[IE] This "tuft of trees" is still standing (1896).—ED.

[IF] The road "up the heathy waste," and mounting "in mazes serpentine," is the Keswick road over Dunmail Raise, the "easy outlet of the vale."—ED.

[IG] The cottage in which the parson of Wytheburn then lived still stands on the right or eastern side of the road, as you ascend the Raise, beyond the Swan Inn. It abuts on the public road about three hundred yards beyond the bridge over Tongue Ghyll beck. "The Clergyman and his family described at the beginning of the seventh book were, during many years, our principal associates in the vale of Grasmere, unless I were to except our very nearest neighbours.... With the single exception of the particulars of their journey to Grasmere—which, however, was exactly copied from real life in another instance—the whole that I have said of them is as faithful to the truth as words can make it." (I. F.)—ED.

[IH] Compare Dryden's Epilogue to Henry II.

Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver:
Fair Rosamond was but her nom de guerre.

Also Sir Walter Scott's Woodstock, and The Talisman.—ED.

[II] Compare Gay, The Shepherds Week, the Sixth Pastoral, line 91—

Then sad he sung "The children in the wood."
ED.
Ah! barb'rous Uncle, stain'd with infant blood!

[IJ] Compare The Prelude, book vii. ll. 110-115 (see vol. iii. p. 251).—ED.

[IK] The chapel of Wytheburn, at the northern or Cumberland side of Dunmail Raise.—ED.

[IL] This house, in which Mr. Sympson lived, and which—though no longer the parsonage—still belongs to Wytheburn church, is easily identified. The "blue slabs of mountain-stone," common to all old houses in the vale, remain just as they were, when the old pastor lived, and Wordsworth was his frequent guest. The windows, too, "by shutters weather-fended," are described with minute fidelity.—ED.

[IM] Mrs. Sympson was twelve years her husband's junior, and she pre-deceased him by a year and a half.

Compare—

"She, far behind him in the race of years" (l. 226).

And

ED.
"Not twice had summer," etc. (l. 247).

[IN] Old Mr. Sympson was found dead in his garden on the opposite side of the road from the cottage, in 1807, in his ninety-second year. There is now a new door into the garden, but the posts are old enough to have been there in Sympson's time.—ED.

[IO] The Sympsons are all buried at Grasmere. Their gravestone stands about ten yards north-west from that of their poet, not far from the monument erected in memory of Arthur Hugh Clough. There is only one stone, a low one, with a pointed top. The following is the inscription on it:—"Here lie the remains of the Reverend Jos. Sympson, Minister of Wytheburn for more than 50 years. He died June 27, 1807, aged 92; also of Mary, his wife, who died Jan. 24, 1806, aged 81; also of Eliz. Jane, their youngest Dr., who died Sep. 11, 1801, aged 37."—ED.

[IP] The Duddon valley.—ED.

[IQ] See the notes to the Duddon sonnets.—ED.

[IR] The chapelry of Seathwaite. The reference to "yon hill" suggests that the conversation is carried on at Hackett (rather than Grasmere), whence Wetherlam—which concealed the Duddon valley—would be visible.—ED.

[IS] It is so. In the churchyard of Seathwaite a plain stone slab records the fact that he died on the 25th June 1802, in the ninety-third year of his age.—ED.

[IT] "The Deaf Man, whose epitaph may be seen in the churchyard at the head of Hawes Water, and whose qualities of mind and heart, and their benign influence in conjunction with his privation, I had from his relatives on the spot."—I. F.

Thomas Holme of Chapel Hill was his name. On his epitaph it is said "he was deprived of the sense of hearing in his youth, and lived about 58 years without the comfort of hearing one word. He reconciled himself to his misfortune by reading, and useful employment." He died in 1773, "aged 67 years."

From this it is clear that we must not look for the "tall pine" or the "plain blue stone" in Grasmere churchyard! and that the localities as well as the narratives of The Excursion are at times composite.—ED.

[IU] For another reference to the streams in the Grasmere Vale, compare the Lines composed at Grasmere, when Mr. Fox's death was hourly expected (vol. iv. p. 47)—

Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up
With which she speaks when storms are gone,
A mighty unison of streams!
ED.
Of all her Voices, One.

[IV] Either Stone Arthur, or Loughrigg. Compare the lines To the Clouds, suggested by their appearance on Nab Scar—

Army of Clouds! ye wingéd Host in troops
Ascending from behind the motionless brow
ED.
Of that tall rock, etc.

[IW] "The Blind Man was John Gough, of Kendal, a man known, far beyond his neighbourhood, for his talents and attainments in natural history and science."—I.F. For an account of John Gough, see Appendix, and note [IX] p. 304.—ED.

[IX] This John Gough, a friend of Wordsworth's, was one of the first mathematicians of his time, and a most successful teacher. Whewell and King (senior wranglers) were amongst his pupils. So was Dalton. Gough had been deprived of sight by an attack of small-pox, when he was between two and three years of age. He was a great botanist, as is mentioned in the text; and the following remarkable circumstance is recorded of him, showing at once his marvellous memory, and the extreme delicacy of his sense of touch. In the Elegiac Verses on his brother John, Wordsworth had described the moss campion, Silene acaulis

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.

This poem was read to Gough in 1805 (it was not published till 1845), and twelve years afterwards, in 1817, a specimen of the moss campion was placed in his hand, and he said at once, "I have never examined this plant before, but it is Silene acaulis." Compare Atkinson's Worthies of Cumberland and note E in the Appendix to this volume, p. 398.—ED.

[IY] Compare Paradise Lost, book vi. l. 752.—ED.

[IZ] See note [XI] above.—ED.

[JA] Compare L'Allegro, l. 137—

ED.
Married to immortal verse.

[JB] See Wordsworth's note, p. 389.—ED.

[JC] Compare Burger's Pfarrers Tochter

ED.
Drei Spannen lang.

[JD] "This refers to the Greens, a very ancient Grasmere family, settled for generations at Pavement End, which, with a considerable tract of land, is still their property. The poet describes them as dwelling at Gold-rill side, and I have been told that the name was a pure invention to avoid the realism of 'Grasmere,' or 'Pavement End.' Such, however, is not exactly the case. On enquiry from Mr. Fleming Green, one of the family now residing in Grasmere, I find that a small stream to which Wordsworth himself, from some fancy of his own, had given the name of Gold-rill, ran formerly by the road side, and then turned by the side of the farm at Pavement End towards the Lake. When the road was reconstructed, the rill was covered, and can no more be seen there; but it issues freely from a culvert at the back of the premises, and runs by the hedge-side to the Lake. Mr. Fleming Green remembers the rill as it was, and pointed out its course to me. He is a son of one of the 'seven lusty sons' mentioned in the poem. (Mr. Green would read 'six.') He said 'we stuck to the old home till we could no longer stand up in it.' He is one of a race well termed 'lusty.' The 'hoary grandsire' and many of his descendants lie buried in a long row, a little to the left of the path leading from the Church to the lichgate at the north. Among them is little Margaret (her name and age not unrecorded), but her 'daisied hillock three spans long' is now merged in the larger graves of her more aged kindred." (Dr. Cradock to the Editor.)—ED.

[JE] "Of the infant's grave I will only say, it is an exact picture of what fell under my own observation."—I. F.

[JF] Compare George Herbert's

ED.
Sweet Day, so cool, so calm and bright.

[JG] "This young volunteer bore the name of Dawson.... The premature death of this gallant young man was much lamented, and as an attendant upon the funeral, I myself witnessed the ceremony, and the effect of it as described in the poem."—I. F. See the whole of the note (p. 13).

"In The Excursion, book vii., is an animated account of the life and death of a young volunteer, one of a company of eighty men, which, when England was threatened with a French invasion, was formed in the Lake District, and was named 'Wedgwood's Mountaineers,' having by him in a generous spirit of patriotism been clothed and armed, and this in the completest manner, as riflemen." See Fragmentary Remains, Literary and Scientific, of Sir Humphrey Davy, Bart. (1858), p. 109. The Wedgwood referred to was the Thomas Wedgwood who assisted Coleridge so opportunely.

In 1806 Wordsworth wrote of Dawson: "His calm and dignified manner, united with his tall form and beautiful face, produced in me an impression of sublimity beyond what I ever experienced from the appearance of any other human being."—ED.

[JH] The Napoleonic threat of invasion.—ED.

[JI] Dr. John Davy, the editor of his brother Sir Humphry Davy's Fragmentary Remains, was of opinion (see p. 110) that "in describing the high qualities, intellectual and moral, of the young soldier, the poet has in his mind the memory of the man whose name was so properly associated with the company,—idealising according to his wont,—selecting such qualities as suited his purpose." He refers to Mr. Wedgwood, the founder of this volunteer corps.—ED.

[JJ] Compare the Book of Joshua, passim; Josephus, Ant. v. I. Also, Judges vii.; and Josephus, Ant. v. 6.—ED.

[JK] Is it a reference to the Pauline description of Charity (1 Cor. xiii. 7), "Charity ... hopeth all things, endureth all things"?—ED.

[JL] Compare The White Doe of Rylstone, canto i. l. 42 (vol. iv. p. 107)—

ED.
In great Eliza's golden time.

[JM] See the Fenwick note, p. 13.—ED.

[JN] See Spenser's Faërie Queene, part 1, canto viii. stanza 2.—ED.

[JO] "The pillars of the gateway in front of the mansion remained when we first took up our abode at Grasmere. Two or three cottages still remain which are called Nott Houses, from the name of the gentleman (I have called him a knight) concerning whom these traditions survive. He was the ancestor of the Knott family, formerly considerable proprietors in the district."—I. F.

[JP] It is clear from the Fenwick note (see p. 13) that the title, "Sir Alfred Irthing," was Wordsworth's invention. I am indebted to the Rector of Grasmere—the Rev. Henry M. Fletcher—for the following information as to the bells of the church, and to the "Nott house":—

"Three bells hang in the tower. That they are 'clear-sounding and harmonious' I think may be said of them without poetical license. They have not on them the name and title of their donor. Two of them have coats of arms. My son believes that the quarterings show that they were the gifts of the Flemings of Rydal Hall, patrons, for some hundred years, of the living. The third, and smallest, reports of itself that it was recast at the expense of Mrs. Dorothy Knott, in the year 1808, and that Thomas Mears of London did the work. This last inscription is partly in Latin. The two older bells have on them the inscriptions respectively of 'Soli Deo' and 'Gloria in altissimis Deo.'

"Looking over the old book of Church Warden's accounts, I observe that, in the year 1732, there is an item

'Towards casting the bells, and other charges, £40, 3s. 9d.,'

and in the following year, 1733, again

'Towards casting the bells, and other charges, £49, 0s. 3d.'

This, at a time when the whole of the general charge yearly ranged from £2 to £5. It was a re-casting, I presume.

"The 'Nott house' still exists, and is the residence of our chief 'statesman,' James Fleming. It is known as 'Knott's Houses.' In the dialect of this county, when purely used, there is no possessive 's. Mr. Fletcher's letters being always, e.g., spoken of at the post-office here as 'Mr. Fletcher letters.' 'Nott house,' therefore, meant a house belonging to Mrs. Dorothy Knott, or her husband's forefathers. A little group of houses has formed round it; but the old Farm House, I make little doubt, is the one for which you ask."

See also Charles Lamb's remarks in his third letter to Wordsworth about The Excursion, written in 1814.

[JQ] See Wordsworth's note, p. 389.—ED.


Book Eighth

THE PARSONAGE

ARGUMENT

Pastor's apology and apprehensions[726] that he might have detained his Auditors too long, with the Pastor's invitation to his house[727]—Solitary disinclined to comply—rallies the Wanderer—and playfully[728] draws a comparison between his itinerant profession and that of the Knight-errant—which leads to Wanderer's giving an account of changes in the Country from the manufacturing spirit—Favourable effects—The other side of the picture, and chiefly as it has affected the humbler classes—Wanderer asserts the hollowness of all national grandeur if unsupported by moral worth[729]—Physical science unable to support itself—Lamentations over an excess of manufacturing industry among the humbler Classes of Society—Picture of a Child employed in a Cotton-mill—Ignorance and degradation of Children among the agricultural Population reviewed—Conversation broken off by a renewed Invitation from the Pastor—Path leading to his House—Its appearance described—His Daughter—His Wife—His Son (a Boy) enters with his Companion—Their happy appearance—The Wanderer how affected by the sight of them.

THE pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale
To those acknowledgments subscribed his own,
With a sedate compliance, which the Priest
Failed not to notice, inly pleased, and said:—
5
"If ye, by whom invited I began
These narratives[730] of calm and humble life,
Be satisfied, 'tis well,—the end is gained;
And in return for sympathy bestowed
And patient listening, thanks accept from me.
10
—Life, death, eternity! momentous themes
Are they[731]—and might demand a seraph's tongue,
Were they not equal to their own support;
And therefore no incompetence of mine
Could do them wrong. The universal forms
15
Of human nature, in a spot like this,
Present themselves at once to all men's view:
Ye wished for act and circumstance, that make
The individual known and understood;
And such as my best judgment could select
20
From what the place afforded, have been given;
Though apprehensions crossed me that my zeal
To his might well be likened, who unlocks
A cabinet stored with gems and pictures—draws
His treasures forth, soliciting regard[732]
25
To this, and this, as worthier than the last,
25
Till the spectator, who awhile was pleased
More than the exhibitor himself, becomes
Weary and faint, and longs to be released.
—But let us hence! my dwelling is in sight,
And there—"
30
At this the Solitary shrunk
With backward will; but, wanting not address
That inward motion to disguise, he said
To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake;
—"The peaceable remains of this good Knight
35
Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful scorn,
If consciousness could reach him where he lies
That one, albeit of these degenerate times,
Deploring changes past, or dreading change
Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought,
40
The fine vocation of the sword and lance
With the gross aims and body-bending toil
Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth
Pitied, and, where they are not known, despised.
"Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two estates
45
Are graced with some resemblance. Errant those,
Exiles and wanderers—and the like are these;
Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale,
Carrying relief for nature's simple wants.
—What though no higher recompense be sought[733]
50
Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil
Full oft procured, yet may they[734] claim respect,
Among the intelligent, for what this course
Enables them to be and to perform.
Their tardy steps give leisure to observe,
55
While solitude permits the mind to feel;
Instructs, and prompts her[735] to supply defects
By the division of her inward self
For grateful converse: and to these poor men
Nature (I but repeat your favourite boast)
60
Is bountiful—go wheresoe'er they may;[736]
Kind nature's various wealth is all their own.
Versed in the characters of men; and bound,
By ties[737] of daily interest, to maintain
Conciliatory manners and smooth speech;
65
Such have been, and still are in their degree,
Examples efficacious to refine
Rude intercourse; apt agents to expel,[738]
By importation of unlooked-for arts,
Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice;
70
Raising, through just gradation, savage life
To rustic, and the rustic to urbane.
—Within their moving magazines is lodged
Power that comes forth to quicken and exalt
Affections[739] seated in the mother's breast,
75
And in the lover's fancy; and to feed
The sober sympathies of long-tried friends.
—By these Itinerants, as experienced men,
Counsel is given; contention they appease
With gentle language; in remotest wilds,[740]
80
Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring;
Could the proud quest of chivalry do more?"
"Happy," rejoined the Wanderer, "they who gain
A panegyric from your generous tongue!
But, if to these Wayfarers once pertained
85
Aught of romantic interest, it is gone.[741]
Their purer service, in this realm at least,
Is past for ever.—An inventive Age
Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet
To most strange issues. I have lived to mark
90
A new and unforeseen creation rise
From out the labours of a peaceful Land
Wielding her potent enginery to frame
And to produce, with appetite as keen
As that of war, which rests not night or day,
95
Industrious to destroy![JR] With fruitless pains
Might one like me now visit many a tract
Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again,
A lone pedestrian with a scanty freight,[JS]
Wished-for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he came—
100
Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill;[JT]
Or straggling burgh, of ancient charter proud,
And dignified by battlements and towers
Of some stern castle, mouldering on the brow
Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream.[JU]
105
The foot-path faintly marked, the horse-track wild,
And formidable length of plashy lane,
(Prized avenues ere others had been shaped
Or easier links connecting place with place)
Have vanished—swallowed up by stately roads
110
Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom
Of Britain's[742] farthest glens. The Earth has lent
Her waters, Air her breezes;[JV] and the sail
Of traffic glides with ceaseless intercourse,[743][JW]
Glistening along the low and woody dale;
115
Or, in its progress, on the lofty side,
Of some bare hill, with wonder kenned from far.[744][JX]
"Meanwhile, at social Industry's command,
How quick, how vast an increase! From the germ
Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced
120
Here a huge town, continuous and compact,
Hiding the face of earth for leagues—and there,
Where not a habitation stood before,
Abodes[745] of men irregularly massed
Like trees in forests,—spread through spacious tracts,
125
O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires
Hangs permanent,[JY] and plentiful as wreaths
Of vapour glittering in the morning sun.
And, wheresoe'er the traveller turns his steps,
He sees the barren wilderness erased,
130
Or disappearing; triumph that proclaims
How much the mild Directress of the plough
Owes to alliance with these new-born arts!
—Hence is the wide sea peopled,—hence[746] the shores
Of Britain are resorted to by ships
135
Freighted from every climate of the world
With the world's choicest produce. Hence that sum
Of keels that rest within her crowded ports,
Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays;
That animating spectacle of sails
140
That,[747] through her inland regions, to and fro
Pass with the respirations of the tide,
Perpetual, multitudinous! Finally,
Hence a dread arm of floating power, a voice
Of thunder daunting those who would approach
145
With hostile purposes the blessed Isle,
Truth's consecrated residence, the seat
Impregnable of Liberty and Peace.
"And yet, O happy Pastor of a flock
Faithfully watched, and, by that loving care
And Heaven's good providence, preserved from taint!
151
With you I grieve, when on the darker side
Of this great change I look; and there behold
Such outrage[748] done to nature as compels
The indignant power to justify herself;
155
Yea, to avenge her violated rights,
For England's bane.—When soothing darkness spreads
O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus expressed
His recollections, "and the punctual stars,
While all things else are gathering to their homes,
160
Advance, and in the firmament of heaven
Glitter—but undisturbing, undisturbed;
As if their silent company were charged
With peaceful admonitions for the heart
Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful lord;
165
Then, in full many a region, once like this
The assured domain of calm simplicity
And pensive quiet, an unnatural light
Prepared for never-resting Labour's eyes
Breaks from a many-windowed fabric huge;[JZ]
170
And at the appointed hour a bell is heard,
Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll
That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest—[KA]
A local summons to unceasing toil!
Disgorged are now the ministers of day;
175
And, as they issue from the illumined pile,
A fresh band meets them, at the crowded door—
And in the courts—and where the rumbling stream,
That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels,[KB]
Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed
180
Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, youths,
Mother and little children, boys and girls,
Enter, and each the wonted task resumes
Within this temple, where is offered up
To Gain, the master idol of the realm,
185
Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old
Our ancestors, within the still domain
Of vast cathedral or conventual church,
Their vigils kept; where tapers day and night
On the dim altar burned continually,
190
In token that the House was evermore
Watching to God. Religious men were they;
Nor would their reason, tutored to aspire
Above this transitory world, allow
That there should pass a moment of the year,[749]
195
When in their land the Almighty's service ceased.
"Triumph who will in these profaner rites
Which we, a generation self-extolled,
As zealously perform! I cannot share
His proud complacency:—yet do I exult,[750]
200
Casting reserve away, exult to see
An intellectual mastery exercised
O'er the blind elements; a purpose given,
A perseverance fed; almost a soul
Imparted—to brute matter. I rejoice,
205
Measuring the force of those gigantic powers
That,[751] by the thinking mind, have been compelled
To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man.
For with the sense of admiration blends
The animating hope that time may come
210
When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by the might
Of this dominion over nature gained,
Men of all lands shall exercise the same
In due proportion to their country's need;
Learning, though late, that all true glory rests,
215
All praise, all safety, and all happiness,
Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes,
Tyre, by the margin of the sounding waves,
Palmyra, central in the desert, fell;
And the Arts died by which they had been raised.[KC]
220
—Call Archimedes from his buried tomb
Upon the grave[752] of vanished Syracuse,[KD]
And feelingly the Sage shall make report
How insecure, how baseless in itself,
Is the Philosophy whose sway depends
225
On[753] mere material instruments;—how weak
Those arts, and high inventions, if unpropped
By virtue.—He, sighing with pensive grief,[754]
Amid his calm abstractions, would admit
That not the slender privilege is theirs
230
To save themselves from blank forgetfulness!"
When from the Wanderer's lips these words had fallen,
I said, "And, did in truth those vaunted Arts[755]
Possess such privilege, how could we escape
Sadness and keen regret, we who revere,[756]
235
And would preserve as things above all price,
The old domestic morals of the land,
Her simple manners, and the stable worth
That dignified and cheered a low estate?
Oh! where is now the character of peace,
240
Sobriety, and order, and chaste love,
And honest dealing, and untainted speech,
And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer;
That made the very thought of country-life
A thought of refuge, for a mind detained
245
Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd?
Where now the beauty of the sabbath kept
With conscientious reverence, as a day
By the almighty Lawgiver pronounced
Holy and blest? and where the winning grace
250
Of all the lighter ornaments attached
To time and season, as the year rolled round?"
"Fled!" was the Wanderer's passionate response,
"Fled utterly! or only to be traced
In a few fortunate retreats like this;
255
Which I behold with trembling, when I think
What lamentable change, a year—a month—
May bring; that brook converting as it runs
Into an instrument of deadly bane
For those, who, yet untempted to forsake
260
The simple occupations of their sires,
Drink the pure water of its innocent stream
With lip almost as pure.—Domestic bliss
(Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,)
How art thou blighted for the poor Man's heart!
265
Lo! in such neighbourhood, from morn to eve,
The habitations empty! or perchance
The Mother left alone,—no helping hand
To rock the cradle of her peevish babe;
No daughters round her, busy at the wheel,
270
Or in dispatch of each day's little growth
Of household occupation; no nice arts
Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire,
Where once the dinner was prepared with pride;
Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind;
275
Nothing to praise, to teach, or to command!
"The Father, if perchance he still retain
His old employments, goes to field or wood,
No longer led or followed by the[757] Sons;
Idlers perchance they were,—but in his sight;
280
Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth;
'Till their short holiday of childhood ceased,
Ne'er to return! That birthright now is lost.
Economists will tell you that the State
Thrives by the forfeiture—unfeeling thought,
285
And false as monstrous! Can the mother thrive
By the destruction of her innocent sons
In whom a premature necessity
Blocks out the forms of nature, preconsumes
The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up
290
The infant Being in itself, and makes
Its very spring a season of decay!
The lot is wretched, the condition sad,
Whether a pining discontent survive,
And thirst for change; or habit hath subdued
295
The soul deprest, dejected—even to love
Of her close tasks, and long captivity.[758]
Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns
A native Briton to these inward chains,
Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep;
300
Without his own consent, or knowledge, fixed!
He is a slave to whom release comes not,
And cannot come. The boy, where'er he turns,
Is still a prisoner; when the wind is up
Among the clouds, and roars through the ancient woods;[759]
305
Or when the sun is shining in the east,[760]
Quiet and calm. Behold him—in the school
Of his attainments? no; but with the air
Fanning his temples under heaven's blue arch.
His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton-flakes
310
Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes.
Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip pale,
His respiration quick and audible;
And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam
Could break from out those languid eyes, or a blush[761]
315
Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form,
Is that the countenance, and such the port,
Of no mean Being? One who should be clothed
With dignity befitting his proud hope;
Who, in his very childhood, should appear
320
Sublime from present purity and joy!
The limbs increase; but liberty of mind
Is gone for ever; and this organic frame,
So joyful in its motions, is become[762]
Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead;
325
And even the touch, so exquisitely poured
Through the whole body, with a languid will
Performs its[763] functions; rarely competent
To impress a vivid feeling on the mind
Of what there is delightful in the breeze,
330
The gentle visitations of the sun,
Or lapse of liquid element—by hand,
Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmth—perceived.
—Can hope look forward to a manhood raised
On such foundations?"
"Hope is none for him!"
335
The pale Recluse indignantly exclaimed,
"And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep.
Yet be it asked, in justice to our age,
If there were not, before those arts appeared,
These structures rose, commingling old and young,
340
And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint;
If there were not, then[764] in our far-famed Isle,
Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed
Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large;
Yet walked beneath the sun, in human shape,
345
As abject, as degraded? At this day,
Who shall enumerate the crazy huts
And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth
A ragged Offspring, with their upright hair[765]
Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear;
350
Or wearing, (shall we say?)[766] in that white growth
An ill-adjusted turban, for defence
Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun-burnt brows,
By savage Nature? Shrivelled are their lips;[767]
Naked, and coloured like the soil, the feet
355
On which they stand; as if thereby they drew
Some nourishment, as trees do by their roots,
From earth, the common mother of us all.
Figure and mien, complexion and attire,
Are leagued to strike dismay; but outstretched hand[768]
360
And whining voice denote them supplicants
For the least boon that pity can bestow.
Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found;
And with their parents occupy[769] the skirts
Of furze-clad commons; such are born and reared
365
At the mine's mouth under[770] impending rocks;
Or dwell in chambers of some natural cave;
Or[771] where their ancestors erected huts,
For the convenience of unlawful gain,
In forest purlieus; and the like are bred,
All England through, where nooks and slips of ground
371
Purloined, in times less jealous than our own,
From the green margin of the public way,
A residence afford them, 'mid the bloom
And gaiety of cultivated fields.
375
Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale)
Do I remember oft-times to have seen
'Mid Buxton's dreary heights.[KE] In earnest watch,[772]
Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand;
Then, following closely with the cloud of dust,
380
An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone
Heels over head, like tumblers on a stage.
—Up from the ground they snatch the copper coin,
And, on the freight of merry passengers
Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed;
385
And spin—and pant—and overhead again,
Wild pursuivants! until their breath is lost,
Or bounty tires—and every face, that smiled
Encouragement, hath ceased to look that way.
—But, like the vagrants of the gipsy tribe,
390
These, bred to little pleasure in themselves,
Are profitless to others.
"Turn we then
To Britons born and bred within the pale
Of civil polity, and early trained
To earn, by wholesome labour in the field,
395
The bread they eat. A sample should I give
Of what this stock hath long produced to enrich
The tender age of life, ye would exclaim,[773]
'Is this the whistling plough-boy whose shrill notes
Impart new gladness to the morning air!'
400
Forgive me if I venture to suspect
That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse,
Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints;[774]
Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees
Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear,
405
Fellows to those that[775] lustily upheld
The wooden stools for everlasting use,
Whereon[776] our fathers sate. And mark his brow!
Under whose shaggy canopy are set
Two eyes—not dim, but of a healthy[777] stare—
Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange—
411
Proclaiming boldly that they never drew
A look or motion of intelligence
From infant-conning of the Christ-cross-row,[KF]
Or puzzling through a primer, line by line,
415
Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last.
—What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand,
What penetrating power of sun or breeze,
Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul
Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice?
420
This torpor is no pitiable work
Of modern ingenuity; no town
Nor crowded city can[778] be taxed with aught
Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law,
To which (and who can tell where or how soon?)
425
He may be roused. This Boy the fields produce:
His spade and hoe, mattock and glittering scythe,[779]
The carter's whip that[780] on his shoulder rests
In air high-towering with a boorish pomp,
The sceptre of his sway; his country's name,
430
Her equal rights, her churches and her schools—
What have they done for him? And, let me ask,
For tens of thousands uninformed as he?
In brief, what liberty of mind[781] is here?"
This ardent[782] sally pleased the mild good Man,
435
To whom the appeal couched in its[783] closing words
Was pointedly addressed; and to the thoughts
That,[784] in assent or opposition, rose
Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give
Prompt utterance; but the Vicar interposed[785]
440
With invitation urgently[786] renewed.
—We followed, taking as he led, a path
Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall,[787][KG]
Whose flexile boughs low bending with a weight[788]
Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and roots
445
That gave them nourishment. When frosty winds
Howl from the north, what kindly warmth, methought,
Is here—how grateful this impervious screen![789]
—Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot
On rural business passing to and fro
450
Was the commodious walk: a careful hand
Had marked the line, and strewn its[790] surface o'er
With pure cerulean gravel,[KH] from the heights
Fetched by a[791] neighbouring brook.—Across the vale
The stately fence accompanied our steps;
455
And thus the pathway, by perennial green
Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite,
As by a beautiful yet solemn chain,
The Pastor's mansion with the house of prayer.
Like image of solemnity, conjoined
460
With feminine allurement soft and fair,
The mansion's self displayed;—a reverend pile
With bold projections and recesses deep;
Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood
Fronting the noontide sun. We paused to admire
465
The pillared porch, elaborately embossed;
The low wide windows with their mullions old;
The cornice, richly fretted, of grey stone;
And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose,
By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers
470
And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned:
Profusion bright! and every flower assuming
A more than natural vividness of hue,
From unaffected contrast with the gloom
Of sober cypress, and the darker foil
475
Of yew, in which survived some traces, here
Not unbecoming, of grotesque device
And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof
Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore,
Blending their diverse foliage with the green
480
Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped
The huge round chimneys, harbour of delight
For wren and redbreast,—where they sit and sing
Their slender ditties when the trees are bare.
Nor must I leave untouched (the picture else
485
Were incomplete) a relique of old times[792]
Happily spared, a little Gothic niche
Of nicest workmanship; that[793] once had held
The sculptured image of some patron-saint,
Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down
490
On all who entered those religious doors.
But lo! where from the cocky garden-mount
Crowned by its antique summer-house—descends,
Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl;
For she hath recognised her honoured friend,
495
The Wanderer ever welcome! A prompt kiss
The gladsome Child bestows at his request;
And, up the flowery lawn as we advance,
Hangs on the old Man with a happy look,
And with a pretty restless hand of love.
500
—We enter—by the Lady of the place
Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port:[794]
A lofty stature undepressed by time,
Whose visitation had not wholly spared[795]
The finer lineaments of form[796] and face;
To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in
506
And wisdom loves.—But when a stately ship
Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast[KI]
On homeward voyage, what—if wind and wave,
And hardship undergone in various climes,
510
Have caused her to abate the virgin pride,
And that full trim of inexperienced hope
With which she left her haven—not for this,
Should the sun strike her, and the impartial breeze
Play on her streamers, fails she[797] to assume
515
Brightness and touching beauty of her own,
That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appeared[798]
This goodly Matron, shining in the beams
Of unexpected pleasure.—Soon the board
Was spread, and we partook a plain repast.
520
Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled[799]
The mid-day hours with desultory talk;
From trivial themes to general argument
Passing, as accident or fancy led,
Or courtesy prescribed. While question rose
525
And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve
Dropping from every mind, the Solitary[800]
Resumed the manners of his happier days;
And[801] in the various conversation bore
A willing, nay,[802] at times, a forward part;
530
Yet with the grace of one who in the world
Had learned the art of pleasing, and had now
Occasion given him to display his skill,
Upon the stedfast 'vantage-ground of truth.
He gazed, with admiration unsuppressed,
535
Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale,
Seen, from the shady room in which we sate,
In softened pérspective; and more than once
Praised the consummate harmony serene
Of gravity and elegance, diffused
540
Around the mansion and its whole domain;
Not, doubtless, without help of female taste
And female care.—"A blessed lot is yours!"
The words escaped his lip, with a tender sigh
Breathed over them: but suddenly the door
545
Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys[803]
Appeared, confusion checking their delight.
—Not brothers they in feature or attire,
But fond companions, so I guessed, in field,
And by the river's margin—whence they come,
550
Keen anglers with unusual spoil elated.[804]
One bears a willow-pannier on his back,
The boy of plainer garb, whose blush survives
More deeply tinged. Twin might the other be
To that fair girl who from the garden-mount
555
Bounded:—triumphant entry this for him![805]
Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone,
On whose capacious surface see[806] outspread
Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted trouts;
Ranged side by side, and lessening by degrees[807]
560
Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle.
Upon the board he lays the sky-blue stone
With its rich freight;[808] their number he proclaims;
Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragged;
And where the very monarch of the brook,
565
After long struggle, had escaped at last—
Stealing alternately at them and us
(As doth his comrade too) a look of pride:
And, verily, the silent creatures made
A splendid sight, together thus exposed;
570
Dead—but not sullied or deformed by death,
That seemed to pity what he could not spare.
But O, the animation in the mien
Of those two boys! yea in the very words
With which the young narrator was inspired,
575
When, as our questions led, he told at large
Of that day's prowess! Him might I compare,
His looks,[809] tones, gestures, eager eloquence,
To a bold brook that[810] splits for better speed,
And at the self-same moment, works its way
580
Through many channels, ever and anon
Parted and re-united: his compeer
To the still lake, whose stillness is to sight[811]
As beautiful—as grateful to the mind.
—But to what object shall the lovely Girl
585
Be likened? She whose countenance and air
Unite the graceful qualities of both,
Even as she shares the pride and joy of both.
My grey-haired Friend was moved; his vivid eye
Glistened with tenderness; his mind, I knew,
590
Was full; and had, I doubted not, returned,
Upon this impulse, to the theme—erewhile
Abruptly broken off. The ruddy boys
Withdrew, on summons to their well-earned meal;[812]
And He—to whom all tongues resigned their rights
595
With willingness, to whom the general ear
Listened with readier patience than to strain
Of music, lute or harp, a long delight
That ceased not when his voice had ceased—as One
Who from truth's central point serenely views
600
The compass of his argument—began
Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone.