to determine. It may have been one or other of two places. Wordsworth's
father died at Penrith, and it was there that the sons went for their
Christmas holiday. The road from Penrith to Hawkshead was by Kirkstone
Pass, and Ambleside; and the "led palfreys" sent to take the boys home
would certainly come through the latter town. Now there are only two
roads from Ambleside to Hawkshead, which meet at a point about a mile
north of Hawkshead, called in the Ordnance map "Outgate." The eastern
road is now chiefly used by carriages, being less hilly and better made
than the western one. The latter would be quite as convenient as the
former for horses. If one were to walk out from Hawkshead village to the
place where the two roads separate at "Outgate," and then ascend the
ridge between them, he would find several places from which he could
overlook _both_ roads "far stretched," were the view not now intercepted
by numerous plantations. (The latter are of comparatively recent
growth.) Dr. Cradock,--to whom I am indebted for this, and for many
other suggestions as to localities alluded to by Wordsworth,--thinks
that
"a point, marked on the map as 'High Crag' between the two roads, and
about three-quarters of a mile from their point of divergence, answers
the description as well as any other. It may be nearly two miles from
Hawkshead, a distance of which an active eager school-boy would think
nothing. The 'blasted hawthorn' and the 'naked wall' are probably
things of the past as much as the 'single sheep.'"
Doubtless this may be the spot,--a green, rocky knoll with a steep face
to the north, where a quarry is wrought, and with a plantation to the
east. It commands a view of both roads. The other possible place is a
crag, not a quarter of a mile from Outgate, a little to the right of the
place where the two roads divide. A low wall runs up across it to the
top, dividing a plantation of oak, hazel, and ash, from the firs that
crown the summit. These firs, which are larch and spruce, seem all of
this century. The top of the crag may have been bare when Wordsworth
lived at Hawkshead. But at the foot of the path along the dividing wall
there are a few (probably older) trees; and a solitary walk beneath
them, at noon or dusk, is almost as suggestive to the imagination, as
repose under the yews of Borrowdale, listening to "the mountain flood"
on Glaramara. There one may still hear the bleak music from the old
stone wall, and "the noise of wood and water," while the loud dry wind
whistles through the underwood, or moans amid the fir trees of the Crag,
on the summit of which there is a "blasted hawthorn" tree. It may be
difficult now to determine the precise spot to which the boy Wordsworth
climbed on that eventful day--afterwards so significant to him, and from
the events of which, he says, he drank "as at a fountain"--but I think
it may have been to one or other of these two crags. (See, however, Mr.
Rawnsley's conjecture in Note V. in the Appendix to this volume, p.
391.)--Ed.]
* * * * *
BOOK THIRTEENTH
IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED--concluded.
From Nature doth emotion come, and moods
Of calmness equally are Nature's gift:
This is her glory; these two attributes
Are sister horns that constitute her strength.
Hence Genius, born to thrive by interchange 5
Of peace and excitation, finds in her
His best and purest friend; from her receives
That energy by which he seeks the truth,
From her that happy stillness of the mind
Which fits him to receive it when unsought. [A] 10
Such benefit the humblest intellects
Partake of, each in their degree; 'tis mine
To speak, what I myself have known and felt;
Smooth task! for words find easy way, inspired
By gratitude, and confidence in truth. 15
Long time in search of knowledge did I range
The field of human life, in heart and mind
Benighted; but, the dawn beginning now
To re-appear, 'twas proved that not in vain
I had been taught to reverence a Power 20
That is the visible quality and shape
And image of right reason; that matures
Her processes by steadfast laws; gives birth
To no impatient or fallacious hopes,
No heat of passion or excessive zeal, 25
No vain conceits; provokes to no quick turns
Of self-applauding intellect; but trains
To meekness, and exalts by humble faith;
Holds up before the mind intoxicate
With present objects, and the busy dance 30
Of things that pass away, a temperate show
Of objects that endure; and by this course
Disposes her, when over-fondly set
On throwing off incumbrances, to seek
In man, and in the frame of social life, 35
Whate'er there is desirable and good
Of kindred permanence, unchanged in form
And function, or, through strict vicissitude
Of life and death, revolving. Above all
Were re-established now those watchful thoughts 40
Which, seeing little worthy or sublime
In what the Historian's pen so much delights
To blazon--power and energy detached
From moral purpose--early tutored me
To look with feelings of fraternal love 45
Upon the unassuming things that hold
A silent station in this beauteous world.
Thus moderated, thus composed, I found
Once more in Man an object of delight,
Of pure imagination, and of love; 50
And, as the horizon of my mind enlarged,
Again I took the intellectual eye
For my instructor, studious more to see
Great truths, than touch and handle little ones.
Knowledge was given accordingly; my trust 55
Became more firm in feelings that had stood
The test of such a trial; clearer far
My sense of excellence--of right and wrong:
The promise of the present time retired
Into its true proportion; sanguine schemes, 60
Ambitious projects, pleased me less; I sought
For present good in life's familiar face,
And built thereon my hopes of good to come.
With settling judgments now of what would last
And what would disappear; prepared to find 65
Presumption, folly, madness, in the men
Who thrust themselves upon the passive world
As Rulers of the world; to see in these,
Even when the public welfare is their aim,
Plans without thought, or built on theories 70
Vague and unsound; and having brought the books
Of modern statists to their proper test,
Life, human life, with all its sacred claims
Of sex and age, and heaven-descended rights,
Mortal, or those beyond the reach of death; 75
And having thus discerned how dire a thing
Is worshipped in that idol proudly named
"The Wealth of Nations," _where_ alone that wealth
Is lodged, and how increased; and having gained
A more judicious knowledge of the worth 80
And dignity of individual man,
No composition of the brain, but man
Of whom we read, the man whom we behold
With our own eyes--I could not but inquire--
Not with less interest than heretofore, 85
But greater, though in spirit more subdued--
Why is this glorious creature to be found
One only in ten thousand? What one is,
Why may not millions be? What bars are thrown
By Nature in the way of such a hope? 90
Our animal appetites and daily wants,
Are these obstructions insurmountable?
If not, then others vanish into air.
"Inspect the basis of the social pile:
Inquire," said I, "how much of mental power 95
And genuine virtue they possess who live
By bodily toil, labour exceeding far
Their due proportion, under all the weight
Of that injustice which upon ourselves
Ourselves entail." Such estimate to frame 100
I chiefly looked (what need to look beyond?)
Among the natural abodes of men,
Fields with their rural works; [B] recalled to mind
My earliest notices; with these compared
The observations made in later youth, 105
And to that day continued.--For, the time
Had never been when throes of mighty Nations
And the world's tumult unto me could yield,
How far soe'er transported and possessed,
Full measure of content; but still I craved 110
An intermingling of distinct regards
And truths of individual sympathy
Nearer ourselves. Such often might be gleaned
From the great City, else it must have proved
To me a heart-depressing wilderness; 115
But much was wanting: therefore did I turn
To you, ye pathways, and ye lonely roads;
Sought you enriched with everything I prized,
With human kindnesses and simple joys.
Oh! next to one dear state of bliss, vouchsafed 120
Alas! to few in this untoward world,
The bliss of walking daily in life's prime
Through field or forest with the maid we love,
While yet our hearts are young, while yet we breathe
Nothing but happiness, in some lone nook, 125
Deep vale, or any where, the home of both,
From which it would be misery to stir:
Oh! next to such enjoyment of our youth,
In my esteem, next to such dear delight,
Was that of wandering on from day to day 130
Where I could meditate in peace, and cull
Knowledge that step by step might lead me on
To wisdom; or, as lightsome as a bird
Wafted upon the wind from distant lands,
Sing notes of greeting to strange fields or groves, 135
Which lacked not voice to welcome me in turn:
And, when that pleasant toil had ceased to please,
Converse with men, where if we meet a face
We almost meet a friend, on naked heaths
With long long ways before, by cottage bench, 140
Or well-spring where the weary traveller rests.
Who doth not love to follow with his eye
The windings of a public way? the sight,
Familiar object as it is, hath wrought
On my imagination since the morn 145
Of childhood, when a disappearing line,
One daily present to my eyes, that crossed
The naked summit of a far-off hill
Beyond the limits that my feet had trod,
Was like an invitation into space 150
Boundless, or guide into eternity. [C]
Yes, something of the grandeur which invests
The mariner who sails the roaring sea
Through storm and darkness, early in my mind
Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the earth; 155
Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more.
Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites;
From many other uncouth vagrants (passed
In fear) have walked with quicker step; but why
Take note of this? When I began to enquire, 160
To watch and question those I met, and speak
Without reserve to them, the lonely roads
Were open schools in which I daily read
With most delight the passions of mankind,
Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears, revealed; 165
There saw into the depth of human souls,
Souls that appear to have no depth at all
To careless eyes. And-now convinced at heart
How little those formalities, to which
With overweening trust alone we give 170
The name of Education, have to do
With real feeling and just sense; how vain
A correspondence with the talking world
Proves to the most; and called to make good search
If man's estate, by doom of Nature yoked 175
With toil, be therefore yoked with ignorance;
If virtue be indeed so hard to rear,
And intellectual strength so rare a boon--
I prized such walks still more, for there I found
Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure peace 180
And steadiness, and healing and repose
To every angry passion. There I heard,
From mouths of men obscure and lowly, truths
Replete with honour; sounds in unison
With loftiest promises of good and fair. 185
There are who think that strong affection, love [D]
Known by whatever name, is falsely deemed
A gift, to use a term which they would use,
Of vulgar nature; that its growth requires
Retirement, leisure, language purified 190
By manners studied and elaborate;
That whoso feels such passion in its strength
Must live within the very light and air
Of courteous usages refined by art.
True is it, where oppression worse than death 195
Salutes the being at his birth, where grace
Of culture hath been utterly unknown,
And poverty and labour in excess
From day to day pre-occupy the ground
Of the affections, and to Nature's self 200
Oppose a deeper nature; there, indeed,
Love cannot be; nor does it thrive with ease
Among the close and overcrowded haunts
Of cities, where the human heart is sick,
And the eye feeds it not, and cannot feed. 205
--Yes, in those wanderings deeply did I feel
How we mislead each other; above all,
How books mislead us, seeking their reward
From judgments of the wealthy Few, who see
By artificial lights; how they debase 210
The Many for the pleasure of those Few;
Effeminately level down the truth
To certain general notions, for the sake
Of being understood at once, or else
Through want of better knowledge in the heads 215
That framed them; nattering self-conceit with words,
That, while they most ambitiously set forth
Extrinsic differences, the outward marks
Whereby society has parted man
From man, neglect the universal heart. 220
Here, calling up to mind what then I saw,
A youthful traveller, and see daily now
In the familiar circuit of my home,
Here might I pause, and bend in reverence
To Nature, and the power of human minds, 225
To men as they are men within themselves.
How oft high service is performed within,
When all the external man is rude in show,--
Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold,
But a mere mountain chapel, that protects 230
Its simple worshippers from sun and shower.
Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these,
If future years mature me for the task,
Will I record the praises, making verse
Deal boldly with substantial things; in truth 235
And sanctity of passion, speak of these,
That justice may be done, obeisance paid
Where it is due: thus haply shall I teach,
Inspire, through unadulterated ears
Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope,--my theme 240
No other than the very heart of man,
As found among the best of those who live,
Not unexalted by religious faith,
Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few,
In Nature's presence: thence may I select 245
Sorrow, that is not sorrow, but delight;
And miserable love, that is not pain
To hear of, for the glory that redounds
Therefrom to human kind, and what we are.
Be mine to follow with no timid step 250
Where knowledge leads me: it shall be my pride
That I have dared to tread this holy ground,
Speaking no dream, but things oracular;
Matter not lightly to be heard by those
Who to the letter of the outward promise 255
Do read the invisible soul; by men adroit
In speech, and for communion with the world
Accomplished; minds whose faculties are then
Most active when they are most eloquent,
And elevated most when most admired. 260
Men may be found of other mould than these,
Who are their own upholders, to themselves
Encouragement, and energy, and will,
Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words
As native passion dictates. Others, too, 265
There are among the walks of homely life
Still higher, men for contemplation framed,
Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase;
Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink
Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse: 270
Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power,
The thought, the image, and the silent joy:
Words are but under-agents in their souls;
When they are grasping with their greatest strength,
They do not breathe among them: this I speak 275
In gratitude to God, Who feeds our hearts
For His own service; knoweth, loveth us,
When we are unregarded by the world.
Also, about this time did I receive
Convictions still more strong than heretofore, 280
Not only that the inner frame is good,
And graciously composed, but that, no less,
Nature for all conditions wants not power
To consecrate, if we have eyes to see,
The outside of her creatures, and to breathe 285
Grandeur upon the very humblest face
Of human life. I felt that the array
Of act and circumstance, and visible form,
Is mainly to the pleasure of the mind
What passion makes them; that meanwhile the forms 290
Of Nature have a passion in themselves,
That intermingles with those works of man
To which she summons him; although the works
Be mean, have nothing lofty of their own;
And that the Genius of the Poet hence 295
May boldly take his way among mankind
Wherever Nature leads; that he hath stood
By Nature's side among the men of old,
And so shall stand for ever. Dearest Friend!
If thou partake the animating faith 300
That Poets, even as Prophets, each with each
Connected in a mighty scheme of truth,
Have each his own peculiar faculty,
Heaven's gift, a sense that fits him to perceive
Objects unseen before, thou wilt not blame 305
The humblest of this band who dares to hope
That unto him hath also been vouchsafed
An insight that in some sort he possesses,
A privilege whereby a work of his,
Proceeding from a source of untaught things, 310
Creative and enduring, may become
A power like one of Nature's. To a hope
Not less ambitious once among the wilds
Of Sarum's Plain, [E] my youthful spirit was raised;
There, as I ranged at will the pastoral downs 315
Trackless and smooth, or paced the bare white roads
Lengthening in solitude their dreary line,
Time with his retinue of ages fled
Backwards, nor checked his flight until I saw
Our dim ancestral Past in vision clear; 320
Saw multitudes of men, and, here and there,
A single Briton clothed in wolf-skin vest,
With shield and stone-axe, stride across the wold;
The voice of spears was heard, the rattling spear
Shaken by arms of mighty bone, in strength, 325
Long mouldered, of barbaric majesty.
I called on Darkness--but before the word
Was uttered, midnight darkness seemed to take
All objects from my sight; and lo! again
The Desert visible by dismal flames; 330
It is the sacrificial altar, fed
With living men--how deep the groans! the voice
Of those that crowd the giant wicker thrills
The monumental hillocks, and the pomp
Is for both worlds, the living and the dead. 335
At other moments (for through that wide waste
Three summer days I roamed) where'er the Plain
Was figured o'er with circles, lines, or mounds, [F]
That yet survive, a work, as some divine,
Shaped by the Druids, so to represent 340
Their knowledge of the heavens, and image forth
The constellations; gently was I charmed
Into a waking dream, a reverie
That, with believing eyes, where'er I turned,
Beheld long-bearded teachers, with white wands 345
Uplifted, pointing to the starry sky,
Alternately, and plain below, while breath
Of music swayed their motions, and the waste
Rejoiced with them and me in those sweet sounds.
This for the past, and things that may be viewed 350
Or fancied in the obscurity of years
From monumental hints: and thou, O Friend!
Pleased with some unpremeditated strains
That served those wanderings to beguile, [G] hast said
That then and there my mind had exercised 355
Upon the vulgar forms of present things,
The actual world of our familiar days,
Yet higher power; had caught from them a tone,
An image, and a character, by books
Not hitherto reflected. [H] Call we this 360
A partial judgment--and yet why? for _then_
We were as strangers; and I may not speak
Thus wrongfully of verse, however rude,
Which on thy young imagination, trained
In the great City, broke like light from far. 365
Moreover, each man's Mind is to herself
Witness and judge; and I remember well
That in life's every-day appearances
I seemed about this time to gain clear sight
Of a new world--a world, too, that was fit 370
To be transmitted, and to other eyes
Made visible; as ruled by those fixed laws
Whence spiritual dignity originates,
Which do both give it being and maintain
A balance, an ennobling interchange 375
Of action from without and from within;
The excellence, pure function, and best power
Both of the object seen, and eye that sees.
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Compare 'Expostulation and Reply', vol. i. p. 273:
'Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?'
Mr. William Davies writes:
"Is he absolutely right in attributing these powers to the objects of
Nature, which are only symbols after all? Is there not a more
penetrative and ethereal perceptive power in the human mind, which is
able to transfer itself immediately to the spiritual plane,
transcending that of visible Nature? Plato saw it; the old Vedantist
still more clearly--and what is more--reached it. He arrived at the
knowledge and perception of essential Being: though he could neither
define nor limit, in a human formula, because it is undefinable and
illimitable, but positive and abstract, universally diffused, 'smaller
than small, greater than great,' the internal Light, Monitor, Guide,
Rest, waiting to be seen, recognised, and known in every heart; not
depending on the powers of Nature for enlightenment and instruction,
but itself enlightening and instructing: not merely a receptive, but
the motive power of Nature; which bestows _itself_ upon Nature, and
only receives from it that which it bestows. Is it not, as he says
farther on, better 'to see great truths,' even if not so strictly in
line and form, 'touch and handle little ones,' to take the highest
point of view we can reach, not a lower one? And surely it is a higher
thing to rule over and subdue Nature, than to lie ruled and subdued by
it? The highest form of Religion has always done this."
Ed.]
[Footnote B: Compare 'The Old Cumberland Beggar', l. 49 (vol. i. p.
301).--Ed.]
[Footnote C: For a hint in reference to this road, I am indebted to the
late Dr. Henry Dodgson of Cockermouth. Referring to my suggestion that
it might be the road from Cockermouth to Bridekirk, he wrote (July
1878),
"I scarcely think that road answers to the description. The hill over
which it goes is not naked but well wooded, and has probably been so
for many years. Besides, it is not visible from Wordsworth's house,
nor from the garden behind it. This garden extends from the house to
the river Derwent, from which it is separated by a wall, with a raised
terraced walk on the inner side, and nearly on a level with the top. I
understand that this terrace was in existence in the poet's time....
Its direction is nearly due east and west; and looking eastward from
it, there is a hill which bounds the view in that direction, and which
fully corresponds to the description in 'The Prelude'. It is from one
and a half to two miles distant, of considerable height, is bare and
destitute of trees, and has a road going directly over its summit, as
seen from the terrace in Wordsworth's garden. This road is now used
only as a footpath; but, fifty or sixty years ago it was the highroad
to Isel, a hamlet on the Derwent, about three and a half miles from
Cockermouth, in the direction of Bassenthwaite Lake. The hill is
locally called 'the Hay,' but on the Ordnance map it is marked 'Watch
Hill.'"
There can be little doubt as to the accuracy of this suggestion. No
other hill-road is visible from the house or garden at Cockermouth. The
view from the front of the old mansion is limited by houses, doubtless
more so now than in last century; but there is no hill towards the
Lorton Fells on the south or south-east, with a road over it, visible
from any part of the town. Besides, as this was a very early experience
of Wordsworth's--it was in "the morn of childhood" that the road was
"daily present to his sight"--it must have been seen, either from the
house or from the garden. It is almost certain that he refers to the
path over the Hay or Watch Hill, which he and his "sister Emmeline"
could see daily from the high terrace, at the foot of their garden in
Cockermouth, where they used to "chase the butterfly" and visit the
"sparrow's nest" in the "impervious shelter" of privet and roses.
Dr. Cradock wrote to me (January 1886),
"an old map of the county round about Keswick, including Cockermouth,
dated 1789, entirely confirms Dr. Dodgson's statement. The road over
'Hay Hill' is marked clearly as a carriage road to Isel. The miles are
marked on the map. The 'summit' of the hill is 'naked': for the map
marks woods, where they existed, and none are marked on Hay
Hill."--Ed.]
[Footnote D: A part of the following paragraph is written with sundry
variations of text, in Dorothy Wordsworth's MS. book, dated May to
December 1802.--Ed.]
[Footnote E: In the summer of 1793, on his return from the Isle of
Wight, and before proceeding to Bristol and Wales, he wandered with his
friend William Calvert over Salisbury plain for three days.--Ed.]
[Footnote F: Compare the reference to "Sarum's naked plain" in the third
book of 'The Excursion', l. 148.--Ed.]
[Footnote G: The reference is to 'Guilt and Sorrow'. See the
introductory, and the Fenwick, note to this poem, in vol. i. pp.
77-79.--Ed.]
[Footnote H: Coleridge read 'Descriptive Sketches' when an undergraduate
at Cambridge in 1793--before the two men had met--and wrote thus of
them:
"Seldom, if ever, was the emergence of a great and original poetic
genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced."
See 'Biographia Literaria', i. p. 25 (edition 1842).--Ed.]
* * * * *
BOOK FOURTEENTH
CONCLUSION
In one of those excursions (may they ne'er
Fade from remembrance!) through the Northern tracts
Of Cambria ranging with a youthful friend, [A]
I left Bethgelert's huts at couching-time,
And westward took my way, to see the sun 5
Rise from the top of Snowdon. To the door
Of a rude cottage at the mountain's base
We came, and roused the shepherd who attends
The adventurous stranger's steps, a trusty guide;
Then, cheered by short refreshment, sallied forth. 10