Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays,
To sweep along the plain of Windermere
With rival oars; and the selected bourne
Was now an Island musical with birds
That sang and ceased not; now a Sister Isle
Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown
With lilies of the valley like a field;
And now a third small Island, where survived
In solitude the ruins of a shrine
Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served
Daily with chaunted rites. In such a race,
So ended, disappointment could be none,
Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy:
We rested in the shade, all pleased alike,
Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength,
And the vainglory of superior skill,
Were tempered."
Wordsworth's boyhood was probably very much like that of other boys. He
tells us that he was "stiff, moody, and of a violent temper"--so much so
that he went up into his grandfather's attic one day, while under the
resentment of some indignity, determined to destroy himself. But his
heart failed. On another occasion he relates that while at his
grandfather's house in Penrith, he and his eldest brother Richard were
whipping tops in the large drawing-room. "The walls were hung round with
family pictures, and I said to my brother, 'Dare you strike your whip
through that old lady's petticoat?' He replied, 'No, I won't.' 'Then,'
said I, 'here goes!' and I struck my lash through her hooped petticoat;
for which, no doubt, though I have forgotten it, I was properly
punished. But, possibly from some want of judgment in the punishments
inflicted, I had become perverse and obstinate in defying chastisement,
and rather proud of it than otherwise." Lowell remarks upon this
incident: "Just so do we find him afterward striking his defiant lash
through the hooped petticoat of the artificial style of poetry, and
proudly unsubdued by the punishment of the Reviewers." When scarcely ten
years old, it was his joy
"To range the open heights where woodcocks run."
He would spend half the night "scudding away from snare to snare,"
sometimes yielding to the temptation to take the birds caught in the
snare of some other lad. He felt the average boy's terror inspired by a
guilty conscience, for he says:--
"And when the deed was done,
I heard among the solitary hills
Low breathings coming after me, and sounds
Of undistinguishable motion, steps
Almost as silent as the turf they trod."
Across the lake from where we stood, and over beyond the hills on the
other side, is the quaint old town of Hawkshead, where Wordsworth was
sent to school at the age of nine years. The little schoolhouse may
still be seen, but it is of small import. The real scenes of
Wordsworth's early education were the woods and vales, the solitary
cliffs, the rocks and pools, and the Lake of Esthwaite, five miles
round, which he was fond of encircling in his early morning walks, that
he might sit
"Alone upon some jutting eminence,
At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale,
Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude."
In winter-time "a noisy crew" made merry upon the icy surface of the
lake.
"All shod with steel,
We hissed along the polished ice in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures,--the resounding horn,
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle."
Nor were the pleasures of social life lacking. Dances, feasts, public
revelry, and
"A swarm
Of heady schemes, jostling each other,"
all seemed for a time to conspire to lure his mind away from the paths
of "books and nature," which he would have preferred. But, curiously
enough, it was after one of these nights of revelry that, on his way
home, Wordsworth was so much impressed with the beauties of the dawn
that he felt the impulse, previously mentioned, to devote himself to
poetry.
No other poet ever gave such an account of the development of his own
mind as Wordsworth gives in the "Prelude." And while he recounts enough
incidents like the snaring of woodcock, the fishing for trout in the
quiet pools and the cascades of the mountain brooks, the flying of kites
on the hilltops, the nutting expeditions, the rowing on the lake, and in
the winter-time the skating and dancing, to convince us that he was
really a boy, yet he continually shows that beneath it all there was a
deeper feeling--a prophecy of the man who was even then developing. No
ordinary boy would have been conscious of "a sense of pain" at beholding
the mutilated hazel boughs which he had broken in his search for nuts.
No ordinary lad of ten would be able to hold
"Unconscious intercourse with beauty
Old as creation, drinking in a pure
Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths
Of curling mist, or from the level plain
Of waters colored by impending clouds."
Even at that early age, in the midst of all his pleasures he felt
"Gleams like the flashing of a shield;--the earth
And common face of Nature spake to me
Rememberable things."
The secret of Wordsworth's power lay in the fact that, throughout a long
life, nature was to him a vital, living Presence--one capable of
uplifting mankind to loftier aspirations, of teaching noble truths, and
at the same time providing tranquillity and rest to the soul. As a boy
he had felt for nature
"A feeling and a love
That had no need of a remoter charm."
But manhood brought a deeper joy.
"For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of
Something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods
And mountains, and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear--both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being."
In these noble lines we reach the very summit of Wordsworth's
intellectual power and poetic genius.
We must now retrace our steps to the village and find a carriage to take
us on our journey. For we are not like our English friends, who are good
walkers, nor do we care to emulate the pedestrian attainments of our
poet, who, De Quincey thought, must have traversed a distance of one
hundred and seventy-five thousand to one hundred and eighty thousand
English miles. So a comfortable landau takes us on our way, skirting the
upper margin of the lake, then winding along the river Brathay, pausing
for a moment to view the charming little cascade of Skelwith Force, then
on again until Red Bank is reached, overlooking the vale of Grasmere.
The first glimpse of this placid little lake, "with its one green
island," its shores well fringed with the budding foliage of spring, the
gently undulating hills forming as it were a graceful frame to the
mirror of the waters, in which the reflection of the blue sky and fleecy
white clouds seemed even more beautiful than their original
overhead--the first glimpse could scarcely fail to arouse the emotions
of the most apathetic and stir up a poetic feeling in the most unpoetic
of natures.
To a mind like Wordsworth's, such a scene was an inspiration, a
revelation of Nature's charms such as could arouse an almost ecstatic
enthusiasm in the heart of one who, all his life, had lived amid scenes
of beauty and possessed the eyes to see them. He came here first "a
roving schoolboy," on a "golden summer holiday," and even then said,
with a sigh,--
"What happy fortune were it here to live!"
He had no thought, nor even hope, that he would ever realize such good
fortune, but only
"A fancy in the heart of what might be
The lot of others never could be his."
[Illustration: GRASMERE LAKE]
Possibly he may have stood on this very knoll where we were enjoying our
first view:--
"The station whence we looked was soft and green,
Not giddy, yet aerial, with a depth
Of vale below, a height of hills above.
For rest of body perfect was the spot,
All that luxurious nature could desire;
But stirring to the spirit; who could gaze
And not feel motions there?"
Many years later, in the summer of 1799, Wordsworth and Coleridge were
walking together over the hills and valleys of Westmoreland and
Cumberland, hoping to find, each for himself, a home where they might
dwell as neighbors. Since receiving his degree at Cambridge in 1791
Wordsworth had wandered about in a somewhat aimless way, living for a
time in London and in France, visiting Germany, and finally attempting
to find a home in the south of England. A small legacy left him in 1795
had given a feeling of independence, and his one consuming desire at
this time was to establish a home where his beloved sister Dorothy might
be with him and he could devote his entire time to poetry.
A little cottage in a quiet spot just outside the village of Grasmere
attracted his eye. It had been a public-house, and bore the sign "The
Dove and the Olive Bough." He called it "Dove Cottage," and for eight
years it became his home. We found the custodian, a little old lady, in
a penny shop across the street, and she was glad to show us through the
tiny, low-ceilinged rooms. The cottage looks best from the little garden
in the rear. The ivy and the roses soften all the harsh angles of the
eaves and convert even the chimney-pots into things of beauty. A tangled
mass of foliage covers the small back portico and makes a shady nook,
where a little bench is invitingly placed. A few yards up the garden
walk, over stone steps put in place by Wordsworth and Hartley
Coleridge, is the rocky well, or spring, where the poet placed "bright
gowan and marsh marigold" brought from the borders of the lake. At the
farthest end is the little summer-house, the poet's favorite retreat.
How well he loved this garden is shown in the poem written when he left
Grasmere to bring home his bride in 1802:--
"Sweet garden orchard, eminently fair,
The loveliest spot that man hath ever found."
Seating ourselves in this garden, we tried to think of the three
interesting personages who had made the place their home. Coleridge
said, "His is the happiest family I ever saw." They had one common
object--to work together to develop a rare poetic gift. They were poor,
for Wordsworth had only the income of a very small legacy, and the
public had not yet come to recognize his genius; the returns from his
literary work were therefore extremely meager. They got along with
frugal living and poor clothing, but as they made no pretensions they
were never ashamed of their poverty. Visitors came and went, and at the
cost of many little sacrifices were hospitably entertained.
Perhaps the world will never know how much Wordsworth really owed to the
two women of his household. They lived together with no sign of jealousy
or distrust. The husband and brother was the object of their untiring
and sympathetic devotion. They walked with him, read with him, cared for
him. Mrs. Wordsworth seems to have been a plain country-woman of simple
manners, yet possessed of a graciousness and tact which made everything
in the household go smoothly. De Quincey declared that, "without being
handsome or even comely," she exercised "all the practical fascination
of beauty, through the mere compensating charms of sweetness all but
angelic, of simplicity the most entire, womanly self-respect and purity
of heart speaking through all her looks, acts, and movements."
Wordsworth was never more sincere than when he sang,--
"She was a phantom of delight,"
and closed the poem with that splendid tribute to a most excellent
wife:--
"A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light."
He recognized her unusual poetic instinct by giving her full credit for
the best two lines in one of his most beautiful poems, "The
Daffodils":--
"They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude."
To the other member of that household, his sister Dorothy, Wordsworth
gave from early boyhood the full measure of his affection. She was his
constant companion in his walks, at all hours and in all kinds of
weather. She cheerfully performed the irksome task of writing out his
verses from dictation. Her observations of nature were as keen as his,
and the poet was indebted to Dorothy's notebook for many a good
suggestion. He has been most generous in his acknowledgments of his
obligation to her:--
"She gave me eyes, she gave me ears,
And humble cares, and delicate fears,
* * * * *
And love, and thought, and joy."
In the early days when he was overwhelmed with adverse criticism and
brought almost to the verge of despair, it was Dorothy's helping hand
that brought him back to his own.
"She whispered still that brightness would return;
She, in the midst of all, preserved me still
A poet, made me seek beneath that name,
And that alone, my office upon earth."
[Illustration: DOVE COTTAGE, GRASMERE]
But it is De Quincey who gives the best statement of the world's
obligation to Dorothy. Said he:--
Whereas the intellect of Wordsworth was, by its original tendency, too
stern, too austere, too much enamored of an ascetic harsh sublimity,
she it was--the lady who paced by his side continually through sylvan
and mountain tracks, in Highland glens, and in the dim recesses of
German charcoal-burners--that first couched his eye to the sense of
beauty, humanized him by the gentler charities, and engrafted, with
her delicate female touch, those graces upon the ruder growths of
nature which have since clothed the forest of his genius with a
foliage corresponding in loveliness and beauty to the strength of its
boughs and the massiveness of its trunks.
Nearly all of Wordsworth's best poetry was written in this little
cottage, or, to speak more accurately, it was composed while he was
living here. For it was never his way to write verses while seated at a
desk, pen in hand. His study was out of doors. He could compose a long
poem while walking, and remember it all afterward when ready to dictate.
Thousands of verses, he said, were composed on the banks of the brook
running through Easedale, just north of Grasmere Lake. The tall figure
of the poet was a familiar sight to farmers for miles around, as he
paced the woods or mountain paths, his head bent down, and his lips
moving with audible if not distinguishable sounds. One of his neighbors
has left on record an impression of how he seemed when he was "making a
poem."
He would set his head a bit forward, and put his hands behind his
back. And then he would start in bumming, and it was bum, bum, bum,
stop; and then he'd set down, and git a bit o' paper out, and write a
bit. However, his lips were always goan' whoole time he was upon
gress[1] walk. He was a kind mon, there's no two words about that; and
if any one was sick i' the place, he wad be off to see til' 'em.
In personal appearance--about which, by the way, he cared little--he was
not unlike the dalesmen about him. Nearly six feet high, he looked
strong and hardy enough to be a farmer himself. Carlyle speaks of him as
"businesslike, sedately confident, no discourtesy, yet no anxiety about
being courteous; a fine wholesome rusticity, fresh as his mountain
breezes, sat well on the stalwart veteran and on all he said or did."
On our return from Grasmere we took the road along the north shore of
Rydal Water--a small lake with all the characteristic beauty of this
fascinating region, and yet not so different from hundreds of others
that it would ever attract more than passing notice. But the name of
Rydal is linked with that of Grasmere, and the two are visited by
thousands of tourists year after year. For fifty years the shores of
these two lakes and the hills and valleys surrounding them were the
scenes of Wordsworth's daily walks. As we passed we heard the
cuckoo--its mysterious sound seeming to come across the lake--and as our
own thoughts were on Wordsworth, "the wandering Voice" seemed
appropriate. If we could have heard the skylark at that moment, our
sense of satisfaction would have been quite complete, and no doubt we
should have cried out, with the poet,--
"Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, Lark, is strong;
Up with me, up with me into the clouds!
Singing, singing,
With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind."
Just north of the eastern end of the lake, beneath the shadow of Nab
Scar, is Rydal Mount, where the poet came to live in 1813, remaining
until his death, thirty-seven years later. Increasing prosperity enabled
him to take this far more pretentious house. It stands on a hill, a
little off the main road, and quite out of sight of the tourists who
pass through in coaches and _chars-a-bancs_. The drivers usually jerk
their thumbs in the general direction and say, "There is Rydal Mount,"
etc., and the tourists, who have seen only a farmhouse--not
Wordsworth's--are left to imagine that they have seen the house of the
poet.
It is an old house, but some recent changes in doors and windows give it
a more modern aspect. The unaltered portion is thickly covered with ivy.
The ground in front is well planted with a profusion of rhododendrons. A
very old stone stairway descends from the plaza in front of the house to
a kind of mound or rather a double mound, the smaller resting upon a
larger one. From this point the house is seen to the best advantage. In
the opposite direction is a landscape of rare natural beauty. Far away
in the distance lies Lake Windermere glistening like a shield of
polished silver, while on the left Wansfell and on the right Nab Scar
stand guard over the valley. In the foreground the spire of the little
church of Rydal peeps out over the trees.
At the right of the house is a long terrace which formed one of
Wordsworth's favorite walks, where he composed thousands of verses. From
here one may see both Windermere and Rydal Water, with mountains in the
distance. Passing through the garden we came to a gate leading to Dora's
Field. Here is the little pool where Wordsworth and Dora put the little
goldfishes, that they might enjoy a greater liberty. Here is the stone
which Wordsworth saved from destruction by the builders of a stone wall.
A little flight of stone steps leads down to another boulder containing
the following inscription, carved by the poet's own hand:--
Wouldst thou be gathered to Christ's chosen flock
Shun the broad way too easily explored
And let thy path be hewn out of the rock
The living Rock of God's eternal WORD
1838
[Illustration: WORDSWORTH'S WELL]
Dora's field is thickly covered in spring-time with the beautiful golden
daffodils, planted by the poet himself. No sight is more fascinating
at this season than a field of these bright yellow flowers. We
Americans, who only see them planted in gardens, cannot realize what
daffodils mean to the English eye, unless we chance to visit England
during the early spring. What Wordsworth called a "crowd" of daffodils,
growing in thick profusion along the margin of a lake, beneath the
trees, ten thousand to be seen at a glance, all nodding their golden
heads beside the dancing and foaming waves, is a sight well worth
seeing.
"The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude:
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils."
But now the time had come to return to Windermere, and reluctantly we
turned our backs upon these scenes, so full of pleasant memories. The
day, however, was not yet done, for after supper we climbed to the top
of Orrest-Head, a little hill behind the village. No more charming spot
could have been chosen in which to spend the closing hours of this
peaceful day. Far below lay the quiet waters of the lake, only glimpses
of its long and narrow surface appearing here and there, like "burnished
mirrors" set by Nature for the sole purpose of reflecting a magnificent
golden sky. It was "an evening of extraordinary, splendor," like that
one which Wordsworth saw from Rydal Mount:--
"No sound is uttered,--but a deep
And solemn harmony pervades
The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades."
As we stood watching the splendid sunset, the village church rang out
its chimes, as if to accompany the inspiring scene with sweet and holy
music.
"How pleasant, when the sun declines, to view
The spacious landscape change in form and hue!
Here vanish, as in mist, before a flood
Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood;
Their objects, by the searching beams betrayed,
Come forth and here retire in purple shade;
Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white,
Soften their glare before the mellow light."
The shadows which had been slowly falling upon the scene had now so far
enveloped the mountain-side that the narrow roadways and stone fences
marking the boundaries of the fields were barely visible. Suddenly in
the distance we saw a moving object, a mere speck upon the hillside. It
darted first in one direction and then another, like some frightened
being uncertain which way to turn. Then a darker speck appeared, and
with rapid movement circled to the rear of the whiter one, the latter
moving on ahead. Another sudden movement, and a second white speck
appeared in another spot. The black speck as quickly moved to the rear
of this second bit of white, driving it in the same direction as the
first. The white specks then began to seem more numerous. We tried to
count--one--two--three--ten--a dozen--perhaps even twenty. There was but
one black speck, and he seemed to be the master of all the others, for,
darting here and there after the stragglers, he kept them all together.
He drove them along the narrow road. Then, coming to an opening in the
fence, he hurried along to the front of the procession; then, facing
about, deftly turned the whole flock through the gate into a large
field. Through this pasture, with the skill of a military leader, he
marshaled his troop, rushing backwards and forwards, allowing none to
fall behind nor to stray away from the proper path, finally bringing
them up in a compact body to another opening in the opposite end of the
field. On he went, driving his small battalion along the road, then at
right angles into another road, until the whole flock of sheep and the
little black dog who commanded them disappeared for the night among the
out-buildings of a far distant farm.
The twilight had almost gone, and in the growing darkness we retraced
our steps to the village, well content that, through communion with the
Spirit of Wordsworth in the presence of that "mighty Being" who to him
was the great Teacher and Inspirer of mankind, our own love of nature
had been reawakened, and our time well spent on this peaceful,
never-to-be-forgotten day at Windermere.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Grass.
IV
FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN
IV
FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN
"Roslin's towers and braes are bonnie--
Craigs and water! woods and glen!
Roslin's banks! unpeered by ony,
Save the Muse's Hawthornden."
The vale of the Esk is unrivaled, even in Scotland, for beauty and
romantic interest. From its source to where it enters the Firth of
Forth, the little river winds its way past ancient castles with their
romantic legends, famed in poetry and song, and the picturesque homes of
barons and lairds, poets and philosophers, forming as it goes, with
rocks and cliffs, tall trees and overhanging vines, a bewildering
succession of beautiful scenes.
It was to this charming valley that Walter Scott came, with his young
wife, in the first year of their wedded life. A young man of imaginative
and romantic temperament, though as yet unknown to fame, he found the
place an inspiration and delight. A pretty little cottage, with thatched
roof, and a garden commanding a beautiful view, made the home where many
happy summers were spent. This was at Lasswade, a village which took its
striking name from the fact--let us hope it was a fact--that here a
sturdy lass was wont to wade the stream, carrying travelers on her
back,--a ferry service sufficiently romantic to make up for its
uncertainty.