Byrne's Antiquities. It was built by the
Abbot of Furness in the first year of the reign of Edward III.—Ed.
The Poem
Composed near the Mountain
track, that leads from Grasmere through Grisdale Hawes, where it descends
towards Patterdale.
["Here did we stop; and here looked round, While each into himself descends."
The point is two or three yards below the
outlet of Grisedale Tarn, on a foot-road by which a horse may pass to
Patterdale— a ridge of Helvellyn on the left, and the summit of
Fairfield on the right.—I. F.]
This poem was included among the "Epitaphs and
Elegiac Pieces."—Ed.
| stanza | text | variant | footnote | line number |
| I |
The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo! That instant, startled by the shock, The Buzzard mounted from the rock Deliberate and slow: Lord of the air, he took his flight; Oh! could he on that woeful night Have lent his wing, my Brother dear, For one poor moment's space to Thee, And all who struggled with the Sea, When safety was so near. |
5 10 |
||
| II |
Thus in the weakness of my heart I spoke (but let that pang be still) When rising from the rock at will, I saw the Bird depart. And let me calmly bless the Power That meets me in this unknown Flower, Affecting type of him I mourn! With calmness suffer and believe, And grieve, and know that I must grieve, Not cheerless, though forlorn. |
15 20 |
||
| III |
Here did we stop; and here looked round While each into himself descends, For that last thought of parting Friends That is not to be found. Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight, Our home and his, his heart's delight, His quiet heart's selected home. But time before him melts away, And he hath feeling of a day Of blessedness to come. |
25 30 |
||
| IV |
Full soon in sorrow did I weep, Taught that the mutual hope was dust, In sorrow, but for higher trust, How miserably deep! All vanished in a single word, A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard. Sea—Ship—drowned—Shipwreck—so it came, The meek, the brave, the good, was gone; He who had been our living John Was nothing but a name. |
35 40 |
||
| V |
That was indeed a parting! oh, Glad am I, glad that it is past; For there were some on whom it cast Unutterable woe. But they as well as I have gains;— From many a humble source, to pains Like these, there comes a mild release; Even here I feel it, even this Plant Is in its beauty ministrant To comfort and to peace. |
45 50 |
||
| VI |
He would have loved thy modest grace, Meek Flower! To Him I would have said, "It grows upon its native bed Beside our Parting-place; There, cleaving to the ground, it lies With multitude of purple eyes, Spangling a cushion green like moss; But we will see it, joyful tide! Some day, to see it in its pride, The mountain will we cross." |
55 60 |
||
| VII |
—Brother and friend, if verse of mine Have power to make thy virtues known, Here let a monumental Stone Stand—sacred as a Shrine; And to the few who pass this way, Traveller or Shepherd, let it say, Long as these mighty rocks endure,— Oh do not Thou too fondly brood, Although deserving of all good, On any earthly hope, however pure! Note Contents 1805 Main Contents |
A |
65 70 |
Footnote A:
See 2nd vol. of the Author's Poems, page 298, and 5th vol., pages
311 and 314, among Elegiac Pieces.—W. W. 1842.
These
poems are those respectively beginning:
"When, to the attractions of the busy world ..."
"I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! ..."
"Sweet Flower! belike one day to have ..."
Ed.
return
to footnote mark
Note: The plant
alluded to is the Moss Campion (Silene acaulis, of Linnæus).
See note at the end of the volume.—W. W. 1842.
See among
the "Poems on the Naming of Places," No. VI.—W. W. 1845.
The note is as follows:
"Moss Campion (Silene acaulis). This most beautiful plant is scarce in England, though it is found in great abundance upon the mountains of Scotland. The first specimen I ever saw of it in its native bed was singularly fine, the tuft or cushion being at least eight inches diameter, and the root proportionably thick. I have only met with it in two places among our mountains, in both of which I have since sought for it in vain.
Botanists will not, I hope, take it ill, if I caution them against carrying off inconsiderately rare and beautiful plants. This has often been done, particularly from Ingleborough and other mountains in Yorkshire, till the species have totally disappeared, to the great regret of lovers of nature living near the places where they grew."—W. W. 1842.
See also The Prelude, book
xiv. 1. 419, p. 379.—Ed.
This poem underwent no change in successive
editions.
At a meeting of "The Wordsworth Society" held at
Grasmere, in July 1881, it was proposed by one of the members, the Rev. H.
D. Rawnsley, then Vicar of Wray, to erect some memorial at the
parting-place of the brothers. The brothers John and William Wordsworth
parted at Grisedale Tarn, on the 29th September 1800. The originator of
the idea wrote thus of it in June 1882:
"A proposition, made by one of its members to the Wordsworth Society when it met in Grasmere in 1881, to mark the spot in the Grisedale Pass of Wordsworth's parting from his brother John—and to carry out a wish the poet seems to have hinted at in the last of his elegiac verses in memory of that parting—is now being put into effect. It has been determined, after correspondence with Lord Coleridge, Dr. Cradock, Professor Knight, and Mr. Hills, to have inscribed —(on the native rock, if possible)—the first four lines of Stanzas III. and VII. of these verses:
'Here did we stop; and here looked round
While each into himself descends,
For that last thought of parting Friends
That is not to be found.
...
Brother and friend, if verse of mine
Have power to make thy virtues known,
Here let a monumental Stone
Stand—sacred as a Shrine.'The rock selected is a fine mass, facing the east, on the left of the track as one descends from Grisedale Tarn towards Patterdale, and is about 100 yards from the tarn. No more suitable one can be found, and we have the testimony of Mr. David Richardson of Newcastle, who has practical knowledge of engineering, that it is the fittest, both from shape and from slight incline of plane.
It has been proposed to sink a panel in the face of the rock, that so the inscription may be slightly protected, and to engrave the letters upon the face of the panel thus obtained. But it is not quite certain yet that the grain of the rock— volcanic ash—will admit of the lettering. If this cannot be carried out, it has been determined to have the letters engraved upon a slab of Langdale slate, and imbed it in the Grisedale Rock.
It is believed that the simplicity of the design, the lonely isolation of this mountain memorial, will appeal at once' ... to the few who pass this way,
Traveller or Shepherd.'And we in our turn appeal to English tourists who may chance to see it, to forego the wish of adding to it, or taking anything from it, by engraving their own names; and to let the Monumental Stone stand, as the poet wished it might
' ... stand, sacred as a Shrine.'
We owe great thanks to Mrs. Sturge for first surveying the place, to ascertain the possibility of finding a mountain rock sufficiently striking in position; to Mr. Richardson, jun., for his etching of the rock, upon which the inscription is to be made; to his father for the kind trouble he took in the measurement of the said rock; and particularly to the seconder of the original proposal, and my coadjutor in the task of final selection and superintending the work, Mr. W. H. Hills. H. D. Rawnsley. P. S.—When we came to examine the rock, we found the area for the panel less than we had hoped for, owing to certain rock fissures, which, by acting as drains for the rainwater on the surface, would have much interfered with the durability of the inscription. The available space for the panel remains 3 feet 7 in length by 1 foot 9 inches in depth. Owing to the fineness of the grain of the stone, it may be quite possible to letter the native rock; but it has been difficult to fix on a style of lettering for the inscription that shall be at once in good taste, forcible, and plain. It was proposed that the Script type of letter which was made use of in the inscription cut on the rock, in the late Mr. Ball's garden grounds below the Mount at Rydal, should be adopted; but a final decision has been given in favour of a style of lettering which Mrs. Rawnsley has designed. The panel is, from its position, certain to attract the eye of the wanderer from Patterdale up to the Grisedale Pass.
H. D. R."
See the note to The Waggoner, p. 112, referring to the Rock
of Names, on the shore of Thirlmere.
The following extract from
Recollections from 1803 to 1837, with a Conclusion in 1868, by the Hon.
Amelia Murray (London: Longmans, Green, and Co. 1868)—refers to
the loss of the Abergavenny:
"One morning, coming down early, I saw what I thought was a great big ship without any hull. This was the Abergavenny, East Indiaman, which had sunk with all sails set, hardly three miles from the shore, and all on board perished.
Had any of the crew taken refuge in the main-top, they might have been saved; but the bowsprit, which was crowded with human beings, gave a lurch into the sea as the ship settled down, and thus all were washed off—though the timber appeared again above water when the 'Abergavenny' touched the ground. The ship had sprung a leak off St. Alban's Head; and in spite of pumps, she went to the bottom just within reach of safety."
pp. 12, 13.
A Narrative of the
loss of the "Earl of Abergavenny" East Indiaman, off Portland, Feb. 5,
1805, was published in pamphlet form (8vo, 1805), by Hamilton and
Bird, 21 High Street, Islington.
For much in reference to John
Wordsworth, which illustrates both these Elegiac Verses, and the
poem "On the Naming of Places" which follows them, I must refer to his Life
to be published in another volume of this series; but there is one letter
of Dorothy Wordsworth's, written to her friend Miss Jane Pollard
(afterwards Mrs. Marshall), in reference to her brother's death, which may
find a place here. For the use of it I am indebted to the kindness of Mrs.
Marshall's daughter, the Dowager Lady Monteagle:
"March 16th, 1805. Grasmere.
"... It does me good to weep for him, and it does me good to find that others weep, and I bless them for it. ... It is with me, when I write, as when I am walking out in this vale, once so full of joy. I can turn to no object that does not remind me of our loss. I see nothing that he would not have loved, and enjoyed.... My consolations rather come to me in gusts of feeling, than are the quiet growth of my mind. I know it will not always be so. The time will come when the light of the setting sun upon these mountain tops will be as heretofore a pure joy; not the same gladness, that can never be—but yet a joy even more tender. It will soothe me to know how happy he would have been, could he have seen the same beautiful spectacle.... He was taken away in the freshness of his manhood; pure he was, and innocent as a child. Never human being was more thoroughly modest, and his courage I need not speak of. He was 'seen speaking with apparent cheerfulness to the first mate a few minutes before the ship went down;' and when nothing more could be done, He said, 'the will of God be done.' I have no doubt when he felt that it was out of his power to save his life he was as calm as before, if some thought of what we should endure did not awaken a pang.... He loved solitude, and he rejoiced in society. He would wander alone amongst these hills with his fishing-rod, or led on by the mere pleasure of walking, for many hours; or he would walk with W. or me, or both of us, and was continually pointing out—with a gladness which is seldom seen but in very young people—something which perhaps would have escaped our observation; for he had so fine an eye that no distinction was unnoticed by him, and so tender a feeling that he never noticed anything in vain. Many a time has he called out to me at evening to look at the moon or stars, or a cloudy sky, or this vale in the quiet moonlight; but the stars and moon were his chief delight. He made of them his companions when he was at sea, and was never tired of those thoughts which the silence of the night fed in him. Then he was so happy by the fireside. Any little business of the house interested him. He loved our cottage. He helped us to furnish it, and to make the garden. Trees are growing now which he planted.... He staid with us till the 29th of September, having come to us about the end of January. During that time Mary Hutchinson—now Mary Wordsworth—staid with us six weeks. John used to walk with her everywhere, and they were exceedingly attached to each other; so my poor sister mourns with us, not merely because we have lost one who was so dear to William and me, but from tender love to John and an intimate knowledge of him. Her hopes as well as ours were fixed on John.... I can think of nothing but of our departed Brother, yet I am very tranquil to-day. I honour him, and love him, and glory in his memory...."
Southey, writing to his friend, C. W. W. Wynn, on the 3rd of April 1805, says:
"Dear Wynn,
I have been grievously shocked this evening by the loss of the Abergavenny, of which Wordsworth's brother was captain. Of course the news came flying up to us from all quarters, and it has disordered me from head to foot. At such circumstances I believe we feel as much for others as for ourselves; just as a violent blow occasions the same pain as a wound, and he who breaks his shin feels as acutely at the moment as the man whose leg is shot off. In fact, I am writing to you merely because this dreadful shipwreck has left me utterly unable to do anything else. It is the heaviest calamity Wordsworth has ever experienced, and in all probability I shall have to communicate it to him, as he will very likely be here before the tidings can reach him. What renders any near loss of this kind so peculiarly distressing is, that the recollection is perpetually freshened when any like event occurs, by the mere mention of shipwreck, or the sound of the wind. Of all deaths it is the most dreadful, from the circumstances of terror which accompany it...."
(See The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, vol. ii. p. 321.)
The following is part of a letter from Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth on the same subject. It is undated:
"My Dear Miss Wordsworth,—
I wished to tell you that you would one day feel the kind of peaceful state of mind and sweet memory of the dead, which you so happily describe, as now almost begun; but I felt that it was improper, and most grating to the feelings of the afflicted, to say to them that the memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part, not only of their dreams, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness. That you would see every object with and through your lost brother, and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of comfort to you, I felt, and well knew, from my own experience in sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this, I did not dare to tell you so; but I send you some poor lines, which I wrote under this conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home.
..."Why is he wandering on the sea?—
Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.
By slow degrees he'd steal away
Their woes, and gently bring a ray
(So happily he'd time relief,)
Of comfort from their very grief.
He'd tell them that their brother dead,
When years have passed o'er their head,
Will be remembered with such holy,
True and tender melancholy,
That ever this lost brother John
Will be their heart's companion.
His voice they'll always hear,
His face they'll always see;
There's naught in life so sweet
As such a memory."
(See Final Memorials of Charles Lamb,
by Thomas Noon Talfourd, vol. ii. pp. 233, 234.)—Ed.
The Poem
[The grove still exists; but the plantation has
been walled in, and is not so accessible as when my brother John wore the
path in the manner here described. The grove was a favourite haunt with us
all while we lived at Town-end.—I. F.]
This was No. VI. of the "Poems on the Naming of
Places." For several suggested changes in MS. see Appendix I. p. 385.—Ed.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
|
When, to the attractions of the busy world, Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen A habitation in this peaceful Vale, Sharp season followed of continual storm In deepest winter; and, from week to week, Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill At a short distance from my cottage, stands A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds That, for protection from the nipping blast, Hither repaired.—A single beech-tree grew Within this grove of firs! and, on the fork Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest; A last year's nest, conspicuously built At such small elevation from the ground As gave sure sign that they, who in that house Of nature and of love had made their home Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes, A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock, Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, From the remotest outskirts of the grove,— Some nook where they had made their final stand, Huddling together from two fears—the fear Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven In such perplexed and intricate array; That vainly did I seek, beneath their stems A length of open space, where to and fro My feet might move without concern or care; And, baffled thus, though earth from day to day Was fettered, and the air by storm disturbed, I ceased the shelter to frequent,—and prized, Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess. The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, By chance retiring from the glare of noon To this forsaken covert, there I found A hoary pathway traced between the trees, And winding on with such an easy line Along a natural opening, that I stood Much wondering how I could have sought in vain For what was now so obvious. To abide, For an allotted interval of ease, Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; And with the sight of this same path—begun, Begun and ended, in the shady grove, Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind That, to this opportune recess allured, He had surveyed it with a finer eye, A heart more wakeful; and had worn the track By pacing here, unwearied and alone, In that habitual restlessness of foot That haunts the Sailor measuring o'er and o'er His short domain upon the vessel's deck, While she pursues her course through the dreary sea. When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore, And taken thy first leave of those green hills And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth, Year followed year, my Brother! and we two, Conversing not, knew little in what mould Each other's mind was fashioned; and at length When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, Between us there was little other bond Than common feelings of fraternal love. But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carried Undying recollections; Nature there Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still Was with thee; and even so didst thou become A silent Poet; from the solitude Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart Still couchant, an inevitable ear, And an eye practised like a blind man's touch. —Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone; Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours Could I withhold thy honoured name,—and now I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong; And there I sit at evening, when the steep Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful lake, And one green island, gleam between the stems Of the dark firs, a visionary scene! And, while I gaze upon the spectacle Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee, My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost. Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou, Muttering the verses which I muttered first Among the mountains, through the midnight watch Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck In some far region, here, while o'er my head, At every impulse of the moving breeze, The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, Alone I tread this path;—for aught I know, Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store Of undistinguishable sympathies, Mingling most earnest wishes for the day When we, and others whom we love, shall meet A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. Note Contents 1805 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 |
A B |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 |
| 1836 | |
|
1815 |
| 1836 | |
|
1815 |
|
1827 |
| 1827 | |
|
1815 |
| date | |
|
These additional lines appeared only in 1815 and 1820. |
| 1845 | |
|
1815 |
|
1827 |
|
1840 |
|
C.a |
return
Variant 6: This and the previous
line were added in 1827.
return
Variant 7:
| 1827 | |
|
1815 |
| 1827 | |
|
1815 |
| 1845 | |
|
1815 |
| 1845 | |
|
1815 |
| 1836 | |
|
1815 |
| 1827 | |
|
1815 |
| 1827 | |
|
1815 |
| 1827 | |
|
1815 |
Footnote A:
Compare Daniel's Hymens Triumph, ii. 4:
'And where no sun could see him, where no eye
Might overlook his lonely privacy;
There in a path of his own making, trod
Rare as a common way, yet led no way
Beyond the turns he made.'
Ed.
return to
footnote mark
Footnote B: Compare the line in
Coleridge's Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Chamouni:
'Ye pine groves with your soft and soul-like sound,'
Ed.
return
Sub-Footnote a:
In the late Lord Coleridge's copy of
the edition of 1836, there is a footnote in Wordsworth's handwriting to
the word "meanwhile" which is substituted for "newly." "If newly
come, could he have traced a visible path?"—Ed.
return to footnote mark
Note: This wish was
not granted; the lamented Person, not long after, perished by shipwreck,
in discharge of his duty as Commander of the Honourable East India
Company's Vessel, the Earl of Abergavenny.—W. W. 1815.
For the date of this poem in the
Chronological Tables given in the editions of 1815 and 1820, Wordsworth
assigned the year 1802. But, in the edition of 1836, he assigned it to the
year 1805, the date retained by Mr. Carter in the edition of 1857. Captain
Wordsworth perished on the 5th of February 1805; and if the poem was
written in 1805, it must have been in the month of January of that year.
The note to the poem is explicit—"Not long after" he "perished by
shipwreck," etc. Thus the poem may have been written in the
beginning of 1805; but it is not at all certain that part of it at least
does not belong to an earlier year. John Wordsworth lived with his brother
and sister at the Town-end Cottage, Grasmere, during part of the winter,
and during the whole of the spring, summer, and autumn of 1800, William
and John going together on foot into Yorkshire from the 14th of May to the
7th of June. John left Grasmere on Michaelmas day (September 29th) 1800,
and never returned to it again. The following is Miss Wordsworth's record
of that day in her Journal of 1800:
"On Monday, 29th, John left us. William and I parted with him in sight of Ullswater. It was a fine day, showery, but with sunshine and fine clouds. Poor fellow, my heart was right sad, I could not help thinking we should see him again, because he was only going to Penrith."
In the spring of 1801, John Wordsworth sailed for China in the Abergavenny. He returned from this voyage in safety, and the brothers met once again in London. He went to sea again in 1803, and returned to London in 1804, but could not visit Grasmere; and in the month of February 1805—shortly after he was appointed to the command of the Abergavenny— the ship was lost at the Bill of Portland, and every one on board perished. It is clear that the latter part of the poem, "When, to the attractions of the busy world," was written between John Wordsworth's departure from Grasmere and the loss of the Abergavenny, i. e. between September 1800 and February 1805, as there are references in it both to what his brother did at Grasmere and to his return to sea:
'Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone.'
There are some things in the earlier part of the poem that appear to negative the idea of its having been written in 1800. The opening lines seem to hint at an experience somewhat distant. He speaks of being "wont" to do certain things. But, on the other hand, I find an entry in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, which leads me to believe that the poem may have been begun in 1800, and that the first part, ending (as it did then) with the line:
'While she is travelling through the dreary sea,'
may have been finished before John
Wordsworth left Grasmere; the second part being written afterwards, while
he was at sea; and that this is the explanation of the date given in the
editions of 1815 and 1820, viz. 1802.
Passages occur in Dorothy
Wordsworth's Journal to the following effect:
"Monday Morning, 1st September.—We walked in the wood by the lake. William read Joanna and the Firgrove to Coleridge."
A little earlier there is the record,
"Saturday, 22nd August.—William was composing all the morning.... William read us the poem of Joanna beside the Rothay by the roadside."
Then, on Friday, the 25th August, there is the entry,
"We walked over the hill by the Firgrove, I sate upon a rock and observed a flight of swallows gathering together high above my head. We walked through the wood to the stepping stones, the lake of Rydale very beautiful, partly still, I left William to compose an inscription, that about the path...."
Then, next day,
"Saturday morning, 30th August.—William finished his inscription of the Pathway, then walked in the wood, and when John returned he sought him, and they bathed together."
To what poem Dorothy Wordsworth referred under the name of the "Inscription of the Pathway" has puzzled me much. There is no poem amongst his "Inscriptions" (written in or before August 1800) that corresponds to it in the least. But, if my conjecture is right that this "Poem on the Naming of Places," beginning:
'When, to the attractions of the busy world,'
was composed at two different times, it is
quite possible that "the Firgrove" which was read—along with Joanna—to
Coleridge on September lst, 1800, was the first part of this very poem.
If this supposition is correct, some light is cast both on the
"Inscription of the Pathway." and on the date assigned by Wordsworth
himself to the poem. There is a certain fitness, however, in this poem
being placed—as it now is—in sequence to the Elegiac Verses in memory of John Wordsworth,
beginning, "The Sheep-boy whistled loud," and near the fourth poem To the Daisy, beginning, "Sweet Flower!
belike one day to have."
The "Fir-grove" still exists. It is
between Wishing Gate and White Moss Common, and almost exactly opposite
the former. Standing at the gate and looking eastwards, the grove is to
the left, not forty yards distant. Some of the firs (Scotch ones) still
survive, and several beech trees, not "a single beech-tree," as in the
poem. From this, one might infer that the present colony had sprung up
since the beginning of the century, and that the special tree, in which
was the thrush's nest, had perished; but Dr. Cradock wrote to me that
"Wordsworth pointed out the tree to Miss Cookson a few days before Dora
Wordsworth's death. The tree is near the upper wall and tells its own
tale." The Fir-grove—"John's Grove"— can easily be entered by
a gate about a hundred yards beyond the Wishing-gate, as one goes toward
Rydal. The view from it, the "visionary scene,"
'the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, ... this dream-like sight
Of solemn loveliness,'
is now much interfered with by the new larch plantations immediately below the firs. It must have been very different in Wordsworth's time, and is constantly referred to in his sister's Journal as a favourite retreat, resorted to
'when cloudless suns
'Shone hot, or wind blew troublesome and strong.'
In the absence of contrary testimony, it might be supposed that "the track" which the brother had "worn,"
'By pacing here, unwearied and alone,'
faced Silver-How and the Grasmere Island, and that the single beech tree was nearer the lower than the upper wall. But Miss Cookson's testimony is explicit. Only a few fir trees survive at this part of the grove, which is now open and desolate, not as it was in those earlier days, when
'the trees
Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven
With such perplexed and intricate array,
That vainly did I seek, beneath their stems
A length of open space ...'
Dr. Cradock remarks,
"As to there being more than one beech, Wordsworth would not have hesitated to sacrifice servile exactness to poetical effect." He had a fancy for "one":
'Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky;'"'One' abode, no more;" Grasmere's "one green island;" "one green field."
Since the above note was printed, new light
has been cast on the "Inscription of the Pathway," for which see volume
viii. of this edition.—Ed.