one of his early poems:
'Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have passed,
What blissful and what anguished hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! Yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of Childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny haze,
But straight with all their tints, thy waters rise,
Thy crowning plank, thy margin's willowy maze,
And bedded sand that veined with various dyes
Gleamed through thy bright transparence to the gaze!
Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled
Lone Manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs,
Ah! that once more I were a careless child!'
Ed.]
[Footnote Z: Coleridge entered Jesus College, Cambridge, in February
1791, just a month after Wordsworth had taken his B. A. degree, and left
the university.--Ed.]
[Footnote a: Coleridge worked laboriously but unmethodically at
Cambridge, studying philosophy and politics, besides classics and
mathematics. He lost his scholarship however.--Ed.]
[Footnote b: Debt and despondency; flight to London; enlistment in the
Dragoons; residence in Bristol; Republican lectures; scheme, along with
Southey, for founding a new community in America; its abandonment; his
marriage; life at Nether Stowey; editing 'The Watchman'; lecturing on
Shakespeare; contributing to 'The Morning Chronicle'; preaching in
Unitarian pulpits; publishing his 'Juvenile Poems', etc. etc.; and
throughout eccentric, impetuous, original--with contagious enthusiasm
and overflowing genius--but erratic, self-confident, and unstable.--Ed.]
[Footnote c: Robert Jones, of Plas-yn-llan, near Ruthin, Denbighshire,
to whom the 'Descriptive Sketches', which record the tour, were
dedicated.--Ed.]
[Footnote d: See 'Descriptive Sketches', vol. i. p. 35.--Ed.]
[Footnote e: Compare Shakespeare, 'Sonnets', 16:
'Now stand you on the top of happy hours.'
Ed.]
[Footnote f: In 1790, most of what could be shaken in the order of
European, and especially of French society and government, _was_ shaken
and changed. By the new constitution of 1790, to which the French king
took an oath of fidelity, his power was reduced to a shadow, and two
years later France became a Republic.
"We crossed at the time," wrote Wordsworth to his sister, "when the
whole nation was mad with joy in consequence of the Revolution."
Ed.]
[Footnote g:
"We went staff in hand, without knapsacks, and carrying each his
needments tied up in a pocket handkerchief, with about twenty pounds
a-piece in our pockets."
W. W. ('Autobiographical Memoranda.)--Ed.]
[Footnote h: July 14, 1790.
"We crossed from Dover and landed at Calais, on the eve of the day
when the King was to swear fidelity to the new constitution: an event
which was solemnised with due pomp at Calais."
W. W. ('Autobiographical Memoranda.') See also the sonnet "dedicated to
National Independence and Liberty," vol. ii. p. 332. beginning,
'Jones! as from Calais southward you and I,
and compare the human nature seeming born again'
of 'The Prelude', book vi. I, 341, with "the pomp of a too-credulous
day" and the "homeless sound of joy" of the sonnet.--Ed.]
[Footnote i: They went by Ardres, Péronne, Soissons, Château Thierry,
Sézanne, Bar le Duc, Châtillon-sur-Seine, Nuits, to Châlons-sur-Saône;
and thence sailed down to Lyons. See Fenwick note to 'Stray Pleasures'
(vol. iv.)
"The town of Châlons, where my friend Jones and I halted a day, when
we crossed France, so far on foot. There we embarqued, and floated
down to Lyons."
Ed.]
[Footnote k: Compare 'Descriptive Sketches', vol. i. p 40:
'Or where her pathways straggle as they please
By lonely farms and secret villages.'
Ed.]
[Footnote m:
"Her road elms rustling thin above my head."
(See 'Descriptive Sketches', vol. i. pp. 39, 40, and compare the two
passages in detail.)--Ed.]
[Footnote n: On the 29th July 1790.--Ed.]
[Footnote o: They were at Lyons on the 30th July.--Ed.]
[Footnote p: They reached the Chartreuse on the 4th of August, and spent
two days there "contemplating, with increasing pleasure," says
Wordsworth, "its wonderful scenery."--Ed.]
[Footnote q: The forest of St. Bruno, near the Chartreuse.--Ed.]
[Footnote r: "Names of rivers at the Chartreuse."--W. W. 1793.
They are called in 'Descriptive Sketches', vol. i. p. 41, "the mystic
streams of Life and Death."--Ed.]
[Footnote s: "Name of one of the vallies of the Chartreuse."--W. W.
1793.]
[Footnote t: "Alluding to crosses seen on the spiry rocks of the
Chartreuse, which have every appearance of being inaccessible."--W. W.
1793.]
[Footnote u: It extended from July 13 to September 29. See the detailed
Itinerary, vol. i. p. 332, and Wordsworth's letter to his sister, from
Keswill, describing the trip.--Ed.]
[Footnote v: See the account of "Urseren's open vale serene," and the
paragraph which follows it in 'Descriptive Sketches', vol. i. pp. 50,
51.--Ed.]
[Footnote w: See the account of these "abodes of peaceful man," in
'Descriptive Sketches', ll. 208-253.--Ed.]
[Footnote x: Probably the valley between Martigny and the Col de
Balme.--Ed.]
[Footnote y: Wordsworth and Jones crossed from Martigny to Chamouni on
the 11th of August. The "bare ridge," from which they first "beheld
unveiled the summit of Mont Blanc," and were disenchanted, was doubtless
the Col de Balme. The first view of the great mountain is not impressive
as seen from that point, or indeed from any of the possible routes to
Chamouni from the Rhone valley, until the village is almost reached. The
best approach is from Sallanches by St. Gervais.--Ed.]
[Footnote z: Compare Coleridge's 'Hymn before sun-rise in the Vale of
Chamouni', and Shelley's 'Mont Blanc', with Wordsworth's description of
the Alps, here in 'The Prelude', in 'Descriptive Sketches', and in the
'Memorials of a Tour on the Continent'.--Ed.]
[Footnote Aa: August 17, 1790.--Ed.]
[Footnote Bb: This passage beginning, "The brook and road," was first
published, amongst the "Poems of the Imagination," in the edition of
1845, under the title of 'The Simplon Pass' (see vol. ii. p. 69). It is
doubtless to this walk down the Italian side of the Simplon route that
Wordsworth refers in the letter to his sister from Keswill, in which he
says,
"The impression of there hours of our walk among these Alps will never
be effaced."
Ed.]
[Footnote Cc: The old hospice in the Simplon, which is beside a torrent
below the level of the road, about 22 miles from Duomo d'Ossola.--Ed.]
[Footnote Dd:
"From Duomo d'Ossola we proceeded to the lake of Locarno,
to visit the Boromean Islands, and thence to Como."
(W. W. to his sister.) The lake of Locarno is now called Lago
Maggiore.--Ed.]
[Footnote Ee:
"The shores of the lake consist of steeps, covered with large sweeping
woods of chestnut, spotted with villages."
(W. W. to his sister.)--Ed.]
[Footnote Ff:
"A small footpath is all the communication by land between one village
and another on the side along which we passed, for upwards of thirty
miles. We entered on this path about noon, and, owing to the steepness
of the banks, were soon unmolested by the sun, which illuminated the
woods, rocks, and villages of the opposite shore."
(See letter of W. W. from Keswill.)--Ed.]
[Footnote Gg: See 'Descriptive Sketches', vol. i. pp. 42-46.--Ed.]
[Footnote Hh: They followed the lake of Como to its head, leaving
Gravedona on the 20th August.--Ed.]
[Footnote Ii: August 21, 1790.--Ed.]
[Footnote Kk: They reached Cologne on the 28th September, having floated
down the Rhine in a small boat; and from Cologne went to Calais, through
Belgium.--Ed.]
* * * * *
BOOK SEVENTH
RESIDENCE IN LONDON
Six changeful years have vanished since I first
Poured out (saluted by that quickening breeze
Which met me issuing from the City's [A] walls)
A glad preamble to this Verse: [B] I sang
Aloud, with fervour irresistible 5
Of short-lived transport, like a torrent bursting,
From a black thunder-cloud, down Scafell's side
To rush and disappear. But soon broke forth
(So willed the Muse) a less impetuous stream,
That flowed awhile with unabating strength, 10
Then stopped for years; not audible again
Before last primrose-time, [C] Beloved Friend!
The assurance which then cheered some heavy thoughts
On thy departure to a foreign land [D]
Has failed; too slowly moves the promised work. 15
Through the whole summer have I been at rest, [E]
Partly from voluntary holiday,
And part through outward hindrance. But I heard,
After the hour of sunset yester-even,
Sitting within doors between light and dark, 20
A choir of redbreasts gathered somewhere near
My threshold,--minstrels from the distant woods
Sent in on Winter's service, to announce,
With preparation artful and benign,
That the rough lord had left the surly North 25
On his accustomed journey. The delight,
Due to this timely notice, unawares
Smote me, and, listening, I in whispers said,
"Ye heartsome Choristers, ye and I will be
Associates, and, unscared by blustering winds, 30
Will chant together." Thereafter, as the shades
Of twilight deepened, going forth, I spied
A glow-worm underneath a dusky plume
Or canopy of yet unwithered fern,
Clear-shining, like a hermit's taper seen 35
Through a thick forest. Silence touched me here
No less than sound had done before; the child
Of Summer, lingering, shining, by herself,
The voiceless worm on the unfrequented hills,
Seemed sent on the same errand with the choir 40
Of Winter that had warbled at my door,
And the whole year breathed tenderness and love.
The last night's genial feeling overflowed
Upon this morning, and my favourite grove,
Tossing in sunshine its dark boughs aloft, [F] 45
As if to make the strong wind visible,
Wakes in me agitations like its own,
A spirit friendly to the Poet's task,
Which we will now resume with lively hope,
Nor checked by aught of tamer argument 50
That lies before us, needful to be told.
Returned from that excursion, [G] soon I bade
Farewell for ever to the sheltered seats [H]
Of gownèd students, quitted hall and bower,
And every comfort of that privileged ground, 55
Well pleased to pitch a vagrant tent among
The unfenced regions of society.
Yet, undetermined to what course of life
I should adhere, and seeming to possess
A little space of intermediate time 60
At full command, to London first I turned, [I]
In no disturbance of excessive hope,
By personal ambition unenslaved,
Frugal as there was need, and, though self-willed,
From dangerous passions free. Three years had flown [K] 65
Since I had felt in heart and soul the shock
Of the huge town's first presence, and had paced
Her endless streets, a transient visitant: [K]
Now, fixed amid that concourse of mankind
Where Pleasure whirls about incessantly, 70
And life and labour seem but one, I filled
An idler's place; an idler well content
To have a house (what matter for a home?)
That owned him; living cheerfully abroad
With unchecked fancy ever on the stir, 75
And all my young affections out of doors.
There was a time when whatsoe'er is feigned
Of airy palaces, and gardens built
By Genii of romance; or hath in grave
Authentic history been set forth of Rome, 80
Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis;
Or given upon report by pilgrim friars,
Of golden cities ten months' journey deep
Among Tartarian wilds--fell short, far short,
Of what my fond simplicity believed 85
And thought of London--held me by a chain
Less strong of wonder and obscure delight.
Whether the bolt of childhood's Fancy shot
For me beyond its ordinary mark,
'Twere vain to ask; but in our flock of boys 90
Was One, a cripple from his birth, whom chance
Summoned from school to London; fortunate
And envied traveller! When the Boy returned,
After short absence, curiously I scanned
His mien and person, nor was free, in sooth, 95
From disappointment, not to find some change
In look and air, from that new region brought,
As if from Fairy-land. Much I questioned him;
And every word he uttered, on my ears
Fell flatter than a cagèd parrot's note, 100
That answers unexpectedly awry,
And mocks the prompter's listening. Marvellous things
Had vanity (quick Spirit that appears
Almost as deeply seated and as strong
In a Child's heart as fear itself) conceived 105
For my enjoyment. Would that I could now
Recal what then I pictured to myself,
Of mitred Prelates, Lords in ermine clad,
The King, and the King's Palace, and, not last,
Nor least, Heaven bless him! the renowned Lord Mayor: 110
Dreams not unlike to those which once begat
A change of purpose in young Whittington,
When he, a friendless and a drooping boy,
Sate on a stone, and heard the bells speak out
Articulate music. [L] Above all, one thought 115
Baffled my understanding: how men lived
Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet still
Strangers, not knowing each the other's name.
O, wond'rous power of words, by simple faith
Licensed to take the meaning that we love! 120
Vauxhall and Ranelagh! I then had heard
Of your green groves, [M] and wilderness of lamps
Dimming the stars, and fireworks magical,
And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes,
Floating in dance, or warbling high in air 125
The songs of spirits! Nor had Fancy fed
With less delight upon that other class
Of marvels, broad-day wonders permanent:
The River proudly bridged; the dizzy top
And Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's; the tombs 130
Of Westminster; the Giants of Guildhall;
Bedlam, and those carved maniacs at the gates, [N]
Perpetually recumbent; Statues--man,
And the horse under him--in gilded pomp
Adorning flowery gardens, 'mid vast squares; 135
The Monument, [O] and that Chamber of the Tower [P]
Where England's sovereigns sit in long array,
Their steeds bestriding,--every mimic shape
Cased in the gleaming mail the monarch wore,
Whether for gorgeous tournament addressed, 140
Or life or death upon the battle-field.
Those bold imaginations in due time
Had vanished, leaving others in their stead:
And now I looked upon the living scene;
Familiarly perused it; oftentimes, 145
In spite of strongest disappointment, pleased
Through courteous self-submission, as a tax
Paid to the object by prescriptive right.
Rise up, thou monstrous ant-hill on the plain
Of a too busy world! Before me flow, 150
Thou endless stream of men and moving things!
Thy every-day appearance, as it strikes--
With wonder heightened, or sublimed by awe--
On strangers, of all ages; the quick dance
Of colours, lights, and forms; the deafening din; 155
The comers and the goers face to face,
Face after face; the string of dazzling wares,
Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned names,
And all the tradesman's honours overhead:
Here, fronts of houses, like a title-page, 160
With letters huge inscribed from top to toe,
Stationed above the door, like guardian saints;
There, allegoric shapes, female or male,
Or physiognomies of real men,
Land-warriors, kings, or admirals of the sea, 165
Boyle, Shakespeare, Newton, or the attractive head
Of some quack-doctor, famous in his day.
Meanwhile the roar continues, till at length,
Escaped as from an enemy, we turn
Abruptly into some sequestered nook, 170
Still as a sheltered place when winds blow loud!
At leisure, thence, through tracts of thin resort,
And sights and sounds that come at intervals,
We take our way. A raree-show is here,
With children gathered round; another street 175
Presents a company of dancing dogs,
Or dromedary, with an antic pair
Of monkeys on his back; a minstrel band
Of Savoyards; or, single and alone,
An English ballad-singer. Private courts, 180
Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes
Thrilled by some female vendor's scream, belike
The very shrillest of all London cries,
May then entangle our impatient steps;
Conducted through those labyrinths, unawares, 185
To privileged regions and inviolate,
Where from their airy lodges studious lawyers
Look out on waters, walks, and gardens green.
Thence back into the throng, until we reach,
Following the tide that slackens by degrees, 190
Some half-frequented scene, where wider streets
Bring straggling breezes of suburban air.
Here files of ballads dangle from dead walls;
Advertisements, of giant-size, from high
Press forward, in all colours, on the sight; 195
These, bold in conscious merit, lower down;
_That_, fronted with a most imposing word,
Is, peradventure, one in masquerade.
As on the broadening causeway we advance,
Behold, turned upwards, a face hard and strong 200
In lineaments, and red with over-toil.
'Tis one encountered here and everywhere;
A travelling cripple, by the trunk cut short,
And stumping on his arms. In sailor's garb
Another lies at length, beside a range 205
Of well-formed characters, with chalk inscribed
Upon the smooth flat stones: the Nurse is here,
The Bachelor, that loves to sun himself,
The military Idler, and the Dame,
That field-ward takes her walk with decent steps. 210
Now homeward through the thickening hubbub, where
See, among less distinguishable shapes,
The begging scavenger, with hat in hand;
The Italian, as he thrids his way with care,
Steadying, far-seen, a frame of images 215
Upon his head; with basket at his breast
The Jew; the stately and slow-moving Turk,
With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm!
Enough;--the mighty concourse I surveyed
With no unthinking mind, well pleased to note 220
Among the crowd all specimens of man,
Through all the colours which the sun bestows,
And every character of form and face:
The Swede, the Russian; from the genial south,
The Frenchman and the Spaniard; from remote 225
America, the Hunter-Indian; Moors,
Malays, Lascars, the Tartar, the Chinese,
And Negro Ladies in white muslin gowns.
At leisure, then, I viewed, from day to day,
The spectacles within doors,--birds and beasts 230
Of every nature, and strange plants convened
From every clime; and, next, those sights that ape
The absolute presence of reality,
Expressing, as in mirror, sea and land,
And what earth is, and what she has to shew. 235
I do not here allude to subtlest craft,
By means refined attaining purest ends,
But imitations, fondly made in plain
Confession of man's weakness and his loves.
Whether the Painter, whose ambitious skill 240
Submits to nothing less than taking in
A whole horizon's circuit, do with power,
Like that of angels or commissioned spirits,
Fix us upon some lofty pinnacle,
Or in a ship on waters, with a world 245
Of life, and life-like mockery beneath,
Above, behind, far stretching and before;
Or more mechanic artist represent
By scale exact, in model, wood or clay,
From blended colours also borrowing help, 250
Some miniature of famous spots or things,--
St. Peter's Church; or, more aspiring aim,
In microscopic vision, Rome herself;
Or, haply, some choice rural haunt,--the Falls
Of Tivoli; and, high upon that steep, 255
The Sibyl's mouldering Temple! every tree,
Villa, or cottage, lurking among rocks
Throughout the landscape; tuft, stone scratch minute--
All that the traveller sees when he is there.
Add to these exhibitions, mute and still, 260
Others of wider scope, where living men,
Music, and shifting pantomimic scenes,
Diversified the allurement. Need I fear
To mention by its name, as in degree,
Lowest of these and humblest in attempt, 265
Yet richly graced with honours of her own,
Half-rural Sadler's Wells? [Q] Though at that time
Intolerant, as is the way of youth
Unless itself be pleased, here more than once
Taking my seat, I saw (nor blush to add, 270
With ample recompense) giants and dwarfs,
Clowns, conjurors, posture-masters, harlequins,
Amid the uproar of the rabblement,
Perform their feats. Nor was it mean delight
To watch crude Nature work in untaught minds; 275
To note the laws and progress of belief;
Though obstinate on this way, yet on that
How willingly we travel, and how far!
To have, for instance, brought upon the scene
The champion, Jack the Giant-killer: Lo! 280
He dons his coat of darkness; on the stage
Walks, and achieves his wonders, from the eye
Of living Mortal covert, "as the moon
Hid in her vacant interlunar cave." [R]
Delusion bold! and how can it be wrought? 285
The garb he wears is black as death, the word
"_Invisible_" flames forth upon his chest.
Here, too, were "forms and pressures of the time," [S]
Rough, bold, as Grecian comedy displayed
When Art was young; dramas of living men, 290
And recent things yet warm with life; a sea-fight,
Shipwreck, or some domestic incident
Divulged by Truth and magnified by Fame,
Such as the daring brotherhood of late
Set forth, too serious theme for that light place--295
I mean, O distant Friend! a story drawn
From our own ground,--the Maid of Buttermere,--[T]
And how, unfaithful to a virtuous wife
Deserted and deceived, the spoiler came
And wooed the artless daughter of the hills, 300
And wedded her, in cruel mockery
Of love and marriage bonds. [U] These words to thee
Must needs bring back the moment when we first,
Ere the broad world rang with the maiden's name,
Beheld her serving at the cottage inn, 305
Both stricken, as she entered or withdrew,
With admiration of her modest mien
And carriage, marked by unexampled grace.
We since that time not unfamiliarly
Have seen her,--her discretion have observed, 310
Her just opinions, delicate reserve,
Her patience, and humility of mind
Unspoiled by commendation and the excess
Of public notice--an offensive light
To a meek spirit suffering inwardly. 315