Another part of the pursuit, which I have always enjoyed, is the quiet amusement one canoften derive from unexpected situations. One day in London, when the streets were pretty well crowded with Coronation visitors, we decided to take a picture of the new Victoria Monument in front of Buckingham Palace. I had taken the precaution to secure a permit, so, without asking any questions, proceeded to spread out my tripod and compose my picture. Just as I inserted the plate-holder, a “Bobby,” by which name the London policeman is generally known, appeared, advancing with an air that plainly said, “I’ll soon stopthatgame, my fine fellow!” I expressed my surprise and said I had a permit, at the same time drawing the slide—an action which, not being a photographer, he did not consider significant. He looked scornfully at the permit, and said it was not good after 10A.M.Here, again, the assistant photographer of our expedition came to the rescue. She exercised the woman’s privilege of asking “Why?” and “Bobby” moved from in front of the camera to explain. “Click” went the shutter, in went the slide, out came the plate-holder, and into the case went the camera. “Bobby” politely apologized for interfering, and expressed his deep regret at being obliged to disappoint us. I solemnly assured him that it was all right, that he had only done his duty and that I did not blame him in the least! But I neglected to inform him that the Victoria Monument was already mine.
One of the pleasures of rambling with a camerais that it takes you to so many out-of-the-way places, which you would not otherwise be likely to visit. Dorothy Wordsworth in her “Recollections of a Tour in Scotland” complains that all the roads and taverns in Scotland are bad. Dorothy ought to have known, for she and William walked most of the way to save their bones from dislocation by the jolting of their little cart, and their limited resources compelled them to seek the shelter and food of the poorest inns. The modern tourist, on the contrary, will find excellent roads and for the most part hotel accommodations where he can be fairly comfortable. It was something of a rarity, therefore, when, as occasionally happened, we could find nothing but an inn of the kind that flourished a century ago.
On a very rainy morning in May we alighted from the train at the little village of Ecclefechan, known to the world only as the birthplace of Thomas Carlyle. A farmer at the station, of whom we inquired the location of a good hotel, answered in a Scotch dialect so broad that we could not compass it. By chance a carriage stood near by, and as it afforded the only escape from the pouring rain, we stepped in and trusted to luck. The vehicle presently drew up before the door of a very ancient hotel, from which the landlady, whom we have ever since called “Mrs. Ecclefechan,” came out to meet us. She was a frail little woman, well along in years, with thin features,sharp eyes, and a bald head, the last of which she endeavored to conceal beneath a sort of peaked black bonnet, tied with strings beneath her chin, and suggesting the rather curious spectacle of a bishop’s miter above a female face. Her dress was looped up by pinning the bottom of it around her waist, exposing a gray-and-white striped petticoat that came down halfway between the knees and the ankles, beneath which were a pair of coarse woolen stockings and some heavy shoes. A burlap apron completed the costume.
Our hostess, who seemed to be proprietor, clerk, porter, cook, chambermaid, waitress, barmaid, and bootblack of the establishment, was possessed of a kind heart, and she made us as comfortable as her limited facilities would permit. We were taken into the public-room, a space about twelve feet square, with a small open fire at one end, benches around the walls and a table occupying nearly all the remaining space. Across a narrow passage was the kitchen, where the landlady baked her oatmeal cake and served the regulars who came for a “penny’orth o’ rum” and a bit of gossip. In front was another tiny room where were served fastidious guests who did not care to eat in the kitchen. At noon we sat down to a luncheon, which might have been worse, and at five were summoned into the little room again. We thought it curious to serve hard boiled eggs with afternoon tea, andthinking supper would soon be ready, declined them. This proved a sad mistake for Americans with big, healthy appetites, for the supper never came. The eggs were it.
We spent the evening in the public-room sitting near the fire. One by one the villagers dropped in, each man ordering his toddy and spending an hour or two over a very small glass. The evenings had been spent in that way in that place for a hundred years. We seemed to be in the atmosphere of “long ago.” A middle-aged Scotchman, whose name was pronounced, very broadly, “Fronk,” seemed to feel the responsibility of entertaining us. He sang, very sweetly I thought, a song by Lady Nairne, “The Auld Hoose,” and recited with fine appreciation the lines of Burns’s “Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn,” “To a Mouse,” “To a Louse,” and other poems. He related how Burns once helped a friend out of a dilemma. Three women had been buried side by side. The son of one of them wished to put an inscription on his mother’s tombstone, but the sexton could not remember which grave was hers. Burns solved the problem by suggesting these lines:—
“Here, or there, or thereaboots,Lies the body of Janet Coutts,But here, or there, or whereaboots,Nane can tellTill Janet rises and tells hersel.”
“Here, or there, or thereaboots,
Lies the body of Janet Coutts,
But here, or there, or whereaboots,
Nane can tell
Till Janet rises and tells hersel.”
Our landlady assured us that Fronk “had the bluid o’ Douglas in his veins,” but he was now only a poor “ne’er-do-weel,” picking up “a bit shillin’” now and then. But he loved Bobbie Burns.
After the evening’s entertainment we were shown to a tiny bedroom. Over the horrors upstairs I must draw the veil of charity, only remarking that if I ever go to Ecclefechan again I shall seek out a nice soft pile of old scrap-iron for a couch, rather than risk another night on one of those beds.
Of course we visited the birthplace of Carlyle, which is now one of the “restored” show places, and an interesting one. We also went to the graveyard to see the tomb of Carlyle. Here we were conducted by an old woman, nearly ninety years of age, very poor and feeble, who had lived in the village all her days. We asked if she had ever seen Carlyle. “Oh, yes,” she replied, wearily, “I hae seen ’im. He was a coo-rious mon.” Then brightening she added, with a smile that revealed her heart of hearts, “But we a’loveBobbie Burns.” And so we found it throughout Scotland. The feeble old woman and the dissipated wanderer shared with the intelligent and cultivated classes a deep-seated and genuine love for their own peasant poet, whom they invariably called, affectionately, “Bobbie.”
It was not long after this that we had occasionto visit the land of Burns, for a trip through Scotland, even when undertaken primarily for the sake of Scott landmarks, as ours was, would scarcely be possible without many glimpses of the places made famous by the elder and less cultured but not less beloved poet. Scott’s intimacy with Adam Ferguson, the son of the distinguished Dr. Adam Ferguson, was the means of his introduction to the best literary society in Edinburgh, and it was at the house of the latter, that Scott, then a boy of fifteen, met Burns for the first and only time. He attracted the notice of the elder poet by promptly naming the author of a poem which Burns had quoted, when no one else in the room could give the information. It is a far cry from the aristocratic quarters of Dr. Ferguson to the tavern in the Canongate where the “Crochallan Fencibles” used to meet, but here the lines crossed again, for to this resort for convivial souls Burns came to enjoy the bacchanalian revels known as “High Jinks,” in the same way as did Andrew Crosbie, the original of Scott’s fictitious Paulus Pleydell.
We went to the old town of Dumfries to see a number of places described by Scott in “Guy Mannering,” “Redgauntlet,” and other novels, and found ourselves in the very heart of the Burns country. In the center of High Street stands the old Midsteeple in one room of which the original Effie Deans, whose real name wasIsabel Walker, was tried for child murder. Here the real Jeanie Deans refused to tell a lie to save her sister’s life, afterward walking to London to secure her pardon. Almost around the corner is the house where Burns’s Jean lived, and where “Bobbie” died. In the same town is the churchyard of St. Michaels where Burns lies buried in a handsome “muselum,” as one of the natives informed us.
Out on the road toward the old church of Kirkpatrick Irongray, where Scott erected a monument to Helen Walker, the prototype of Jeanie Deans, is a small remnant of the house once occupied by that heroine. In the same general direction but a little farther to the north, on the banks of the river Nith, is Ellisland, where Burns attempted to manage a farm, attend to the duties of an excise officer, and write poetry, all at the same time. Out of the last came “Tam o’ Shanter,” but the other two “attempts” were failures.
We traveled down to Ayrshire to see the coast of Carrick and what is left of the ancestral home of Robert Bruce, where the Scottish hero landed, with the guidance of supernatural fires, as graphically related by Scott in “The Lord of the Isles.” Here again we were in Burns’s own country. In the city of Ayr we saw the “Twa Brigs” and the very tavern which Tam o’ Shanter may be supposed to have frequented,—
“And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie.”
“And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie.”
Of course we drove to Burns’s birthplace, about three miles to the south, a long, narrow cottage with a thatched roof, one end of which was dwelling-house and the other end stable. It was built by the poet’s father, with his own hands, and when Robert was born there in the winter of 1759 probably looked a great deal less respectable than it does now.
Continuing southward, we stopped at Alloway Kirk for a view of the old church where Tam o’ Shanter first saw the midnight dancing of the witches and started on his famous ride. The keeper felt personally aggrieved because I preferred to utilize my limited time to make a picture of the church, rather than listen to his repetition of a tale which I already knew by heart. We traveled over Tam’s route and soon had a fine view of the old “Brig o’ Doon,” where Tam at length escaped the witches at the expense of his poor nag’s tail. I have made few pictures that pleased me more than that of the “auld brig,” which I was able to get by placing my camera on the new bridge near by. Here the memory of Burns is again accentuated by a graceful memorial, in the form of a Grecian temple and very similar to the one on Calton Hill, Edinburgh, but far more beautifully situated. It is surrounded by a garden of well-trimmed yews, shrubbery ofvarious kinds, and a wealth of brightly blooming flowers, and best of all, stands well above the “banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,” where the poet himself would have been happy to stand and look upon his beloved river.
Whatever may have been “Bobbie’s” faults, and, poor fellow, they were many and grievous, there is nothing more beautiful than the mantle of love beneath which they have been concealed and forgotten. He touched the hearts of his countrymen as none other ever did, and out of the sordid earth of his shortcomings have sprung beautiful flowers, laid out along well-ordered and graceful paths, a delight and solace to his fellow-men, like the brilliant blossoms that brighten the lovely garden at the base of his memorial overlooking the Doon.
IIIA DAY IN WORDSWORTH’S COUNTRY
IIIA DAY IN WORDSWORTH’S COUNTRY
Ourarrival on Saturday evening at the village of Windermere was like the sudden and unexpected realization of a dream. On many a winter night, under the light of our library lamp at home, we had talked of that vague, distant “sometime” when we should visit the English Lakes. And now—by what curious combination of circumstances we did not try to analyze—here we were with the whole beautiful panorama, in all its evening splendors, spread out before us. Through our minds passed, as in a vision, the whole company of poets who are inseparably associated with these scenes: Wordsworth, whose abiding influence upon the spirit of poetry will endure as long as the mountains and vales which taught him to love and reverence nature; Southey, who, himself without the appreciation of nature, was the first to recognize Wordsworth’s rare power of interpreting her true meaning; Coleridge, the most intimate friend of the greater poet, whom Wordsworth declared to be the most wonderful man he ever met, and who, in spite of those shortcomings which caused his life to end in worldly failure, neverthelesspossessed a native eloquence and alluring personality.
Nor should we forget De Quincey, who spent twenty of the happiest years of his life at Dove Cottage, as the successor of the Wordsworths. His most intimate companion was the famous Professor Wilson of Edinburgh, known to all readers of “Blackwood’s Magazine” as “Christopher North.” Attracted partly by the beauty of the Lake Country, but more by his desire to cultivate the intimacy of Wordsworth, whose genius he greatly admired, Professor Wilson bought a pretty place in Cumberland, where he lived for several years. He enjoyed the companionship of the friendly group of poets, but, we are told, occasionally sought a different kind of pleasure in measuring his strength with some of the native wrestlers, one of the most famous of whom has testified that he found him “a very bad un to lick.”
At a later time, Dr. Arnold of Rugby found himself drawn to the Lakes by the same double attraction, and built the charming cottage at Fox How on the River Rothay, where his youngest daughter still resides. He wrote in 1832: “Our intercourse with the Wordsworths was one of the brightest spots of all; nothing could exceed their friendliness, and my almost daily walks with him were things not to be forgotten.”
It was not alone the beauty of the Westmorelandscenery that had attracted this group of famous men. There are lovelier lakes in Scotland and more majestic mountains in Switzerland. But Wordsworth was here, in the midst of those charming displays of Nature in her most cheerful as well as most soothing moods. Nature’s best interpreter and Nature herself could be seen together. For a hundred years this same influence has continued to exercise its spell upon travelers, and we are bound to recognize the fact that this, and nothing else, had drawn us away from our prearranged path, that we might enjoy the pleasure of a Sunday in the country of Wordsworth.
The morning dawned, bright and beautiful, suggesting that splendid day when Wordsworth, then a youth of eighteen, found himself possessed of an irresistible desire to devote his life to poetry:
“MagnificentThe morning rose, in memorable pomp,Glorious as e’er I had beheld—in front,The sea lay laughing at a distance; near,The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds,Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;And in the meadows and the lower groundsWas all the sweetness of a common dawn—Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds,And laborers going forth to till the fields.Ah! need I say, dear Friend, that to the brimMy heart was full; I made no vows, but vowsWere then made for me; bond unknown to meWas given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,A dedicated spirit.”
“Magnificent
The morning rose, in memorable pomp,
Glorious as e’er I had beheld—in front,
The sea lay laughing at a distance; near,
The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds,
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;
And in the meadows and the lower grounds
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn—
Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds,
And laborers going forth to till the fields.
Ah! need I say, dear Friend, that to the brim
My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows
Were then made for me; bond unknown to me
Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,
A dedicated spirit.”
We resolved that the whole of this beautiful day should be devoted to catching something of that indefinable spirit of the Westmoreland hills which had made a poet of Wordsworth, and through him taught the love of Nature to countless thousands. A few steps took us away from the town, the inn, and the other tourists, into a quiet woodland path leading toward the lake, at the end of which we stood
“On long Winander’s eastern shore.”
“Winander” is the old form of Windermere. The lake was the scene of many of Wordsworth’s boyhood experiences.
“When summer came,Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays,To sweep along the plain of WindermereWith rival oars; and the selected bourneWas now an Island musical with birdsThat sang and ceased not; now a Sister IsleBeneath the oaks’ umbrageous covert, sownWith lilies of the valley like a field;And now a third small Island, where survivedIn solitude the ruins of a shrineOnce to Our Lady dedicate, and servedDaily 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.”
“When summer came,
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 thetemptation 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 hillsLow breathings coming after me, and soundsOf undistinguishable motion, stepsAlmost as silent as the turf they trod.”
“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.”
“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 gamesConfederate, imitative of the chaseAnd 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.”
“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 swarmOf heady schemes, jostling each other,”
“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 beautyOld as creation, drinking in a pureOrganic pleasure from the silver wreathsOf curling mist, or from the level plainOf waters colored by impending clouds.”
“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 earthAnd common face of Nature spake to meRememberable things.”
“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 loveThat had no need of a remoter charm.”
“A feeling and a love
That had no need of a remoter charm.”
But manhood brought a deeper joy.
“For I have learnedTo look on nature, not as in the hourOf thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimesThe still, sad music of humanity,Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample powerTo chasten and subdue. And I have feltA presence that disturbs me with the joyOf elevated thoughts; a sense sublime ofSomething 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 impelsAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,And rolls through all things. Therefore am I stillA lover of the meadows and the woodsAnd mountains, and of all that we beholdFrom this green earth; of all the mighty worldOf eye and ear—both what they half create,And what perceive; well pleased to recognizeIn nature and the language of the sense,The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soulOf all my moral being.”
“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 undulatinghills 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 beThe lot of others never could be his.”
“A fancy in the heart of what might be
The lot of others never could be his.”
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 aërial, with a depthOf 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 gazeAnd not feel motions there?”
“The station whence we looked was soft and green,
Not giddy, yet aërial, 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.”
“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 brotherwas 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 brightWith something of angelic light.”
“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 eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude.”
“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 boyhoodthe 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.”
“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 stillA poet, made me seek beneath that name,And that alone, my office upon earth.”
“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.”
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 thedim 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.
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 thedim 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 timehe was upon gress1walk. 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.
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 timehe was upon gress1walk. 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 findThat spot which seems so to thy mind.”
“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 andchars-à-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 doublemound, 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 flockShun the broad way too easily exploredAnd let thy path be hewn out of the rockThe living Rock of God’s eternal WORD1838
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
Dora’s field is thickly covered in spring-time with the beautiful golden daffodils, planted bythe 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 theyOutdid the sparkling waves in glee;A poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company:I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude:And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.”
“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 charmingspot 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 deepAnd solemn harmony pervadesThe hollow vale from steep to steep,And penetrates the glades.”
“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 viewThe spacious landscape change in form and hue!Here vanish, as in mist, before a floodOf 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.”
“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 wesaw 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 commandedthem 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.