It would be impossible to follow the poet in all those minute relations of incident and feeling which run throughout the “Prelude,” during this first vacation amongst the hills.—One anecdote, however, must be told, for it is an inlet into the poet’s nature, and shewed that he had a heart, and deep sympathies also for suffering and poverty, let the critics say what they will.
During the autumn, while Wordsworth was wandering amidst the hills round Windermere,—with no living thing in sight, and breathless silence over all,—he was suddenly startled by the appearance of an uncouth shape, in a turning of the road. At first he was a little timid, and perhaps alarmed, for it was close to him, and he knew not what to make of it. The dusky light of the evening increased the mystery, and Wordsworth retreated noiselessly under the shadow of a thick hawthorn, that he might watch it unobserved. It turned out to be a poor wanderer, of tall stature,
“A span above man’s common measure, tall,
Stiff, lank, and upright; a more meagre man
Was never seen before, by day or night.
Long were his arms, pallid his hands; his mouth
Looked ghastly in the moonlight; from behind
A mile-stone propped him up.”
He wore a faded military garb, and was quite alone—
“Companionless,
No dog attending, by no staff sustained,
He stood, and in his very dress appeared
A desolation, a simplicity,
To which the trappings of a gaudy world
Make a strange back-ground.”
Presently, he began to mutter sounds as of pain, or birth-pangs of uneasy thought,—
“Yet still his form
Kept the same awful steadiness; at his feet
His shadow lay, and moved not.”
Wordsworth now came from his hiding place, and hailed the poor, lone, desolate, old man, who rose, slowly, from his resting place,
“and with a lean and wasted arm,
Returned the salutation; then resumed
His station, as before.”
The poet entered into conversation with him, and asked him to relate his history. It was the old tale—told with a quiet uncomplaining voice, a stately air of mild indifference. He had served in the Tropic islands, and on landing, three weeks ago, he had been dismissed the service. He was now journeying homeward, to lay his weary bones in the churchyard of his native village. Wordsworth was touched at the uncomplaining misery of the poor old man, and invited him to go with him. The veteran picked up his staff from the shadowy ground, and walked by the poet’s side down into the valley, where a hospitable cottage was soon found, and the soldier bestowed for the night. On leaving him, Wordsworth