Canto Fourth
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Thus they, with freaks of proud delight, Beguile the remnant of the night; And many a snatch of jovial song Regales them as they wind along; While to the music, from on high, The echoes make a glad reply.— But the sage Muse the revel heeds No farther than her story needs; Nor will she servilely attend The loitering journey to its end. —Blithe spirits of her own impel The Muse, who scents the morning air, To take of this transported pair A brief and unreproved farewell; To quit the slow-paced waggon's side, And wander down yon hawthorn dell, With murmuring Greta for her guide. —There doth she ken the awful form Of Raven-crag—black as a storm— Glimmering through the twilight pale; And Ghimmer-crag, his tall twin brother, Each peering forth to meet the other:— And, while she roves through St. John's Vale, Along the smooth unpathwayed plain, By sheep-track or through cottage lane, Where no disturbance comes to intrude Upon the pensive solitude, Her unsuspecting eye, perchance, With the rude shepherd's favoured glance, Beholds the faeries in array, Whose party-coloured garments gay The silent company betray: Red, green, and blue; a moment's sight! For Skiddaw-top with rosy light Is touched—and all the band take flight. —Fly also, Muse! and from the dell Mount to the ridge of Nathdale Fell; Thence, look thou forth o'er wood and lawn Hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn; Across yon meadowy bottom look, Where close fogs hide their parent brook; And see, beyond that hamlet small, The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall, Lurking in a double shade, By trees and lingering twilight made! There, at Blencathara's rugged feet, Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat To noble Clifford; from annoy Concealed the persecuted boy, Well pleased in rustic garb to feed His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed Among this multitude of hills, Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills; Which soon the morning shall enfold, From east to west, in ample vest Of massy gloom and radiance bold. The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed Hung low, begin to rise and spread; Even while I speak, their skirts of grey Are smitten by a silver ray; And lo!—up Castrigg's naked steep (Where, smoothly urged, the vapours sweep Along—and scatter and divide, Like fleecy clouds self-multiplied) The stately waggon is ascending, With faithful Benjamin attending, Apparent now beside his team— Now lost amid a glittering steam: And with him goes his Sailor-friend, By this time near their journey's end; And, after their high-minded riot, Sickening into thoughtful quiet; As if the morning's pleasant hour, Had for their joys a killing power. And, sooth, for Benjamin a vein Is opened of still deeper pain, As if his heart by notes were stung From out the lowly hedge-rows flung; As if the warbler lost in light Reproved his soarings of the night, In strains of rapture pure and holy Upbraided his distempered folly. Drooping is he, his step is dull; But the horses stretch and pull; With increasing vigour climb, Eager to repair lost time; Whether, by their own desert, Knowing what cause there is for shame, They are labouring to avert As much as may be of the blame, Which, they foresee, must soon alight Upon his head, whom, in despite Of all his failings, they love best; Whether for him they are distrest, Or, by length of fasting roused, Are impatient to be housed: Up against the hill they strain Tugging at the iron chain, Tugging all with might and main, Last and foremost, every horse To the utmost of his force! And the smoke and respiration, Rising like an exhalation, Blend with the mist—a moving shroud To form, an undissolving cloud; Which, with slant ray, the merry sun Takes delight to play upon. Never golden-haired Apollo, Pleased some favourite chief to follow Through accidents of peace or war, In a perilous moment threw Around the object of his care Veil of such celestial hue; Interposed so bright a screen— Him and his enemies between! Alas! what boots it?—who can hide, When the malicious Fates are bent On working out an ill intent? Can destiny be turned aside? No—sad progress of my story! Benjamin, this outward glory Cannot shield thee from thy Master, Who from Keswick has pricked forth, Sour and surly as the north; And, in fear of some disaster, Comes to give what help he may, And to hear what thou canst say; If, as needs he must forebode, Thou hast been loitering on the road! His fears, his doubts, may now take flight— The wishcd-for object is in sight; Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath Stirred him up to livelier wrath; Which he stifles, moody man! With all the patience that he can; To the end that, at your meeting, He may give thee decent greeting. There he is—resolved to stop, Till the waggon gains the top; But stop he cannot—must advance: Him Benjamin, with lucky glance, Espies—and instantly is ready, Self-collected, poised, and steady: And, to be the better seen, Issues from his radiant shroud, From his close-attending cloud, With careless air and open mien. Erect his port, and firm his going; So struts yon cock that now is crowing; And the morning light in grace Strikes upon his lifted face, Hurrying the pallid hue away That might his trespasses betray. But what can all avail to clear him, Or what need of explanation, Parley or interrogation? For the Master sees, alas! That unhappy Figure near him, Limping o'er the dewy grass, Where the road it fringes, sweet, Soft and cool to way-worn feet; And, O indignity! an Ass, By his noble Mastiffs side, Tethered to the waggon's tail: And the ship, in all her pride, Following after in full sail! Not to speak of babe and mother; Who, contented with each other, And snug as birds in leafy arbour, Find, within, a blessed harbour! With eager eyes the Master pries; Looks in and out, and through and through; Says nothing—till at last he spies A wound upon the Mastiff's head, A wound, where plainly might be read What feats an Ass's hoof can do! But drop the rest:—this aggravation, This complicated provocation, A hoard of grievances unsealed; All past forgiveness it repealed; And thus, and through distempered blood On both sides, Benjamin the good, The patient, and the tender-hearted, Was from his team and waggon parted; When duty of that day was o'er, Laid down his whip—and served no more.— Nor could the waggon long survive, Which Benjamin had ceased to drive: It lingered on;—guide after guide Ambitiously the office tried; But each unmanageable hill Called for his patience and his skill;— And sure it is, that through this night, And what the morning brought to light, Two losses had we to sustain, We lost both Waggoner and Wain! Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame, The gift of this adventurous song; A record which I dared to frame, Though timid scruples checked me long; They checked me—and I left the theme Untouched;—in spite of many a gleam Of fancy which thereon was shed, Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still Upon the side of a distant hill: But Nature might not be gainsaid; For what I have and what I miss I sing of these;—it makes my bliss! Nor is it I who play the part, But a shy spirit in my heart, That comes and goes—will sometimes leap From hiding-places ten years deep; Or haunts me with familiar face, Returning, like a ghost unlaid, Until the debt I owe be paid. Forgive me, then; for I had been On friendly terms with this Machine: In him, while he was wont to trace Our roads, through many a long year's space, A living almanack had we; We had a speaking diary, That in this uneventful place, Gave to the days a mark and name By which we knew them when they came. —Yes, I, and all about me here, Through all the changes of the year, Had seen him through the mountains go, In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, Majestically huge and slow: Or, with a milder grace adorning The landscape of a summer's morning; While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain The moving image to detain; And mighty Fairfield, with a chime Of echoes, to his march kept time; When little other business stirred, And little other sound was heard; In that delicious hour of balm, Stillness, solitude, and calm, While yet the valley is arrayed, On this side with a sober shade; On that is prodigally bright— Crag, lawn, and wood—with rosy light. —But most of all, thou lordly Wain! I wish to have thee here again, When windows flap and chimney roars, And all is dismal out of doors; And, sitting by my fire, I see Eight sorry carts, no less a train! Unworthy successors of thee, Come straggling through the wind and rain: And oft, as they pass slowly on, Beneath my windows, one by one, See, perched upon the naked height The summit of a cumbrous freight, A single traveller—and there Another; then perhaps a pair— The lame, the sickly, and the old; Men, women, heartless with the cold; And babes in wet and starveling plight; Which once, be weather as it might, Had still a nest within a nest, Thy shelter—and their mother's breast! Then most of all, then far the most, Do I regret what we have lost; Am grieved for that unhappy sin Which robbed us of good Benjamin;— And of his stately Charge, which none Could keep alive when He was gone! [Note] [Contents 1805] [Main Contents] | [53] [54] [55] [56] [57] [58] [59] [60] [61] [62] [63] [64] [65] [66] [67] [68] [69] [70] | [K] [L] [M] | 590 595 600 605 610 615 620 625 630 635 640 645 650 655 660 665 670 675 680 685 690 695 700 705 710 715 720 725 730 735 740 745 750 755 760 765 770 775 780 785 790 795 800 805 810 815 820 825 830 835 840 845 850 855 |
| 1819 | |
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The Night-hawk is singing his frog-like tune, Twirling his watchman's rattle about— | 1805. MS.[a] |
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The dor-hawk, solitary bird, Round the dim crags on heavy pinions wheeling, Buzzes incessantly, a tiresome tune; That constant voice is all that can be heard | 1820 |
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... on heavy pinions wheeling, With untired voice sings an unvaried tune; Those burring notes are all that can be heard | 1836 |
The Night-hawk is singing his frog-like tune,
Twirling his watchman's rattle about—
The dor-hawk, solitary bird,
Round the dim crags on heavy pinions wheeling,
Buzzes incessantly, a tiresome tune;
That constant voice is all that can be heard
... on heavy pinions wheeling,
With untired voice sings an unvaried tune;
Those burring notes are all that can be heard
The text of 1845 returns to the first version of 1819.
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[Variant 2:]
| 1819 | |
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Now that the children are abed The little glow-worms nothing dread, Such prize as their bright lamps would be. Sooth they come in company, And shine in quietness secure, On the mossy bank by the cottage door, As safe as on the loneliest moor. In the play, or on the hill, Everything is hushed and still; The clouds show here and there a spot Of a star that twinkles not, The air as in ... | From a MS. copy of the poem in Henry Crabb Robinson's Diary, etc. 1812. |
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Now that the children's busiest schemes Do all lie buried in blank sleep, Or only live in stirring dreams, The glow-worms fearless watch may keep; Rich prize as their bright lamps would be, They shine, a quiet company, On mossy bank by cottage-door, As safe as on the loneliest moor. In hazy straits the clouds between, And in their stations twinkling not, Some thinly-sprinkled stars are seen, Each changed into a pallid spot. | 1836 |
Now that the children are abed
The little glow-worms nothing dread,
Such prize as their bright lamps would be.
Sooth they come in company,
And shine in quietness secure,
On the mossy bank by the cottage door,
As safe as on the loneliest moor.
In the play, or on the hill,
Everything is hushed and still;
The clouds show here and there a spot
Of a star that twinkles not,
The air as in ...
Now that the children's busiest schemes
Do all lie buried in blank sleep,
Or only live in stirring dreams,
The glow-worms fearless watch may keep;
Rich prize as their bright lamps would be,
They shine, a quiet company,
On mossy bank by cottage-door,
As safe as on the loneliest moor.
In hazy straits the clouds between,
And in their stations twinkling not,
Some thinly-sprinkled stars are seen,
Each changed into a pallid spot.
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
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[Variant 3:]
| 1836 | |
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The mountains rise to wond'rous height, And in the heavens there is a weight; | 1819 |
| And in the heavens there hangs a weight; | 1827 |
The mountains rise to wond'rous height,
And in the heavens there is a weight;
And in the heavens there hangs a weight;
In the editions of 1819 to 1832, these two lines follow the line "Like the stifling of disease."
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[Variant 4:]
| 1819 | |
| ... faint ... | 1836 |
... faint ...
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
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[Variant 5:]
| 1819 | |
| But welcome dews ... | 1836 |
But welcome dews ...
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
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[Variant 6:]
| 1819 | |
| ... or ... | 1836 |
... or ...
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
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[Variant 7:]
| 1819 | |
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Listen! you can hardly hear! Now he has left the lower ground, And up the hill his course is bending, With many a stop and stay ascending;— | 1836 |
Listen! you can hardly hear!
Now he has left the lower ground,
And up the hill his course is bending,
With many a stop and stay ascending;—
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
[return]
[Variant 8:]
| 1836 | |
| And now ... | 1819 |
And now ...
| 1836 | |
| Gathering ... | 1819 |
Gathering ...
| 1819 | |
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No;—him infirmities beset, But danger is not near him yet; | 1836 |
No;—him infirmities beset,
But danger is not near him yet;
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
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[Variant 11:]
| 1836 | |
| is he secure; | 1819 |
is he secure;
| 1836 | |
| full well | 1819 |
full well
| 1836 | |
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Uncouth although the object be, An image of perplexity; Yet not the less it is our boast, | 1819 |
Uncouth although the object be,
An image of perplexity;
Yet not the less it is our boast,
| 1827 | |
| ... I frame ... | 1819 |
... I frame ...
| 1836 | |
| And never was my heart more light. | 1819 |
And never was my heart more light.
| 1836 | |
| ... will bless ... | 1819 |
... will bless ...
| 1836 | |
| ... delight, ... | 1819 |
... delight, ...
| 1836 | |
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Good proof of this the Country gain'd, One day, when ye were vex'd and strain'd— Entrusted to another's care, And forc'd unworthy stripes to bear. | 1819 |
Good proof of this the Country gain'd,
One day, when ye were vex'd and strain'd—
Entrusted to another's care,
And forc'd unworthy stripes to bear.
| 1836. (Expanding four lines into six.) | |
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Here was it—on this rugged spot Which now contented with our lot We climb—that piteously abused Ye plung'd in anger and confused: | 1819 |
Here was it—on this rugged spot
Which now contented with our lot
We climb—that piteously abused
Ye plung'd in anger and confused:
| 1836 | |
| ... in your ... | 1819 |
... in your ...
| 1836 | |
| The ranks were taken with one mind; | 1819 |
The ranks were taken with one mind;
| 1819 | |
| Our road be, narrow, steep, and rough; | 1836 |
Our road be, narrow, steep, and rough;
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
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[Variant 23:]
| 1836 | |
| large drops upon his head | 1819 |
large drops upon his head
| 1836 | |
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He starts-and, at the admonition, Takes a survey of his condition. | 1819 |
He starts-and, at the admonition,
Takes a survey of his condition.
| 1836 | |
| A huge and melancholy room, | 1819 |
A huge and melancholy room,
| 1836 | |
| ... on high ... | 1819 |
... on high ...
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[Variant 27:] 1836. The previous four lines were added in the edition of 1820, where they read as follows:
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And suddenly a ruffling breeze (That would have sounded through the trees Had aught of sylvan growth been there) Was felt throughout the region bare: | 1820 |
And suddenly a ruffling breeze
(That would have sounded through the trees
Had aught of sylvan growth been there)
Was felt throughout the region bare:
| 1836 | |
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By peals of thunder, clap on clap! And many a terror-striking flash;— And somewhere, as it seems, a crash, | 1819 |
By peals of thunder, clap on clap!
And many a terror-striking flash;—
And somewhere, as it seems, a crash,
| 1820 | |
| And rattling ... | 1819 |
And rattling ...
| 1836. (Compressing six lines into four.) | |
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The voice, to move commiseration, Prolong'd its earnest supplication— "This storm that beats so furiously— This dreadful place! oh pity me!" While this was said, with sobs between, And many tears, by one unseen; | 1819 |
The voice, to move commiseration,
Prolong'd its earnest supplication—
"This storm that beats so furiously—
This dreadful place! oh pity me!"
While this was said, with sobs between,
And many tears, by one unseen;
| 1845 | |
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And Benjamin, without further question, Taking her for some way-worn rover, | 1819 |
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And, kind to every way-worn rover, Benjamin, without a question, | 1836 |
And Benjamin, without further question,
Taking her for some way-worn rover,
And, kind to every way-worn rover,
Benjamin, without a question,
| 1820 | |
| ... trouble ... | 1819 |
... trouble ...
| 1845 | |
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And to a little tent hard by Turns the Sailor instantly; | 1819 |
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And to his tent-like domicile, Built in a nook with cautious skill, The Sailor turns, well pleased to spy His shaggy friend who stood hard by Drenched—and, more fast than with a tether, Bound to the nook by that fierce weather, Which caught the vagrants unaware: For, when, ere closing-in ... | 1836 |
And to a little tent hard by
Turns the Sailor instantly;
And to his tent-like domicile,
Built in a nook with cautious skill,
The Sailor turns, well pleased to spy
His shaggy friend who stood hard by
Drenched—and, more fast than with a tether,
Bound to the nook by that fierce weather,
Which caught the vagrants unaware:
For, when, ere closing-in ...
| 1836 | |
| Had tempted ... | 1819 |
Had tempted ...
| 1836 | |
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Proceeding with an easy mind; While he, who had been left behind, | 1819 |
Proceeding with an easy mind;
While he, who had been left behind,
| 1820 | |
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Who neither heard nor saw—no more Than if he had been deaf and blind, Till, startled by the Sailor's roar, | 1819 |
Who neither heard nor saw—no more
Than if he had been deaf and blind,
Till, startled by the Sailor's roar,
| 1819 | |
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That blew us hither! dance, boys, dance! Rare luck for us! my honest soul, I'll treat thee to a friendly bowl!" | 1836 |
That blew us hither! dance, boys, dance!
Rare luck for us! my honest soul,
I'll treat thee to a friendly bowl!"
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
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[Variant 38:]
| 1836 | |
|
To seek for thoughts of painful cast, If such be the amends at last. | 1819 |
To seek for thoughts of painful cast,
If such be the amends at last.
| 1836 | |
| ... think ... | 1819 |
... think ...
| 1819 | |
| For soon among ... | 1836 |
For soon among ...
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
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[Variant 41:]
| 1819 | |
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And happiest far is he, the One No longer with himself at strife, A Cæsar past the Rubicon! The Sailor, Man by nature gay, Found not a scruple in his way; | 1836 |
And happiest far is he, the One
No longer with himself at strife,
A Cæsar past the Rubicon!
The Sailor, Man by nature gay,
Found not a scruple in his way;
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
[return]
[Variant 42:]
| 1836 | |
|
Deems that she is happier, laid Within that warm and peaceful bed; | 1819 |
Deems that she is happier, laid
Within that warm and peaceful bed;
| 1845 | |
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With bowl in hand, (It may not stand) Gladdest of the gladsome band, Amid their own delight and fun, | 1819 |
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With bowl that sped from hand to hand, Refreshed, brimful of hearty fun, The gladdest of the gladsome band, | 1836 |
With bowl in hand,
(It may not stand)
Gladdest of the gladsome band,
Amid their own delight and fun,
With bowl that sped from hand to hand,
Refreshed, brimful of hearty fun,
The gladdest of the gladsome band,
| 1836 | |
| They hear—when every fit is o'er— | 1819 |
They hear—when every fit is o'er—
| 1836 | |
| ... wondrous ... | 1819 |
... wondrous ...
| 1836 | |
| ... these ... | 1819 |
... these ...
| 1836 | |
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... the Mastiff's side, (The Mastiff not well pleased to be So very near such company.) | 1819 |
... the Mastiff's side,
(The Mastiff not well pleased to be
So very near such company.)
| 1832 | |
| ... all together, ... | 1819 |
... all together, ...
| 1836 | |
| ... sails ... | 1819 |
... sails ...
| 1836 | |
| On ... | 1819 |
On ...
| 1836 | |
| He's in the height ... | 1819 |
He's in the height ...
| 1836 | |
| He wheel'd— ... | 1819 |
He wheel'd— ...
| 1827 | |
| And, rambling on ... | 1819 |
And, rambling on ...
| 1819 | |
| Now hidden by the glittering steam: | 1836 |
Now hidden by the glittering steam:
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
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[Variant 55:] 1845. The previous eight lines were added in 1836, when they read thus:
|
Say more: for by that power a vein Seems opened of brow-saddening pain: As if their hearts by notes were stung From out the lowly hedge-rows flung; As if the warbler lost in light Reproved their soarings of the night; In strains of rapture pure and holy Upbraided their distempered folly. | 1836 |
Say more: for by that power a vein
Seems opened of brow-saddening pain:
As if their hearts by notes were stung
From out the lowly hedge-rows flung;
As if the warbler lost in light
Reproved their soarings of the night;
In strains of rapture pure and holy
Upbraided their distempered folly.
| 1845 | |
| They are drooping, weak, and dull; | 1819 |
| Drooping are they, and weak and dull;— | 1836 |
They are drooping, weak, and dull;
Drooping are they, and weak and dull;—
| 1836 | |
| Knowing that there's cause ... | 1819 |
| Knowing there is cause ... | 1827 |
Knowing that there's cause ...
Knowing there is cause ...
| 1845 | |
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They are labouring to avert At least a portion of the blame | 1819 |
|
They now are labouring to avert (Kind creatures!) something of the blame, | 1836 |
They are labouring to avert
At least a portion of the blame
They now are labouring to avert
(Kind creatures!) something of the blame,
| 1836 | |
|
Which full surely will alight Upon his head, whom, in despite Of all his faults, they love the best; | 1819 |
| Upon his head, ... | 1820 |
Which full surely will alight
Upon his head, whom, in despite
Of all his faults, they love the best;
Upon his head, ...
| 1836 | |
| Blends ... | 1819 |
Blends ...
| 1845 | |
|
Never, surely, old Apollo, He, or other God as old, Of whom in story we are told, Who had a favourite to follow Through a battle or elsewhere, Round the object of his care, In a time of peril, threw Veil of such celestial hue; | 1819 |
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Never Venus or Apollo, Pleased a favourite chief to follow Through accidents of peace or war, In a time of peril threw, Round the object of his care, Veil of such celestial hue; | 1832 |
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Never golden-haired Apollo, Nor blue-eyed Pallas, nor the Idalian Queen, When each was pleased some favourite chief to follow Through accidents of peace or war, In a perilous moment threw Around the object of celestial care A veil so rich to mortal view. | 1836 |
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Never Venus or Apollo, Intent some favourite chief to follow Through accidents of peace or war, Round the object of their care In a perilous moment threw A veil of such celestial hue. | C. |
| Round each object of their care | C. |
Never, surely, old Apollo,
He, or other God as old,
Of whom in story we are told,
Who had a favourite to follow
Through a battle or elsewhere,
Round the object of his care,
In a time of peril, threw
Veil of such celestial hue;
Never Venus or Apollo,
Pleased a favourite chief to follow
Through accidents of peace or war,
In a time of peril threw,
Round the object of his care,
Veil of such celestial hue;
Never golden-haired Apollo,
Nor blue-eyed Pallas, nor the Idalian Queen,
When each was pleased some favourite chief to follow
Through accidents of peace or war,
In a perilous moment threw
Around the object of celestial care
A veil so rich to mortal view.
Never Venus or Apollo,
Intent some favourite chief to follow
Through accidents of peace or war,
Round the object of their care
In a perilous moment threw
A veil of such celestial hue.
Round each object of their care
| 1819 | |
| Fails to shield ... | 1836 |
Fails to shield ...
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
[return]
[Variant 63:]
| 1836 | |
| Or ... | 1819 |
Or ...
| 1819 | |
| If, as he cannot but forebode, | 1836 |
If, as he cannot but forebode,
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
[return]
[Variant 65:]
| 1836 | |
| Thou hast loitered ... | 1819 |
Thou hast loitered ...
| 1836 | |
| His doubts—his fears ... | 1819 |
His doubts—his fears ...
| 1827. (Compressing two lines into one.) | |
|
Sometimes, as in the present case, Will show a more familiar face; | 1819 |
|
Or, proud all rivalship to chase, Will haunt me with familiar face; | 1820 |
Sometimes, as in the present case,
Will show a more familiar face;
Or, proud all rivalship to chase,
Will haunt me with familiar face;
| 1819 | |
| Or, with milder grace ... | 1832 |
Or, with milder grace ...
The edition of 1845 reverts to the text of 1819.
[return]
[Variant 69:]
| 1836 | |
| ... window ... | 1819 |
... window ...
[return]
[Variant 70:] "Once" 'italicised' in 1820 only.
[return]
[Footnote A:] The title page of the edition of 1819 runs as follows:
The Waggoner, A Poem. To which are added, Sonnets. By William Wordsworth.
"What's in a Name?"
...
"Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Cæsar!"London, etc. etc., 1819.
"What's in a Name?"
...
"Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Cæsar!"
Ed.
[return to footnote mark]
[Footnote B:] See The Seasons (Summer), ll. 977-79.—Ed.
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[Footnote C:] Such is the progress of refinement, this rude piece of self-taught art has been supplanted by a professional production.—W. W. 1819.
Mr. William Davies writes to me,
"I spent a week there (the Swan Inn) early in the fifties, and well remember the sign over the door distinguishable from afar: the inn, little more than a cottage (the only one), with clean well-sanded floor, and rush-bottomed chairs: the landlady, good old soul, one day afraid of burdening me with some old coppers, insisted on retaining them till I should return from an uphill walk, when they were duly tendered to me. Here I learnt many particulars of Hartley Coleridge, dead shortly before, who had been a great favourite with the host and hostess. The grave of Wordsworth was at that time barely grassed over."
Ed.
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[Footnote D:] See Wordsworth's [note], p. 109.—Ed.
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[Footnote E:] A mountain of Grasmere, the broken summit of which presents two figures, full as distinctly shaped as that of the famous cobler, near Arracher, in Scotland.—W. W. 1819.
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[Footnote F:] A term well known in the North of England, as applied to rural Festivals, where young persons meet in the evening for the purpose of dancing.—W. W. 1819.
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[Footnote G:] At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a particular note from the fiddle summons the Rustic to the agreeable duty of saluting his Partner.— W. W. 1819.
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[Footnote H:] Compare in Tristram Shandy:
"And this, said he, is the town of Namur, and this is the citadel: and there lay the French, and here lay his honour and myself."
Ed.
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[Footnote J:] See Wordsworth's [note], p. 109.—Ed.
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[Footnote K:] The crag of the ewe lamb.—W. W. 1820.
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[Footnote L:] Compare Tennyson's "Farewell, we lose ourselves in light."—Ed.
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[Footnote M:] Compare Wordsworth's lines, beginning, ["She was a Phantom of delight,"] p. i, and Hamlet, act II. sc. ii. l. 124.—Ed.
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[Footnote a:] See Wordsworth's [note], p. 109.—Ed.
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Note I: Several years after the event that forms the subject of the foregoing poem, in company with my friend, the late Mr. Coleridge, I happened to fall in with the person to whom the name of Benjamin is given. Upon our expressing regret that we had not, for a long time, seen upon the road either him or his waggon, he said:—"They could not do without me; and as to the man who was put in my place, no good could come out of him; he was a man of no ideas."
The fact of my discarded hero's getting the horses out of a great difficulty with a word, as related in the poem, was told me by an eye-witness.
'The Dor-hawk, solitary bird.'
When the Poem was first written the note of the bird was thus described:
'The Night-hawk is singing his frog-like tune,
Twirling his watchman's rattle about—'
but from unwillingness to startle the reader at the outset by so bold a mode of expression, the passage was altered as it now stands.
Note III: After the line, 'Can any mortal clog come to her', followed in the MS. an incident which has been kept back. Part of the suppressed verses shall here be given as a gratification of private feeling, which the well-disposed reader will find no difficulty in excusing. They are now printed for the first time.
Can any mortal clog come to her?
It can: ...
...
But Benjamin, in his vexation,
Possesses inward consolation;
He knows his ground, and hopes to find
A spot with all things to his mind,
An upright mural block of stone,
Moist with pure water trickling down.
A slender spring; but kind to man
It is, a true Samaritan;
Close to the highway, pouring out
Its offering from a chink or spout;
Whence all, howe'er athirst, or drooping
With toil, may drink, and without stooping.
Cries Benjamin, "Where is it, where?
Voice it hath none, but must be near."
—A star, declining towards the west,
Upon the watery surface threw
Its image tremulously imprest,
That just marked out the object and withdrew:
Right welcome service! ...
...
Rock of Names!
Light is the strain, but not unjust
To Thee and thy memorial-trust,
That once seemed only to express
Love that was love in idleness;
Tokens, as year hath followed year,
How changed, alas, in character!
For they were graven on thy smooth breast
By hands of those my soul loved best;
Meek women, men as true and brave
As ever went to a hopeful grave:
Their hands and mine, when side by side
With kindred zeal and mutual pride,
We worked until the Initials took
Shapes that defied a scornful look.—
Long as for us a genial feeling
Survives, or one in need of healing,
The power, dear Rock, around thee cast,
Thy monumental power, shall last
For me and mine! O thought of pain,
That would impair it or profane!
Take all in kindness then, as said
With a staid heart but playful head;
And fail not Thou, loved Rock! to keep
Thy charge when we are laid asleep.
W. W.
Editor's Note: There is no poem more closely identified with the Grasmere district of the English Lakes—and with the road from Grasmere to Keswick—than The Waggoner is, and in none are the topographical allusions more minute and faithful.
Wordsworth seemed at a loss to know in what "class" of his poems to place The Waggoner; and his frequent changes—removing it from one group to another—shew the artificial character of these classes. Thus, in the edition of 1820, it stood first among the "Poems of the Fancy." In 1827 it was the last of the "Poems founded on the Affections." In 1832 it was reinstated among the "Poems of the Fancy." In 1836 it had a place of its own, and was inserted between the "Poems of the Fancy" and those "Founded on the Affections;" while in 1845 it was sent back to its original place among the "Poems of the Fancy;" although in the table of contents it was printed as an independent poem, closing the series.
The original text of The Waggoner underwent little change, till the year 1836, when it was carefully revised, and altered throughout. The final edition of 1845, however, reverted, in many instances—especially in the first canto—to the original text of 1819.
As this poem was dedicated to Charles Lamb, it may be of interest to note that, some six months afterwards, Lamb presented Wordsworth with a copy of the first edition of 'Paradise Regained' (the edition of 1671), writing on it the following sentence,
"Charles Lamb, to the best knower of Milton, and therefore the worthiest occupant of this pleasant edition.—Jan. 2nd, 1820."
The opening stanzas are unrivalled in their description of a sultry June evening, with a thunder-storm imminent.
' 'Tis spent—this burning day of June!
Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing;
The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheeling,—
That solitary bird
Is all that can be heard
In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon!
...
...
The mountains against heaven's grave weight
Rise up, and grow to wondrous height.
The air, as in a lion's den,
Is close and hot;—and now and then
Comes a tired and sultry breeze
With a haunting and a panting,
Like the stifling of disease;
But the dews allay the heat,
And the silence makes it sweet.'
The Waggoner takes what is now the middle road, of the three leading from Rydal to Grasmere (see the note to The Primrose of the Rock). The "craggy hill" referred to in the lines
'Now he leaves the lower ground,
And up the craggy hill ascending
...
Steep the way and wearisome,'
is the road from Rydal Quarry up to White Moss Common, with the Glowworm rock on the right, and the "two heath-clad rocks," referred to in the last of the "Poems on the Naming of Places," on the left. He next passes "The Wishing Gate" on the left, John's Grove on the right, and descends by Dove Cottage—where Wordsworth lived—to Grasmere.
'... at the bottom of the brow,
Where once the Dove and Olive-Bough
Offered a greeting of good ale
To all who entered Grasmere Vale;
And called on him who must depart
To leave it with a jovial heart;
There, where the Dove and Olive-Bough
Once hung, a Poet harbours now,
A simple water-drinking Bard.'
He goes through Grasmere, passes the Swan Inn, '
He knows it to his cost, good Man!
Who does not know the famous Swan?
Object uncouth! and yet our boast,
For it was painted by the Host;
His own conceit the figure planned,
'Twas coloured all by his own hand.'
As early as 1819, when the poem was first published, "this rude piece of self-taught art had been supplanted" by a more pretentious figure. The Waggoner passes the Swan,
'And now the conqueror essays
The long ascent of Dunmail-raise.'
As he proceeds, the storm gathers, and "struggles to get free." Road, hill, and sky are dark; and he barely sees the well-known rocks at the summit of Helm-crag, where two figures seem to sit, like those on the Cobbler, near Arrochar, in Argyle.
'Black is the sky—and every hill,
Up to the sky, is blacker still—
Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room,
Hung round and overhung with gloom;
Save that above a single height
Is to be seen a lurid light,
Above Helm-crag—a streak half dead,
A burning of portentous red;
And near that lurid light, full well
The Astrologer, sage Sidrophel,
Where at his desk and book he sits,
Puzzling aloft his curious wits;
He whose domain is held in common
With no one but the Ancient Woman,
Cowering beside her rifted cell,
As if intent on magic spell;—
Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather,
Still sit upon Helm-crag together!'
At the top of the "raise"—the water-shed between the vales of Grasmere and Wytheburn—he reaches the familiar pile of stones, at the boundary between the shires of Westmoreland and Cumberland.
'... that pile of stones,
Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones;
...
Green is the grass for beast to graze,
Around the stones of Dunmail-raise!'
The allusion to Seat-Sandal laid bare by the flash of lightning, and the description, in the last canto, of the ascent of the Raise by the Waggoner on a summer morning, are as true to the spirit of the place as anything that Wordsworth has written. He tells his friend Lamb, fourteen years after he wrote the poem of The Waggoner,
'Yes, I, and all about me here,
Through all the changes of the year,
Had seen him through the mountains go,
In pomp of mist or pomp of snow,
Majestically huge and slow:
Or, with a milder grace adorning
The landscape of a summer's morning;
While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain
The moving image to detain;
And mighty Fairfield, with a chime
Of echoes, to his march kept time;
When little other business stirred,
And little other sound was heard;
In that delicious hour of balm,
Stillness, solitude, and calm,
While yet the valley is arrayed,
On this side with a sober shade;
On that is prodigally bright—
Crag, lawn, and wood—with rosy light.'
From Dunmail-raise the Waggoner descends to Wytheburn. Externally,
'... Wytheburn's modest House of prayer,
As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,'
remains very much as it was in 1805; but the primitive simplicity and "lowliness" of the chapel was changed by the addition a few years ago of an apse, by the removal of some of the old rafters, and by the reseating of the pews.
The Cherry Tree Tavern, where "the village Merry-night" was being celebrated, still stands on the eastern or Helvellyn side of the road. It is now a farm-house; but it will be regarded with interest from the description of the rustic dance, which recalls ('longo intervallo') 'The Jolly Beggars' of Burns. After two hours' delay at the Cherry Tree, the Waggoner and Sailor "coast the silent lake" of Thirlmere, and pass the Rock of Names.
This rock was, until lately, one of the most interesting memorials of Wordsworth and his friends that survived in the Lake District; but the vale of Thirlmere is now a Manchester water-tank, and the place which knew the Rock of Names now knows it no more. It was a sort of trysting place of the poets of Grasmere and Keswick—being nearly half-way between the two places—and there, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and other members of their households often met. When Coleridge left Grasmere for Keswick, the Wordsworths usually accompanied him as far as this rock; and they often met him there on his way over from Keswick to Grasmere. Compare the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge's Reminiscences. (Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. ii. p. 310.)
The rock was on the right hand of the road, a little way past Waterhead, at the southern end of Thirlmere; and on it were cut the letters,
W. W.
M. H.
D. W.
S. T. C.
J. W.
S. H.
the initials of William Wordsworth, Mary Hutchinson, Dorothy Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, John Wordsworth, and Sarah Hutchinson. The Wordsworths settled at Grasmere at the close of the year 1799. As mentioned in a previous note, John Wordsworth lived with his brother and sister during most of that winter, and during the whole of the spring, summer, and autumn of 1800, leaving it finally on September 29, 1800. These names must therefore have been cut during the spring or summer of 1800. There is no record of the occurrence, and no allusion to the rock, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal of 1800. But that Journal, so far as I have seen it, begins on the 14th of May 1800. Almost every detail of the daily life and ways of the household at Dove Cottage is so minutely recorded in it, that I am convinced that this incident of the cutting of names in the Thirlmere Rock would have been mentioned, had it happened between the 14th of May and John Wordsworth's departure from Grasmere in September. Such references as this, for example, occur in the Journal:
"Saturday, August 2.—William and Coleridge went to Keswick. John went with them to Wytheburn, and staid all day fishing."
I therefore infer that it was in the spring or early summer of 1800 that the names were cut.
I may add that the late Dean of Westminster—Dean Stanley—took much interest in this Rock of Names; and doubt having been cast on the accuracy of the place and the genuineness of the inscriptions, in a letter from Dr. Fraser, then Bishop of Manchester, which he forwarded to me, he entered into the question with all the interest with which he was wont to track out details in the architecture or the history of a Church.
There were few memorials connected with Wordsworth more worthy of preservation than this "upright mural block of stone." When one remembered that the initials on the rock were graven by the hands of William and John Wordsworth, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, possibly with the assistance of Dorothy Wordsworth, the two Hutchinsons (Mary and Sarah), and that Wordsworth says of it,
'We worked until the Initials took
Shapes that defied a scornful look,'
this Thirlmere Rock was felt to be a far more interesting memento of the group of poets that used to meet beside it, than the Stone in the grounds of Rydal Mount, which was spared at Wordsworth's suit, "from some rude beauty of its own." There was simplicity, as well as strength, in the way in which the initials were cut. But the stone was afterwards desecrated by tourists, and others, who had the audacity to scratch their own names or initials upon it. In 1877 I wrote, "The rock is as yet wonderfully free from such; and its preservation is probably due to the dark olive-coloured moss, with which the 'pure water trickling down' has covered the face of the 'mural block,' and thus secured it from observation, even on that highway;" but I found in the summer of 1882 that several other names had been ruthlessly added. When the Manchester Thirlmere scheme was finally resolved upon, an effort was made to remove the Stone, with the view of its being placed higher up the hill on the side of the new roadway. In the course of this attempt, the Stone was broken to pieces.
There is a very good drawing of "The Rock of Names" by Mr. Harry Goodwin, in Through the Wordsworth Country, 1892.
"The Muse" takes farewell of the Waggoner as he is proceeding with the Sailor and his quaint model of the Vanguard along the road toward Keswick. She "scents the morning air," and
'Quits the slow-paced waggon's side,
To wander down yon hawthorn dell,
With murmuring Greta for her guide.'
The "hawthorn dell" is the upper part of the Vale of St. John.
'—There doth she ken the awful form
Of Raven-crag—black as a storm—
Glimmering through the twilight pale;
And Ghimmer-crag, his tall twin brother,
Each peering forth to meet the other.'
Raven-crag is well known,—H.C. Robinson writes of it in his Diary in 1818, as "the most significant of the crags at a spot where there is not one insignificant,"—a rock on the western side of Thirlmere, where the Greta issues from the lake. But there is no rock in the district now called by the name of Ghimmer-crag, or the crag of the Ewe-lamb. I am inclined to think that Wordsworth referred to the "Fisher-crag" of the Ordnance Survey and the Guide Books. No other rock round Thirlmere can with any accuracy be called the "tall twin brother" of Raven-crag: certainly not Great How, nor any spur of High Seat or Bleaberry Fell. Fisher-crag resembles Raven-crag, as seen from Thirlmere Bridge, or from the high road above it; and it is somewhat remarkable that Green—in his Guide to the Lakes (a volume which the poet possessed)—makes use of the same expression as that which Wordsworth adopts regarding these two crags, Raven and Fisher.
"The margin of the lake on the Dalehead side has its charms of wood and water; and Fischer Crag, twin brother to Raven Crag, is no bad object, when taken near the island called Buck's Holm"
(A Description of Sixty Studies from Nature, by William Green of Ambleside, 1810, p. 57). I cannot find any topographical allusion to a Ghimmer-crag in contemporary local writers. Clarke, in his Survey of the Lakes, does not mention it.
The Castle Rock, in the Vale of Legberthwaite, between High Fell and Great How, is the fairy castle of Sir Walter Scott's 'Bridal of Triermain'. "Nathdale Fell" is the ridge between Naddle Vale (Nathdale Vale) and that of St. John, now known as High Rigg. The old Hall of Threlkeld has long been in a state of ruinous dilapidation, the only habitable part of it having been for many years converted into a farmhouse. The remaining local allusions in The Waggoner are obvious enough: Castrigg is the shortened form of Castlerigg, the ridge between Naddle Valley and Keswick.
In the "Reminiscences" of Wordsworth, which the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge wrote for the late Bishop of Lincoln, in 1850, there is the following reference to The Waggoner. (See Memoirs, vol. ii. p. 310.)
"The Waggoner seems a very favourite poem of his. He said his object in it had not been understood. It was a play of the fancy on a domestic incident, and lowly character. He wished by the opening descriptive lines to put his reader into the state of mind in which he wished it to be read. If he failed in doing that, he wished him to lay it down. He pointed out with the same view, the glowing lines on the state of exultation in which Ben and his companions are under the influence of liquor. Then he read the sickening languor of the morning walk, contrasted with the glorious uprising of Nature, and the songs of the birds. Here he has added about six most exquisite lines."
The lines referred to are doubtless the eight (p. 101), beginning
'Say more; for by that power a vein,'
which were added in the edition of 1836.
The following is Sara Coleridge's criticism of The Waggoner. (See Biographia Literaria, vol. ii. pp. 183, 184, edition 1847.)
"Due honour is done to 'Peter Bell', at this time, by students of poetry in general; but some, even of Mr. Wordsworth's greatest admirers, do not quite satisfy me in their admiration of 'The Waggoner', a poem which my dear uncle, Mr. Southey, preferred even to the former. 'Ich will meine Denkungs Art hierin niemandem aufdringen', as Lessing says: I will force my way of thinking on nobody, but take the liberty, for my own gratification, to express it. The sketches of hill and valley in this poem have a lightness, and spirit—an Allegro touch—distinguishing them from the grave and elevated splendour which characterises Mr. Wordsworth's representations of Nature in general, and from the passive tenderness of those in 'The White Doe', while it harmonises well with the human interest of the piece; indeed it is the harmonious sweetness of the composition which is most dwelt upon by its special admirers. In its course it describes, with bold brief touches, the striking mountain tract from Grasmere to Keswick; it commences with an evening storm among the mountains, presents a lively interior of a country inn during midnight, and concludes after bringing us in sight of St. John's Vale and the Vale of Keswick seen by day-break—'Skiddaw touched with rosy light,' and the prospect from Nathdale Fell 'hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn:' thus giving a beautiful and well-contrasted Panorama, produced by the most delicate and masterly strokes of the pencil. Well may Mr. Ruskin, a fine observer and eloquent describer of various classes of natural appearances, speak of Mr. Wordsworth as the great poetic landscape painter of the age. But Mr. Ruskin has found how seldom the great landscape painters are powerful in expressing human passions and affections on canvas, or even successful in the introduction of human figures into their foregrounds; whereas in the poetic paintings of Mr. Wordsworth the landscape is always subordinate to a higher interest; certainly, in 'The Waggoner', the little sketch of human nature which occupies, as it were, the front of that encircling background, the picture of Benjamin and his temptations, his humble friends and the mute companions of his way, has a character of its own, combining with sportiveness a homely pathos, which must ever be delightful to some of those who are thoroughly conversant with the spirit of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry. It may be compared with the ale-house scene in 'Tam o'Shanter', parts of Voss's Luise, or Ovid's Baucis and Philemon; though it differs from each of them as much as they differ from each other. The Epilogue carries on the feeling of the piece very beautifully."
The editor of Southey's Life and Correspondence—his son, the Rev. Charles Cuthbert Southey—tells us, in a note to a letter from S.T. Coleridge to his father, that the Waggoner's name was Jackson; and that "all the circumstances of the poem are accurately correct." This Jackson, after retiring from active work as waggoner, became the tenant of Greta Hall, where first Coleridge, and afterwards Southey lived. The Hall was divided into two houses, one of which Jackson occupied, and the other of which he let to Coleridge, who speaks thus of him in the letter to Southey, dated Greta Hall, Keswick, April 13, 1801:
"My landlord, who dwells next door, has a very respectable library, which he has put with mine; histories, encyclopedias, and all the modern poetry, etc. etc. etc. A more truly disinterested man I never met with; severely frugal, yet almost carelessly generous; and yet he got all his money as a common carrier, by hard labour, and by pennies and pennies. He is one instance among many in this country of the salutary effect of the love of knowledge—he was from a boy a lover of learning."
(See 'Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, vol. ii. pp. 147, 148.)
Charles Lamb—to whom The Waggoner was dedicated—wrote thus to Wordsworth on 7th June 1819:
"My dear Wordsworth,—You cannot imagine how proud we are here of the dedication. We read it twice for once that we do the poem. I mean all through; yet Benjamin is no common favourite; there is a spirit of beautiful tolerance in it. It is as good as it was in 1806; and it will be as good in 1829, if our dim eyes shall be awake to peruse it. Methinks there is a kind of shadowing affinity between the subject of the narrative and the subject of the dedication.
...
"I do not know which I like best,—the prologue (the latter part especially) to P. Bell, or the epilogue to Benjamin. Yes, I tell stories; I do know I like the last best; and the Waggoner altogether is a pleasanter remembrance to me than the Itinerant.
...
"C. Lamb."
(See The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. pp. 24-26.)
To this may be added what Southey wrote to Mr. Wade Browne on 15th June 1819:
"I think you will be pleased with Wordsworth's Waggoner, if it were only for the line of road which it describes. The master of the waggon was my poor landlord Jackson, and the cause of his exchanging it for the one-horse cart was just as is represented in the poem; nobody but Benjamin could manage it upon these hills, and Benjamin could not resist the temptations by the wayside."
(See The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, vol. iv. p. 318.)—Ed.
Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 3: The Prelude
Edited by William Knight
1896
Photo © [FreeFoto.com]
The Prelude
or, Growth of a Poet's Mind
an Autobiographical Poem
Composed 1799-1805.—Published 1850
Advertisement
The following Poem was commenced in the beginning of the year 1799, and completed in the summer of 1805.
The design and occasion of the work are described by the Author in his Preface to the Excursion, first published in 1814, where he thus speaks:
"Several years ago, when the Author retired to his native mountains with the hope of being enabled to construct a literary work that might live, it was a reasonable thing that he should take a review of his own mind, and examine how far Nature and Education had qualified him for such an employment.
"As subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook to record, in verse, the origin and progress of his own powers, as far as he was acquainted with them.
"That work, addressed to a dear friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and to whom the author's intellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished; and the result of the investigation which gave rise to it, was a determination to compose a philosophical Poem, containing views of Man, Nature, and Society, and to be entitled 'The Recluse;' as having for its principal subject the sensations and opinions of a poet living in retirement.
"The preparatory poem is biographical, and conducts the history of the Author's mind to the point when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured for entering upon the arduous labour which he had proposed to himself; and the two works have the same kind of relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as the Ante-chapel has to the body of a Gothic Church. Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted to add, that his minor pieces, which have been long before the public, when they shall be properly arranged, will be found by the attentive reader to have such connection with the main work as may give them claim to be likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in those edifices."
Such was the Author's language in the year 1814.
It will thence be seen, that the present Poem was intended to be introductory to the Recluse, and that the Recluse, if completed, would have consisted of Three Parts. Of these, the Second Part alone, viz. the Excursion, was finished, and given to the world by the Author.
The First Book of the First Part of the Recluse still remains in manuscript; but the Third Part was only planned. The materials of which it would have been formed have, however, been incorporated, for the most part, in the Author's other Publications, written subsequently to the Excursion.
The Friend, to whom the present Poem is addressed, was the late Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who was resident in Malta, for the restoration of his health, when the greater part of it was composed.
Mr. Coleridge read a considerable portion of the Poem while he was abroad; and his feelings, on hearing it recited by the Author (after his return to his own country) are recorded in his Verses, addressed to Mr. Wordsworth, which will be found in the Sibylline Leaves, p. 197, edition 1817, or Poetical Works, by S. T. Coleridge, vol. i. p. 206.
Rydal Mount, July 13th, 1850.
This "advertisement" to the first edition of The Prelude, published in 1850—the year of Wordsworth's death—was written by Mr. Carter, who edited the volume. Mr. Carter was for many years the poet's secretary, and afterwards one of his literary executors. The poem was not only kept back from publication during Wordsworth's life-time, but it remained without a title; being alluded to by himself, when he spoke or wrote of it, as "the poem on my own poetical education," the "poem on my own life," etc.
As The Prelude is autobiographical, a large part of Wordsworth's life might be written in the notes appended to it; but, besides breaking up the text of the poem unduly, this plan has many disadvantages, and would render a subsequent and detailed life of the poet either unnecessary or repetitive. The notes which follow will therefore be limited to the explanation of local, historical, and chronological allusions, or to references to Wordsworth's own career that are not obvious without them. It has been occasionally difficult to decide whether some of the allusions, to minute points in ancient history, mediæval mythology, and contemporary politics, should be explained or left alone; but I have preferred to err on the side of giving a brief clue to details, with which every scholar is familiar.
The Prelude was begun as Wordsworth left the imperial city of Goslar, in Lower Saxony, where he spent part of the last winter of last century, and which he left on the 10th of February 1799. Only lines 1 to 45, however, were composed at that time; and the poem was continued at desultory intervals after the settlement at Grasmere, during 1800, and following years. Large portions of it were dictated to his devoted amanuenses as he walked, or sat, on the terraces of Lancrigg. Six books were finished by 1805.
"The seventh was begun in the opening of that year; ... and the remaining seven were written before the end of June 1805, when his friend Coleridge was in the island of Malta, for the restoration of his health."
(The late Bishop of Lincoln.)
There is no uncertainty as to the year in which the later books were written; but there is considerable difficulty in fixing the precise date of the earlier ones. Writing from Grasmere to his friend Francis Wrangham—the letter is undated—Wordsworth says,
"I am engaged in writing a poem on my own earlier life, which will take five parts or books to complete, three of which are nearly finished."
The late Bishop of Lincoln supposed that this letter to Wrangham was written "at the close of 1803, or beginning of 1804." (See Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. i. p. 303.) There is evidence that it belongs to 1804. At the commencement of the [seventh book], p. 247, he says:
Six changeful years have vanished since I first
Poured out (saluted by that quickening breeze
Which met me issuing from the City's walls)
A glad preamble to this Verse: I sang
Aloud, with fervour irresistible
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,
Then stopped for years; not audible again
Before last primrose-time.
I have italicised the clauses which give some clue to the dates of composition. From these it would appear that the "glad preamble," written on leaving Goslar in 1799 (which, I think, included only the first two paragraphs of [book first]), was a "short-lived transport"; but that "soon" afterwards "a less impetuous stream" broke forth, which, after the settlement at Grasmere, "flowed awhile with unabating strength," and then "stopped for years." Now the above passage, recording these things, was written in 1805, and in the late autumn of that year; (as is evident from the reference which immediately follows to the "choir of redbreasts" and the approach of winter). We must therefore assign the flowing of the "less impetuous stream," to 1802; in order to leave room for the intervening "years," in which it ceased to flow, till it was audible again in the spring of 1804, "last primrose-time."
A second reference to date occurs in the [sixth book], p. 224, entitled "Cambridge and the Alps," in which he says,
Four years and thirty, told, this very week,
Have I been now a sojourner on earth.
This fixes definitely enough the date of the composition of that part of the work, viz. April 1804, which corresponds exactly to the "last primrose-time" of the previous extract from the [seventh book], in which he tells us that after its long silence, his Muse was heard again. So far Wordsworth's own allusions to the date of The Prelude.
But there are others supplied by his own, and his sister's letters, and also by the Grasmere Journal. In the Dove Cottage household it was known, and talked of, as "the Poem to Coleridge;" and Dorothy records, on 11th January 1803, that her brother was working at it. On 13th February 1804, she writes to Mrs. Clarkson that her brother was engaged on a poem on his own life, and was "going on with great rapidity." On the 6th of March 1804, Wordsworth wrote from Grasmere to De Quincey,
"I am now writing a poem on my own earlier life: I have just finished that part of it in which I speak of my residence at the University." ... It is "better than half complete, viz. four books, amounting to about 2500 lines."[A]
On the 24th of March, Dorothy wrote to Mrs. Clarkson, that since Coleridge left them (which was in January 1804), her brother had added 1500 lines to the poem on his own life. On the 29th of April 1804, Wordsworth wrote to Richard Sharpe,
"I have been very busy these last ten weeks: having written between two and three thousand lines—accurately near three thousand—in that time; namely, four books, and a third of another. I am at present at the [Seventh Book]."
On the 25th December 1804, he wrote to Sir George Beaumont,
"I have written upwards of 2000 verses during the last ten weeks."
We thus find that Books [I.] to [IV.] had been written by the 6th of March 1804, that from the 19th February to the 29th of April nearly 3000 lines were written, that March and April were specially productive months, for by the 29th April he had reached [Book VII.] while from 16th October to 25th December he wrote over 2000 lines.
Dorothy and Mary Wordsworth transcribed the earlier books more than once, and a copy of some of them was given to Coleridge to take with him to Malta.
It is certain that the remaining books of The Prelude were all written in the spring and early summer of 1805; the [seventh], [eighth], [ninth], [tenth], [eleventh], and part of the [twelfth] being finished about the middle of April; the last 300 lines of [book twelfth] in the last week of April; and the two remaining books—the [thirteenth] and [fourteenth—before] the 20th of May. The following extracts from letters of Wordsworth to Sir George Beaumont make this clear, and also cast light on matters much more important than the mere dates of composition.
Grasmere, Dec. 25, 1804.
"My dear Sir George,—You will be pleased to hear that I have been advancing with my work: I have written upwards of 2000 verses during the last ten weeks. I do not know if you are exactly acquainted with the plan of my poetical labour: It is twofold; first, a Poem, to be called The Recluse; in which it will be my object to express in verse my most interesting feelings concerning man, nature, and society; and next, a poem (in which I am at present chiefly engaged) on my earlier life, or the growth of my own mind, taken up upon a large scale. This latter work I expect to have finished before the month of May; and then I purpose to fall with all my might on the former, which is the chief object upon which my thoughts have been fixed these many years. Of this poem, that of The Pedlar, which Coleridge read to you, is part; and I may have written of it altogether about 2000 lines. It will consist, I hope, of about ten or twelve thousand."
Grasmere, May 1, 1805.
"[Unable] to proceed with this work,[B] I turned my thoughts again to the Poem on my own Life, and you will be glad to hear that I have added 300 lines to it in the course of last week. Two books more will conclude it. It will not be much less than 9000 lines,—not hundred but thousand lines long,—an alarming length! and a thing unprecedented in literary history that a man should talk so much about himself. It is not self-conceit, as you will know well, that has induced me to do this, but real humility. I began the work because I was unprepared to treat any more arduous subject, and diffident of my own powers. Here, at least, I hoped that to a certain degree I should be sure of succeeding, as I had nothing to do but describe what I had felt and thought, and therefore could not easily be bewildered. This might have been done in narrower compass by a man of more address; but I have done my best. If, when the work shall be finished, it appears to the judicious to have redundancies, they shall be lopped off, if possible; but this is very difficult to do, when a man has written with thought; and this defect, whenever I have suspected it or found it to exist in any writings of mine, I have always found it incurable. The fault lies too deep, and is in the first conception."
Grasmere, June 3, 1805.
"I have the pleasure to say that I finished my poem about a fortnight ago. I had looked forward to the day as a most happy one; ... But it was not a happy day for me; I was dejected on many accounts: when I looked back upon the performance, it seemed to have a dead weight about it,—the reality so far short of the expectation. It was the first long labour that I had finished; and the doubt whether I should ever live to write The Recluse, and the sense which I had of this poem being so far below what I seemed capable of executing, depressed me much; above all, many heavy thoughts of my poor departed brother hung upon me, the joy which I should have had in showing him the manuscript, and a thousand other vain fancies and dreams. I have spoken of this, because it was a state of feeling new to me, the occasion being new. This work may be considered as a sort of portico to The Recluse, part of the same building, which I hope to be able, ere long, to begin with in earnest; and if I am permitted to bring it to a conclusion, and to write, further, a narrative poem of the epic kind, I shall consider the task of my life as over. I ought to add, that I have the satisfaction of finding the present poem not quite of so alarming a length as I apprehended."
These letters explain the delay in the publication of The Prelude. They show that what led Wordsworth to write so much about himself was not self-conceit, but self-diffidence. He felt unprepared as yet for the more arduous task he had set before himself. He saw its faults as clearly, or more clearly, than the critics who condemned him. He knew that its length was excessive. He tried to condense it; he kept it beside him unpublished, and occasionally revised it, with a view to condensation, in vain. The text received his final corrections in the year 1832.
Wordsworth's reluctance to publish these portions of his great poem, The Recluse, other than The Excursion, during his lifetime, was a matter of surprise to his friends; to whom he, or the ladies of his household, had read portions of it. In the year 1819, Charles Lamb wrote to him,
"If, as you say, The Waggoner, in some sort, came at my call, oh for a potent voice to call forth The Recluse from his profound dormitory, where he sleeps forgetful of his foolish charge—the world!"
(The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. p. 26.)
The admission made in the letter of May 1st, 1805, is note-worthy:
"This defect" (of redundancy) "whenever I have suspected it or found it to exist in any writings of mine, I have always found incurable. The fault lies too deep, and is in the first conception."
The actual result—in the Poem he had at length committed to writing—was so far inferior to the ideal he had tried to realise, that he could never be induced to publish it. He spoke of the MS. as forming a sort of portico to his larger work—the poem on Man, Nature, and Society—which he meant to call The Recluse, and of which one portion only, viz. The Excursion, was finished. It is clear that throughout the composition of The Prelude, he felt that he was experimenting with his powers. He wished to find out whether he could construct "a literary work that might live," on a larger scale than his Lyrics; and it was on the writing of a "philosophical poem," dealing with Man and Nature, in their deepest aspects, that his thoughts had been fixed for many years. From the letter to Sir George Beaumont, December 25, 1804, it is evident that he regarded the autobiographical poem as a mere prologue to this larger work, to which he hoped to turn "with all his might" after The Prelude was finished, and of which he had already written about a fifth or a sixth (see Memoirs, vol. i. p. 304). This was the part known in the Grasmere household as "The Pedlar," a title given to it from the character of the Wanderer, but afterwards happily set aside. He did not devote himself, however, to the completion of his wider purpose, immediately after The Prelude was finished. He wrote one book of The Recluse which he called "Home at Grasmere"; and, though detached from The Prelude, it is a continuation of the narrative of his own life at the point where it is left off in the latter poem. It consists of 733 lines. Two extracts from it were published in the Memoirs of Wordsworth in 1851 (vol. i. pp. 151 and 155), beginning [Volume 2 links:],
and
These will be found in vol. ii. of this edition, pp. 118 and 121 respectively.
The autobiographical poem remained, as already stated, during Wordsworth's lifetime without a title. The name finally adopted—The Prelude—was suggested by Mrs. Wordsworth, both to indicate its relation to the larger work, and the fact of its having been written comparatively early.
As the poem was addressed to Coleridge, it may be desirable to add in this place his critical verdict upon it; along with the poem which he wrote, on hearing Wordsworth read a portion of it to him, in the winter of 1806, at Coleorton.
In his Table Talk (London, 1835, vol. ii. p. 70), Coleridge's opinion is recorded thus:
"I cannot help regretting that Wordsworth did not first publish his thirteen (fourteen) books on the growth of an individual mind—superior, as I used to think, upon the whole to The Excursion. You may judge how I felt about them by my own Poem upon the occasion. Then the plan laid out, and, I believe, partly suggested by me, was, that Wordsworth should assume the station of a man in mental repose, one whose principles were made up, and so prepared to deliver upon authority a system of philosophy. He was to treat man as man,—a subject of eye, ear, touch, and taste in contact with external nature, and informing the senses from the mind, and not compounding a mind out of the senses; then he was to describe the pastoral and other states of society, assuming something of the Juvenalian spirit as he approached the high civilisation of cities and towns, and opening a melancholy picture of the present state of degeneracy and vice; thence he was to infer and reveal the proof of, and necessity for, the whole state of man and society being subject to, and illustrative of a redemptive process in operation, showing how this idea reconciled all the anomalies, and promised future glory and restoration. Something of this sort was, I think, agreed on. It is, in substance, what I have been all my life doing in my system of philosophy.
"I think Wordsworth possessed more of the genius of a great Philosopher than any man I ever knew, or, as I believe, has existed in England since Milton; but it seems to me that he ought never to have abandoned the contemplative position which is peculiarly—perhaps, I might say exclusively—fitted for him. His proper title is Spectator ab extra."
The following are Coleridge's Lines addressed to Wordsworth:
To William Wordsworth
Composed on the Night after his Recitation of a Poem on rhe Growth of an Individual Mind
Friend of the wise! and teacher of the good!
Into my heart have I received that lay
More than historic, that prophetic lay
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)
Of the foundations and the building up
Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell
What may be told, to the understanding mind
Revealable; and what within the mind
By vital breathings secret as the soul
Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart
Thoughts all too deep for words!—
Theme hard as high,
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth),
Of tides obedient to external force,
And currents self-determined, as might seem,
Or by some inner power; of moments awful,
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,
When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received
The Light reflected, as a light bestowed—
Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,
Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought
Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens,
Native or outland, lakes and famous hills!
Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars
Were rising; or by secret mountain-streams,
The guides and the companions of thy way!
Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense
Distending wide, and man beloved as man,
Where France in all her towns lay vibrating
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst
Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud
Is visible, or shadow on the main.
For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded,
Amid the tremor of a realm aglow,
Amid a mighty nation jubilant,
When from the general heart of humankind
Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity!
—Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,
So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure,
From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self,
With light unwaning on her eyes, to look
Far on—herself a glory to behold.
The Angel of the vision! Then (last strain)
Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice,
Action and joy!—An Orphic song indeed,
A song divine of high and passionate thoughts
To their own music chanted!
O great Bard!
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,
With stedfast eye I viewed thee in the choir
Of ever-enduring men. The truly great
Have all one age, and from one visible space
Shed influence! They, both in power and act,
Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old,
And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame
Among the archives of mankind, thy work
Makes audible a linked lay of Truth,
Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay,
Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes!
Ah! as I listened with a heart forlorn,
The pulses of my being beat anew:
And even as life returns upon the drowned,
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains—
Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart;
And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of hope;
And hope that scarce would know itself from fear;
Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain,
And genius given, and knowledge won in vain;
And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild,
And all which patient toil had reared, and all,
Commune with thee had opened out—but flowers
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier,
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave!
... Eve following eve,
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home
Is sweetest! moments for their own sake hailed,
And more desired, more precious for thy song,
In silence listening, like a devout child,
My soul lay passive, by thy various strain
Driven as in surges now beneath the stars,
With momentary stars of my own birth,
Fair constellated foam, [C] still darting off
Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea,
Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon.
And when—O Friend! my comforter and guide!
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength!—
Thy long-sustained Song finally closed,
And thy deep voice had ceased—yet thou thyself
Wert still before my eyes, and round us both
That happy vision of beloved faces—
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close
I sate, my being blended in one thought
(Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?)
Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound—
And when I rose I found myself in prayer.
It was at Coleorton, in Leicestershire,—where the Wordsworths lived during the winter of 1806-7, in a farm-house belonging to Sir George Beaumont, and where Coleridge visited them,—that The Prelude was read aloud by its author, on the occasion which gave birth to these lines.—Ed.
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