"
(See 'The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey', vol.
(See 'The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey', vol.
William Wordsworth
--I.
F.
]
This poem was included among the "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces. "--Ed.
I The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo!
That instant, startled by the shock,
The Buzzard mounted from the rock
Deliberate and slow:
Lord of the air, he took his flight; 5
Oh! could he on that woeful night
Have lent his wing, my Brother dear,
For one poor moment's space to Thee,
And all who struggled with the Sea,
When safety was so near. 10
II Thus in the weakness of my heart
I spoke (but let that pang be still)
When rising from the rock at will,
I saw the Bird depart.
And let me calmly bless the Power 15
That meets me in this unknown Flower,
Affecting type of him I mourn!
With calmness suffer and believe,
And grieve, and know that I must grieve,
Not cheerless, though forlorn. 20
III Here did we stop; and here looked round
While each into himself descends,
For that last thought of parting Friends
That is not to be found.
Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight, 25
Our home and his, his heart's delight,
His quiet heart's selected home.
But time before him melts away,
And he hath feeling of a day
Of blessedness to come. 30
IV Full soon in sorrow did I weep,
Taught that the mutual hope was dust,
In sorrow, but for higher trust,
How miserably deep!
All vanished in a single word, 35
A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard.
Sea--Ship--drowned--Shipwreck--so it came,
The meek, the brave, the good, was gone;
He who had been our living John
Was nothing but a name. 40
V That was indeed a parting! oh,
Glad am I, glad that it is past;
For there were some on whom it cast
Unutterable woe.
But they as well as I have gains;--45
From many a humble source, to pains
Like these, there comes a mild release;
Even here I feel it, even this Plant
Is in its beauty ministrant
To comfort and to peace. 50
VI He would have loved thy modest grace,
Meek Flower! To Him I would have said,
"It grows upon its native bed
Beside our Parting-place;
There, cleaving to the ground, it lies 55
With multitude of purple eyes,
Spangling a cushion green like moss;
But we will see it, joyful tide!
Some day, to see it in its pride,
The mountain will we cross. " 60
VII--Brother and friend, if verse of mine
Have power to make thy virtues known,
Here let a monumental Stone
Stand--sacred as a Shrine;
And to the few who pass this way, 65
Traveller or Shepherd, let it say,
Long as these mighty rocks endure,--
Oh do not Thou too fondly brood,
Although deserving of all good,
On any earthly hope, however pure! [A] 70
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: See 2nd vol. of the Author's Poems, page 298, and 5th vol. ,
pages 311 and 314, among Elegiac Pieces. --W. W. 1842.
These poems are those respectively beginning:
"When, to the attractions of the busy world . . . "
"I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! . . . "
"Sweet Flower! belike one day to have . . . "
Ed.
The plant alluded to is the Moss Campion (Silene acaulis, of Linnaeus).
See note at the end of the volume. --W. W. 1842.
See among the "Poems on the Naming of Places," No. VI. --W. W. 1845.
The note is as follows:
"Moss Campion ('Silene acaulis'). This most beautiful plant is scarce
in England, though it is found in great abundance upon the mountains
of Scotland. The first specimen I ever saw of it in its native bed was
singularly fine, the tuft or cushion being at least eight inches
diameter, and the root proportionably thick. I have only met with it
in two places among our mountains, in both of which I have since
sought for it in vain.
Botanists will not, I hope, take it ill, if I caution them against
carrying off inconsiderately rare and beautiful plants. This has often
been done, particularly from Ingleborough and other mountains in
Yorkshire, till the species have totally disappeared, to the great
regret of lovers of nature living near the places where they
grew. "--W. W. 1842.
See also 'The Prelude', book xiv. 1. 419, p. 379. --Ed. ]
This poem underwent no change in successive editions.
At a meeting of "The Wordsworth Society" held at Grasmere, in July 1881,
it was proposed by one of the members, the Rev. H. D. Rawnsley, then
Vicar of Wray, to erect some memorial at the parting-place of the
brothers. The brothers John and William Wordsworth parted at Grisedale
Tarn, on the 29th September 1800. The originator of the idea wrote thus
of it in June 1882:
"A proposition, made by one of its members to the Wordsworth Society
when it met in Grasmere in 1881, to mark the spot in the Grisedale
Pass of Wordsworth's parting from his brother John--and to carry out a
wish the poet seems to have hinted at in the last of his elegiac
verses in memory of that parting--is now being put into effect. It has
been determined, after correspondence with Lord Coleridge, Dr.
Cradock, Professor Knight, and Mr. Hills, to have inscribed--(on the
native rock, if possible)--the first four lines of Stanzas III. and
VII. of these verses:
'Here did we stop; and here looked round
While each into himself descends,
For that last thought of parting Friends
That is not to be found.
. . .
Brother and friend, if verse of mine
Have power to make thy virtues known,
Here let a monumental Stone
Stand--sacred as a Shrine. '
The rock selected is a fine mass, facing the east, on the left of the
track as one descends from Grisedale Tarn towards Patterdale, and is
about 100 yards from the tarn. No more suitable one can be found, and
we have the testimony of Mr. David Richardson of Newcastle, who has
practical knowledge of engineering, that it is the fittest, both from
shape and from slight incline of plane.
It has been proposed to sink a panel in the face of the rock, that so
the inscription may be slightly protected, and to engrave the letters
upon the face of the panel thus obtained. But it is not quite certain
yet that the grain of the rock--volcanic ash--will admit of the
lettering. If this cannot be carried out, it has been determined to
have the letters engraved upon a slab of Langdale slate, and imbed it
in the Grisedale Rock.
It is believed that the simplicity of the design, the lonely isolation
of this mountain memorial, will appeal at once
' . . . to the few who pass this way,
Traveller or Shepherd. '
And we in our turn appeal to English tourists who may chance to see
it, to forego the wish of adding to it, or taking anything from it, by
engraving their own names; and to let the Monumental Stone stand, as
the poet wished it might
' . . . stand, SACRED as a Shrine. '
We owe great thanks to Mrs. Sturge for first surveying the place, to
ascertain the possibility of finding a mountain rock sufficiently
striking in position; to Mr. Richardson, jun. , for his etching of the
rock, upon which the inscription is to be made; to his father for the
kind trouble he took in the measurement of the said rock; and
particularly to the seconder of the original proposal, and my
coadjutor in the task of final selection and superintending the work,
Mr. W. H. Hills.
H. D. RAWNSLEY.
_P. S. _--When we came to examine the rock, we found the area for the
panel less than we had hoped for, owing to certain rock fissures,
which, by acting as drains for the rainwater on the surface, would
have much interfered with the durability of the inscription. The
available space for the panel remains 3 feet 7 in length by 1 foot 9
inches in depth. Owing to the fineness of the grain of the stone, it
may be quite possible to letter the native rock; but it has been
difficult to fix on a style of lettering for the inscription that
shall be at once in good taste, forcible, and plain. It was proposed
that the Script type of letter which was made use of in the
inscription cut on the rock, in the late Mr. Ball's garden grounds
below the Mount at Rydal, should be adopted; but a final decision has
been given in favour of a style of lettering which Mrs. Rawnsley has
designed. The panel is, from its position, certain to attract the eye
of the wanderer from Patterdale up to the Grisedale Pass.
H. D. R. "
See the note to 'The Waggoner', p. 112, referring to the Rock of Names,
on the shore of Thirlmere.
The following extract from 'Recollections from 1803 to 1837, with a
Conclusion in 1868, by the Hon. Amelia Murray' (London: Longmans, Green,
and Co. 1868)--refers to the loss of the 'Abergavenny':
"One morning, coming down early, I saw what I thought was a great big
ship without any hull. This was the 'Abergavenny', East Indiaman,
which had sunk with all sails set, hardly three miles from the shore,
and all on board perished.
Had any of the crew taken refuge in the main-top, they might have been
saved; but the bowsprit, which was crowded with human beings, gave a
lurch into the sea as the ship settled down, and thus all were washed
off--though the timber appeared again above water when the
'Abergavenny' touched the ground. The ship had sprung a leak off St.
Alban's Head; and in spite of pumps, she went to the bottom just
within reach of safety. " Pp. 12, 13.
A 'Narrative of the loss of the "Earl of Abergavenny" East Indiaman, off
Portland, Feb. 5, 1805', was published in pamphlet form (8vo, 1805), by
Hamilton and Bird, 21 High Street, Islington.
For much in reference to John Wordsworth, which illustrates both these
'Elegiac Verses', and the poem "On the Naming of Places" which follows
them, I must refer to his 'Life' to be published in another volume of
this series; but there is one letter of Dorothy Wordsworth's, written to
her friend Miss Jane Pollard (afterwards Mrs. Marshall), in reference to
her brother's death, which may find a place here. For the use of it I am
indebted to the kindness of Mrs. Marshall's daughter, the Dowager Lady
Monteagle:
"March 16th, 1805. Grasmere.
". . . It does me good to weep for him, and it does me good to find that
others weep, and I bless them for it. . . . It is with me, when I write,
as when I am walking out in this vale, once so full of joy. I can turn
to no object that does not remind me of our loss. I see nothing that
he would not have loved, and enjoyed. . . . My consolations rather come
to me in gusts of feeling, than are the quiet growth of my mind. I
know it will not always be so. The time will come when the light of
the setting sun upon these mountain tops will be as heretofore a pure
joy; not the same _gladness_, that can never be--but yet a joy even
more tender. It will soothe me to know how happy he would have been,
could he have seen the same beautiful spectacle. . . . He was taken away
in the freshness of his manhood; pure he was, and innocent as a child.
Never human being was more thoroughly modest, and his courage I need
not speak of. He was 'seen speaking with apparent cheerfulness to the
first mate a few minutes before the ship went down;' and when nothing
more could be done, He said, 'the will of God be done. ' I have no
doubt when he felt that it was out of his power to save his life he
was as calm as before, if some thought of what we should endure did
not awaken a pang. . . . He loved solitude, and he rejoiced in society.
He would wander alone amongst these hills with his fishing-rod, or led
on by the mere pleasure of walking, for many hours; or he would walk
with W. or me, or both of us, and was continually pointing out--with a
gladness which is seldom seen but in very young people--something
which perhaps would have escaped our observation; for he had so fine
an eye that no distinction was unnoticed by him, and so tender a
feeling that he never noticed anything in vain. Many a time has he
called out to me at evening to look at the moon or stars, or a cloudy
sky, or this vale in the quiet moonlight; but the stars and moon were
his chief delight. He made of them his companions when he was at sea,
and was never tired of those thoughts which the silence of the night
fed in him. Then he was so happy by the fireside. Any little business
of the house interested him. He loved our cottage. He helped us to
furnish it, and to make the garden. Trees are growing now which he
planted. . . . He staid with us till the 29th of September, having come
to us about the end of January. During that time Mary Hutchinson--now
Mary Wordsworth--staid with us six weeks. John used to walk with her
everywhere, and they were exceedingly attached to each other; so my
poor sister mourns with us, not merely because we have lost one who
was so dear to William and me, but from tender love to John and an
intimate knowledge of him. Her hopes as well as ours were fixed on
John. . . . I can think of nothing but of our departed Brother, yet I am
very tranquil to-day. I honour him, and love him, and glory in his
memory. . . . "
Southey, writing to his friend, C. W. W. Wynn, on the 3rd of April 1805,
says:
"DEAR WYNN,
I have been grievously shocked this evening by the loss of the
'Abergavenny', of which Wordsworth's brother was captain. Of course
the news came flying up to us from all quarters, and it has disordered
me from head to foot. At such circumstances I believe we feel as much
for others as for ourselves; just as a violent blow occasions the same
pain as a wound, and he who breaks his shin feels as acutely at the
moment as the man whose leg is shot off. In fact, I am writing to you
merely because this dreadful shipwreck has left me utterly unable to
do anything else. It is the heaviest calamity Wordsworth has ever
experienced, and in all probability I shall have to communicate it to
him, as he will very likely be here before the tidings can reach him.
What renders any near loss of this kind so peculiarly distressing is,
that the recollection is perpetually freshened when any like event
occurs, by the mere mention of shipwreck, or the sound of the wind. Of
all deaths it is the most dreadful, from the circumstances of terror
which accompany it. . . .
"
(See 'The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey', vol. ii. p. 321. )
The following is part of a letter from Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth
on the same subject. It is undated:
"MY DEAR MISS WORDSWORTH,--
I wished to tell you that you would one day feel the kind of peaceful
state of mind and sweet memory of the dead, which you so happily
describe, as now almost begun; but I felt that it was improper, and
most grating to the feelings of the afflicted, to say to them that the
memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part, not
only of their dreams, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness.
That you would see every object with and through your lost brother,
and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of
comfort to you, I felt, and well knew, from my own experience in
sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this, I did not dare to
tell you so; but I send you some poor lines, which I wrote under this
conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home.
. . .
"Why is he wandering on the sea? --
Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.
By slow degrees he'd steal away
Their woes, and gently bring a ray
(So happily he'd time relief,)
Of comfort from their very grief.
He'd tell them that their brother dead,
When years have passed o'er their head,
Will be remembered with such holy,
True and tender melancholy,
That ever this lost brother John
Will be their heart's companion.
His voice they'll always hear,
His face they'll always see;
There's naught in life so sweet
As such a memory. "
(See 'Final Memorials of Charles Lamb', by Thomas Noon Talfourd, vol.
ii. pp. 233, 234. )--Ed.
* * * * *
"WHEN, TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY WORLD"
Composed 1800 to 1805. --Published 1815
[The grove still exists; but the plantation has been walled in, and is
not so accessible as when my brother John wore the path in the manner
here described. The grove was a favourite haunt with us all while we
lived at Town-end. --I. F. ]
This was No. VI. of the "Poems on the Naming of Places. " For several
suggested changes in MS. see Appendix I. p. 385. --Ed.
When, to the attractions of the busy world,
Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen
A habitation in this peaceful Vale,
Sharp season followed of continual storm
In deepest winter; and, from week to week, 5
Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged
With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill
At a short distance from my cottage, stands
A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont
To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof 10
Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place
Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor.
Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow,
And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth,
The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth 15
To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds
That, for protection from the nipping blast,
Hither repaired. --A single beech-tree grew
Within this grove of firs! and, on the fork
Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest; 20
A last year's nest, conspicuously built
At such small elevation from the ground
As gave sure sign that they, who in that house
Of nature and of love had made their home
Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long 25
Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes,
A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock,
Would watch my motions with suspicious stare,
From the remotest outskirts of the grove,--
Some nook where they had made their final stand, 30
Huddling together from two fears--the fear
Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour
Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees
Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven
In such perplexed and intricate array; 35
That vainly did I seek, beneath [1] their stems
A length of open space, where to and fro
My feet might move without concern or care;
And, baffled thus, though earth from day to day
Was fettered, and the air by storm disturbed, 40
I ceased the shelter to frequent, [2]--and prized,
Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.
The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned
To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts
Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, 45
By chance retiring from the glare of noon
To this forsaken covert, there I found
A hoary pathway traced between the trees,
And winding on with such an easy line
Along a natural opening, that I stood 50
Much wondering how I could have sought in vain [3]
For what was now so obvious. [4] To abide,
For an allotted interval of ease,
Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come
From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; [5] 55
And with the sight of this same path--begun,
Begun and ended, in the shady grove, [6]
Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind [7]
That, to this opportune recess allured,
He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 60
A heart more wakeful; and had worn the track [8]
By pacing here, unwearied and alone, [A]
In that habitual restlessness of foot
That haunts the Sailor measuring [9] o'er and o'er
His short domain upon the vessel's deck, 65
While she pursues her course [10] through the dreary sea.
When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore,
And taken thy first leave of those green hills
And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth,
Year followed year, my Brother! and we two, 70
Conversing not, knew little in what mould
Each other's mind was fashioned; [11] and at length
When once again we met in Grasmere Vale,
Between us there was little other bond
Than common feelings of fraternal love. 75
But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carried
Undying recollections; Nature there
Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still
Was with thee; and even so didst thou become
A _silent_ Poet; from the solitude 80
Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart
Still couchant, an inevitable ear,
And an eye practised like a blind man's touch.
--Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone;
Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 85
Could I withhold thy honoured name,--and now
I love the fir-grove [12] with a perfect love.
Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns
Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong;
And there I sit at evening, when the steep 90
Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful [13] lake,
And one green island, gleam between the stems
Of the dark firs, a visionary scene!
And, while I gaze upon the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight 95
Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee,
My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost.
Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou,
Muttering the verses which I muttered first
Among the mountains, through the midnight watch 100
Art pacing thoughtfully [14] the vessel's deck
In some far region, here, while o'er my head,
At every impulse of the moving breeze,
The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, [B]
Alone I tread this path;--for aught I know, 105
Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store
Of undistinguishable sympathies,
Mingling most earnest wishes for the day
When we, and others whom we love, shall meet
A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. 110
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
. . . between . . . 1815. ]
[Variant 2:
1836.
And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed,
I ceased that Shelter to frequent,--1815.
. . . the shelter . . . 1827. ]
[Variant 3:
1827.
Much wondering at my own simplicity
How I could e'er have made a fruitless search 1815. ]
[Variant 4:
. . . At the sight
Conviction also flashed upon my mind
That this same path (within the shady grove
Begun and ended) by my Brother's steps
Had been impressed. --. . .
These additional lines appeared only in 1815 and 1820. ]
[Variant 5:
1845.
. . . To sojourn a short while
Beneath my roof He from the barren seas
Had newly come--a cherished Visitant! 1815.
. . . To abide,
For an allotted interval of ease,
Beneath my cottage roof, had newly come
From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; 1827.
Beneath my cottage roof, had gladly come 1840.
. . . had meanwhile come C. [a]]
[Variant 6: This and the previous line were added in 1827. ]
[Variant 7:
1827.
And much did it delight me to perceive 1815. ]
[Variant 8:
1827.
A heart more wakeful; that, more both to part
From place so lovely, he had worn the track 1815. ]
[Variant 9:
1845.
With which the Sailor measures . . . 1815. ]
[Variant 10:
1845.
While she is travelling . . . 1815. ]
[Variant 11:
1836.
. . . minds were fashioned;. . . 1815. ]
[Variant 12:
1827.
. . . art gone;
And now I call the path-way by thy name,
And love the fir-grove 1815. ]
[Variant 13:
1827.
. . . placid . . . 1815. ]
[Variant 14:
1827.
Art pacing to and fro . . . 1815. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Compare Daniel's 'Hymens Triumph', ii. 4:
'And where no sun could see him, where no eye
Might overlook his lonely privacy;
There in a path of his own making, trod
Rare as a common way, yet led no way
Beyond the turns he made. '
Ed. ]
[Footnote B: Compare the line in Coleridge's 'Hymn before Sun-rise, in
the Vale of Chamouni':
'Ye pine groves with your soft and soul-like sound,'
Ed. ]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Sub-Footnote a: In the late Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of
1836, there is a footnote in Wordsworth's handwriting to the word
"meanwhile" which is substituted for "newly. " "If 'newly' come, could he
have traced a visible path? "--Ed. ]
This wish was not granted; the lamented Person, not long after, perished
by shipwreck, in discharge of his duty as Commander of the Honourable
East India Company's Vessel, the 'Earl of Abergavenny'. --W. W. 1815.
For the date of this poem in the Chronological Tables given in the
editions of 1815 and 1820, Wordsworth assigned the year 1802. But, in
the edition of 1836, he assigned it to the year 1805, the date retained
by Mr. Carter in the edition of 1857. Captain Wordsworth perished on the
5th of February 1805; and if the poem was written in 1805, it must have
been in the month of January of that year. The note to the poem is
explicit--"Not long after" he "perished by shipwreck," etc. Thus the
poem _may_ have been written in the beginning of 1805; but it is not at
all certain that part of it at least does not belong to an earlier year.
John Wordsworth lived with his brother and sister at the Town-end
Cottage, Grasmere, during part of the winter, and during the whole of
the spring, summer, and autumn of 1800, William and John going together
on foot into Yorkshire from the 14th of May to the 7th of June. John
left Grasmere on Michaelmas day (September 29th) 1800, and never
returned to it again. The following is Miss Wordsworth's record of that
day in her Journal of 1800:
"On Monday, 29th, John left us. William and I parted with him in sight
of Ullswater. It was a fine day, showery, but with sunshine and fine
clouds. Poor fellow, my heart was right sad, I could not help thinking
we should see him again, because he was only going to Penrith. "
In the spring of 1801, John Wordsworth sailed for China in the
'Abergavenny'. He returned from this voyage in safety, and the brothers
met once again in London. He went to sea again in 1803, and returned to
London in 1804, but could not visit Grasmere; and in the month of
February 1805--shortly after he was appointed to the command of the
'Abergavenny'--the ship was lost at the Bill of Portland, and every one
on board perished. It is clear that the latter part of the poem, "When,
to the attractions of the busy world," was written between John
Wordsworth's departure from Grasmere and the loss of the 'Abergavenny',
i. e. between September 1800 and February 1805, as there are references
in it both to what his brother did at Grasmere and to his return to
sea:
'Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone. '
There are some things in the earlier part of the poem that appear to
negative the idea of its having been written in 1800. The opening lines
seem to hint at an experience somewhat distant. He speaks of being
"wont" to do certain things. But, on the other hand, I find an entry in
Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, which leads me to believe that the poem
may have been begun in 1800, and that the first part, ending (as it did
then) with the line:
'While she is travelling through the dreary sea,'
may have been finished before John Wordsworth left Grasmere;
the second part being written afterwards, while he was at sea;
and that this is the explanation of the date given in the editions
of 1815 and 1820, viz. 1802.
Passages occur in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal to the
following effect:
"Monday Morning, 1st September. --We walked in the wood by the lake.
William read 'Joanna' and 'the Firgrove' to Coleridge. "
A little earlier there is the record,
"Saturday, 22nd August. --William was composing all the morning. . . .
William read us the poem of 'Joanna' beside the Rothay by the
roadside. "
Then, on Friday, the 25th August, there is the entry,
"We walked over the hill by the Firgrove, I sate upon a rock and
observed a flight of swallows gathering together high above my head.
We walked through the wood to the stepping stones, the lake of Rydale
very beautiful, partly still, I left William to compose an
inscription, that about the path. . . . "
Then, next day,
"Saturday morning, 30th August. --William finished his inscription of
the Pathway, then walked in the wood, and when John returned he sought
him, and they bathed together. "
To what poem Dorothy Wordsworth referred under the name of the
"Inscription of the Pathway" has puzzled me much. There is no poem
amongst his "Inscriptions" (written in or before August 1800) that
corresponds to it in the least. But, if my conjecture is right that this
"Poem on the Naming of Places," beginning:
'When, to the attractions of the busy world,'
was composed at two different times, it is quite possible that "the
Firgrove" which was read--along with 'Joanna'--to Coleridge on September
1st, 1800, was the first part of this very poem.
If this supposition is correct, some light is cast both on the
"Inscription of the Pathway. " and on the date assigned by Wordsworth
himself to the poem. There is a certain fitness, however, in this poem
being placed--as it now is--in sequence to the 'Elegiac Verses' in
memory of John Wordsworth, beginning, "The Sheep-boy whistled loud," and
near the fourth poem 'To the Daisy', beginning, "Sweet Flower! belike
one day to have. "
The "Fir-grove" still exists. It is between Wishing Gate and White Moss
Common, and almost exactly opposite the former. Standing at the gate and
looking eastwards, the grove is to the left, not forty yards distant.
Some of the firs (Scotch ones) still survive, and several beech trees,
not "a single beech-tree," as in the poem. From this, one might infer
that the present colony had sprung up since the beginning of the
century, and that the special tree, in which was the thrush's nest, had
perished; but Dr. Cradock wrote to me that "Wordsworth pointed out the
tree to Miss Cookson a few days before Dora Wordsworth's death. The tree
is near the upper wall and tells its own tale. " The Fir-grove--"John's
Grove"--can easily be entered by a gate about a hundred yards beyond
the Wishing-gate, as one goes toward Rydal. The view from it, the
"visionary scene,"
'the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, . .
This poem was included among the "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces. "--Ed.
I The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo!
That instant, startled by the shock,
The Buzzard mounted from the rock
Deliberate and slow:
Lord of the air, he took his flight; 5
Oh! could he on that woeful night
Have lent his wing, my Brother dear,
For one poor moment's space to Thee,
And all who struggled with the Sea,
When safety was so near. 10
II Thus in the weakness of my heart
I spoke (but let that pang be still)
When rising from the rock at will,
I saw the Bird depart.
And let me calmly bless the Power 15
That meets me in this unknown Flower,
Affecting type of him I mourn!
With calmness suffer and believe,
And grieve, and know that I must grieve,
Not cheerless, though forlorn. 20
III Here did we stop; and here looked round
While each into himself descends,
For that last thought of parting Friends
That is not to be found.
Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight, 25
Our home and his, his heart's delight,
His quiet heart's selected home.
But time before him melts away,
And he hath feeling of a day
Of blessedness to come. 30
IV Full soon in sorrow did I weep,
Taught that the mutual hope was dust,
In sorrow, but for higher trust,
How miserably deep!
All vanished in a single word, 35
A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard.
Sea--Ship--drowned--Shipwreck--so it came,
The meek, the brave, the good, was gone;
He who had been our living John
Was nothing but a name. 40
V That was indeed a parting! oh,
Glad am I, glad that it is past;
For there were some on whom it cast
Unutterable woe.
But they as well as I have gains;--45
From many a humble source, to pains
Like these, there comes a mild release;
Even here I feel it, even this Plant
Is in its beauty ministrant
To comfort and to peace. 50
VI He would have loved thy modest grace,
Meek Flower! To Him I would have said,
"It grows upon its native bed
Beside our Parting-place;
There, cleaving to the ground, it lies 55
With multitude of purple eyes,
Spangling a cushion green like moss;
But we will see it, joyful tide!
Some day, to see it in its pride,
The mountain will we cross. " 60
VII--Brother and friend, if verse of mine
Have power to make thy virtues known,
Here let a monumental Stone
Stand--sacred as a Shrine;
And to the few who pass this way, 65
Traveller or Shepherd, let it say,
Long as these mighty rocks endure,--
Oh do not Thou too fondly brood,
Although deserving of all good,
On any earthly hope, however pure! [A] 70
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: See 2nd vol. of the Author's Poems, page 298, and 5th vol. ,
pages 311 and 314, among Elegiac Pieces. --W. W. 1842.
These poems are those respectively beginning:
"When, to the attractions of the busy world . . . "
"I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! . . . "
"Sweet Flower! belike one day to have . . . "
Ed.
The plant alluded to is the Moss Campion (Silene acaulis, of Linnaeus).
See note at the end of the volume. --W. W. 1842.
See among the "Poems on the Naming of Places," No. VI. --W. W. 1845.
The note is as follows:
"Moss Campion ('Silene acaulis'). This most beautiful plant is scarce
in England, though it is found in great abundance upon the mountains
of Scotland. The first specimen I ever saw of it in its native bed was
singularly fine, the tuft or cushion being at least eight inches
diameter, and the root proportionably thick. I have only met with it
in two places among our mountains, in both of which I have since
sought for it in vain.
Botanists will not, I hope, take it ill, if I caution them against
carrying off inconsiderately rare and beautiful plants. This has often
been done, particularly from Ingleborough and other mountains in
Yorkshire, till the species have totally disappeared, to the great
regret of lovers of nature living near the places where they
grew. "--W. W. 1842.
See also 'The Prelude', book xiv. 1. 419, p. 379. --Ed. ]
This poem underwent no change in successive editions.
At a meeting of "The Wordsworth Society" held at Grasmere, in July 1881,
it was proposed by one of the members, the Rev. H. D. Rawnsley, then
Vicar of Wray, to erect some memorial at the parting-place of the
brothers. The brothers John and William Wordsworth parted at Grisedale
Tarn, on the 29th September 1800. The originator of the idea wrote thus
of it in June 1882:
"A proposition, made by one of its members to the Wordsworth Society
when it met in Grasmere in 1881, to mark the spot in the Grisedale
Pass of Wordsworth's parting from his brother John--and to carry out a
wish the poet seems to have hinted at in the last of his elegiac
verses in memory of that parting--is now being put into effect. It has
been determined, after correspondence with Lord Coleridge, Dr.
Cradock, Professor Knight, and Mr. Hills, to have inscribed--(on the
native rock, if possible)--the first four lines of Stanzas III. and
VII. of these verses:
'Here did we stop; and here looked round
While each into himself descends,
For that last thought of parting Friends
That is not to be found.
. . .
Brother and friend, if verse of mine
Have power to make thy virtues known,
Here let a monumental Stone
Stand--sacred as a Shrine. '
The rock selected is a fine mass, facing the east, on the left of the
track as one descends from Grisedale Tarn towards Patterdale, and is
about 100 yards from the tarn. No more suitable one can be found, and
we have the testimony of Mr. David Richardson of Newcastle, who has
practical knowledge of engineering, that it is the fittest, both from
shape and from slight incline of plane.
It has been proposed to sink a panel in the face of the rock, that so
the inscription may be slightly protected, and to engrave the letters
upon the face of the panel thus obtained. But it is not quite certain
yet that the grain of the rock--volcanic ash--will admit of the
lettering. If this cannot be carried out, it has been determined to
have the letters engraved upon a slab of Langdale slate, and imbed it
in the Grisedale Rock.
It is believed that the simplicity of the design, the lonely isolation
of this mountain memorial, will appeal at once
' . . . to the few who pass this way,
Traveller or Shepherd. '
And we in our turn appeal to English tourists who may chance to see
it, to forego the wish of adding to it, or taking anything from it, by
engraving their own names; and to let the Monumental Stone stand, as
the poet wished it might
' . . . stand, SACRED as a Shrine. '
We owe great thanks to Mrs. Sturge for first surveying the place, to
ascertain the possibility of finding a mountain rock sufficiently
striking in position; to Mr. Richardson, jun. , for his etching of the
rock, upon which the inscription is to be made; to his father for the
kind trouble he took in the measurement of the said rock; and
particularly to the seconder of the original proposal, and my
coadjutor in the task of final selection and superintending the work,
Mr. W. H. Hills.
H. D. RAWNSLEY.
_P. S. _--When we came to examine the rock, we found the area for the
panel less than we had hoped for, owing to certain rock fissures,
which, by acting as drains for the rainwater on the surface, would
have much interfered with the durability of the inscription. The
available space for the panel remains 3 feet 7 in length by 1 foot 9
inches in depth. Owing to the fineness of the grain of the stone, it
may be quite possible to letter the native rock; but it has been
difficult to fix on a style of lettering for the inscription that
shall be at once in good taste, forcible, and plain. It was proposed
that the Script type of letter which was made use of in the
inscription cut on the rock, in the late Mr. Ball's garden grounds
below the Mount at Rydal, should be adopted; but a final decision has
been given in favour of a style of lettering which Mrs. Rawnsley has
designed. The panel is, from its position, certain to attract the eye
of the wanderer from Patterdale up to the Grisedale Pass.
H. D. R. "
See the note to 'The Waggoner', p. 112, referring to the Rock of Names,
on the shore of Thirlmere.
The following extract from 'Recollections from 1803 to 1837, with a
Conclusion in 1868, by the Hon. Amelia Murray' (London: Longmans, Green,
and Co. 1868)--refers to the loss of the 'Abergavenny':
"One morning, coming down early, I saw what I thought was a great big
ship without any hull. This was the 'Abergavenny', East Indiaman,
which had sunk with all sails set, hardly three miles from the shore,
and all on board perished.
Had any of the crew taken refuge in the main-top, they might have been
saved; but the bowsprit, which was crowded with human beings, gave a
lurch into the sea as the ship settled down, and thus all were washed
off--though the timber appeared again above water when the
'Abergavenny' touched the ground. The ship had sprung a leak off St.
Alban's Head; and in spite of pumps, she went to the bottom just
within reach of safety. " Pp. 12, 13.
A 'Narrative of the loss of the "Earl of Abergavenny" East Indiaman, off
Portland, Feb. 5, 1805', was published in pamphlet form (8vo, 1805), by
Hamilton and Bird, 21 High Street, Islington.
For much in reference to John Wordsworth, which illustrates both these
'Elegiac Verses', and the poem "On the Naming of Places" which follows
them, I must refer to his 'Life' to be published in another volume of
this series; but there is one letter of Dorothy Wordsworth's, written to
her friend Miss Jane Pollard (afterwards Mrs. Marshall), in reference to
her brother's death, which may find a place here. For the use of it I am
indebted to the kindness of Mrs. Marshall's daughter, the Dowager Lady
Monteagle:
"March 16th, 1805. Grasmere.
". . . It does me good to weep for him, and it does me good to find that
others weep, and I bless them for it. . . . It is with me, when I write,
as when I am walking out in this vale, once so full of joy. I can turn
to no object that does not remind me of our loss. I see nothing that
he would not have loved, and enjoyed. . . . My consolations rather come
to me in gusts of feeling, than are the quiet growth of my mind. I
know it will not always be so. The time will come when the light of
the setting sun upon these mountain tops will be as heretofore a pure
joy; not the same _gladness_, that can never be--but yet a joy even
more tender. It will soothe me to know how happy he would have been,
could he have seen the same beautiful spectacle. . . . He was taken away
in the freshness of his manhood; pure he was, and innocent as a child.
Never human being was more thoroughly modest, and his courage I need
not speak of. He was 'seen speaking with apparent cheerfulness to the
first mate a few minutes before the ship went down;' and when nothing
more could be done, He said, 'the will of God be done. ' I have no
doubt when he felt that it was out of his power to save his life he
was as calm as before, if some thought of what we should endure did
not awaken a pang. . . . He loved solitude, and he rejoiced in society.
He would wander alone amongst these hills with his fishing-rod, or led
on by the mere pleasure of walking, for many hours; or he would walk
with W. or me, or both of us, and was continually pointing out--with a
gladness which is seldom seen but in very young people--something
which perhaps would have escaped our observation; for he had so fine
an eye that no distinction was unnoticed by him, and so tender a
feeling that he never noticed anything in vain. Many a time has he
called out to me at evening to look at the moon or stars, or a cloudy
sky, or this vale in the quiet moonlight; but the stars and moon were
his chief delight. He made of them his companions when he was at sea,
and was never tired of those thoughts which the silence of the night
fed in him. Then he was so happy by the fireside. Any little business
of the house interested him. He loved our cottage. He helped us to
furnish it, and to make the garden. Trees are growing now which he
planted. . . . He staid with us till the 29th of September, having come
to us about the end of January. During that time Mary Hutchinson--now
Mary Wordsworth--staid with us six weeks. John used to walk with her
everywhere, and they were exceedingly attached to each other; so my
poor sister mourns with us, not merely because we have lost one who
was so dear to William and me, but from tender love to John and an
intimate knowledge of him. Her hopes as well as ours were fixed on
John. . . . I can think of nothing but of our departed Brother, yet I am
very tranquil to-day. I honour him, and love him, and glory in his
memory. . . . "
Southey, writing to his friend, C. W. W. Wynn, on the 3rd of April 1805,
says:
"DEAR WYNN,
I have been grievously shocked this evening by the loss of the
'Abergavenny', of which Wordsworth's brother was captain. Of course
the news came flying up to us from all quarters, and it has disordered
me from head to foot. At such circumstances I believe we feel as much
for others as for ourselves; just as a violent blow occasions the same
pain as a wound, and he who breaks his shin feels as acutely at the
moment as the man whose leg is shot off. In fact, I am writing to you
merely because this dreadful shipwreck has left me utterly unable to
do anything else. It is the heaviest calamity Wordsworth has ever
experienced, and in all probability I shall have to communicate it to
him, as he will very likely be here before the tidings can reach him.
What renders any near loss of this kind so peculiarly distressing is,
that the recollection is perpetually freshened when any like event
occurs, by the mere mention of shipwreck, or the sound of the wind. Of
all deaths it is the most dreadful, from the circumstances of terror
which accompany it. . . .
"
(See 'The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey', vol. ii. p. 321. )
The following is part of a letter from Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth
on the same subject. It is undated:
"MY DEAR MISS WORDSWORTH,--
I wished to tell you that you would one day feel the kind of peaceful
state of mind and sweet memory of the dead, which you so happily
describe, as now almost begun; but I felt that it was improper, and
most grating to the feelings of the afflicted, to say to them that the
memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part, not
only of their dreams, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness.
That you would see every object with and through your lost brother,
and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of
comfort to you, I felt, and well knew, from my own experience in
sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this, I did not dare to
tell you so; but I send you some poor lines, which I wrote under this
conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home.
. . .
"Why is he wandering on the sea? --
Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.
By slow degrees he'd steal away
Their woes, and gently bring a ray
(So happily he'd time relief,)
Of comfort from their very grief.
He'd tell them that their brother dead,
When years have passed o'er their head,
Will be remembered with such holy,
True and tender melancholy,
That ever this lost brother John
Will be their heart's companion.
His voice they'll always hear,
His face they'll always see;
There's naught in life so sweet
As such a memory. "
(See 'Final Memorials of Charles Lamb', by Thomas Noon Talfourd, vol.
ii. pp. 233, 234. )--Ed.
* * * * *
"WHEN, TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY WORLD"
Composed 1800 to 1805. --Published 1815
[The grove still exists; but the plantation has been walled in, and is
not so accessible as when my brother John wore the path in the manner
here described. The grove was a favourite haunt with us all while we
lived at Town-end. --I. F. ]
This was No. VI. of the "Poems on the Naming of Places. " For several
suggested changes in MS. see Appendix I. p. 385. --Ed.
When, to the attractions of the busy world,
Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen
A habitation in this peaceful Vale,
Sharp season followed of continual storm
In deepest winter; and, from week to week, 5
Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged
With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill
At a short distance from my cottage, stands
A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont
To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof 10
Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place
Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor.
Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow,
And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth,
The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth 15
To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds
That, for protection from the nipping blast,
Hither repaired. --A single beech-tree grew
Within this grove of firs! and, on the fork
Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest; 20
A last year's nest, conspicuously built
At such small elevation from the ground
As gave sure sign that they, who in that house
Of nature and of love had made their home
Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long 25
Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes,
A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock,
Would watch my motions with suspicious stare,
From the remotest outskirts of the grove,--
Some nook where they had made their final stand, 30
Huddling together from two fears--the fear
Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour
Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees
Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven
In such perplexed and intricate array; 35
That vainly did I seek, beneath [1] their stems
A length of open space, where to and fro
My feet might move without concern or care;
And, baffled thus, though earth from day to day
Was fettered, and the air by storm disturbed, 40
I ceased the shelter to frequent, [2]--and prized,
Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.
The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned
To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts
Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, 45
By chance retiring from the glare of noon
To this forsaken covert, there I found
A hoary pathway traced between the trees,
And winding on with such an easy line
Along a natural opening, that I stood 50
Much wondering how I could have sought in vain [3]
For what was now so obvious. [4] To abide,
For an allotted interval of ease,
Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come
From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; [5] 55
And with the sight of this same path--begun,
Begun and ended, in the shady grove, [6]
Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind [7]
That, to this opportune recess allured,
He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 60
A heart more wakeful; and had worn the track [8]
By pacing here, unwearied and alone, [A]
In that habitual restlessness of foot
That haunts the Sailor measuring [9] o'er and o'er
His short domain upon the vessel's deck, 65
While she pursues her course [10] through the dreary sea.
When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore,
And taken thy first leave of those green hills
And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth,
Year followed year, my Brother! and we two, 70
Conversing not, knew little in what mould
Each other's mind was fashioned; [11] and at length
When once again we met in Grasmere Vale,
Between us there was little other bond
Than common feelings of fraternal love. 75
But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carried
Undying recollections; Nature there
Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still
Was with thee; and even so didst thou become
A _silent_ Poet; from the solitude 80
Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart
Still couchant, an inevitable ear,
And an eye practised like a blind man's touch.
--Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone;
Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 85
Could I withhold thy honoured name,--and now
I love the fir-grove [12] with a perfect love.
Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns
Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong;
And there I sit at evening, when the steep 90
Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful [13] lake,
And one green island, gleam between the stems
Of the dark firs, a visionary scene!
And, while I gaze upon the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight 95
Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee,
My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost.
Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou,
Muttering the verses which I muttered first
Among the mountains, through the midnight watch 100
Art pacing thoughtfully [14] the vessel's deck
In some far region, here, while o'er my head,
At every impulse of the moving breeze,
The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, [B]
Alone I tread this path;--for aught I know, 105
Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store
Of undistinguishable sympathies,
Mingling most earnest wishes for the day
When we, and others whom we love, shall meet
A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. 110
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
. . . between . . . 1815. ]
[Variant 2:
1836.
And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed,
I ceased that Shelter to frequent,--1815.
. . . the shelter . . . 1827. ]
[Variant 3:
1827.
Much wondering at my own simplicity
How I could e'er have made a fruitless search 1815. ]
[Variant 4:
. . . At the sight
Conviction also flashed upon my mind
That this same path (within the shady grove
Begun and ended) by my Brother's steps
Had been impressed. --. . .
These additional lines appeared only in 1815 and 1820. ]
[Variant 5:
1845.
. . . To sojourn a short while
Beneath my roof He from the barren seas
Had newly come--a cherished Visitant! 1815.
. . . To abide,
For an allotted interval of ease,
Beneath my cottage roof, had newly come
From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; 1827.
Beneath my cottage roof, had gladly come 1840.
. . . had meanwhile come C. [a]]
[Variant 6: This and the previous line were added in 1827. ]
[Variant 7:
1827.
And much did it delight me to perceive 1815. ]
[Variant 8:
1827.
A heart more wakeful; that, more both to part
From place so lovely, he had worn the track 1815. ]
[Variant 9:
1845.
With which the Sailor measures . . . 1815. ]
[Variant 10:
1845.
While she is travelling . . . 1815. ]
[Variant 11:
1836.
. . . minds were fashioned;. . . 1815. ]
[Variant 12:
1827.
. . . art gone;
And now I call the path-way by thy name,
And love the fir-grove 1815. ]
[Variant 13:
1827.
. . . placid . . . 1815. ]
[Variant 14:
1827.
Art pacing to and fro . . . 1815. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Compare Daniel's 'Hymens Triumph', ii. 4:
'And where no sun could see him, where no eye
Might overlook his lonely privacy;
There in a path of his own making, trod
Rare as a common way, yet led no way
Beyond the turns he made. '
Ed. ]
[Footnote B: Compare the line in Coleridge's 'Hymn before Sun-rise, in
the Vale of Chamouni':
'Ye pine groves with your soft and soul-like sound,'
Ed. ]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Sub-Footnote a: In the late Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of
1836, there is a footnote in Wordsworth's handwriting to the word
"meanwhile" which is substituted for "newly. " "If 'newly' come, could he
have traced a visible path? "--Ed. ]
This wish was not granted; the lamented Person, not long after, perished
by shipwreck, in discharge of his duty as Commander of the Honourable
East India Company's Vessel, the 'Earl of Abergavenny'. --W. W. 1815.
For the date of this poem in the Chronological Tables given in the
editions of 1815 and 1820, Wordsworth assigned the year 1802. But, in
the edition of 1836, he assigned it to the year 1805, the date retained
by Mr. Carter in the edition of 1857. Captain Wordsworth perished on the
5th of February 1805; and if the poem was written in 1805, it must have
been in the month of January of that year. The note to the poem is
explicit--"Not long after" he "perished by shipwreck," etc. Thus the
poem _may_ have been written in the beginning of 1805; but it is not at
all certain that part of it at least does not belong to an earlier year.
John Wordsworth lived with his brother and sister at the Town-end
Cottage, Grasmere, during part of the winter, and during the whole of
the spring, summer, and autumn of 1800, William and John going together
on foot into Yorkshire from the 14th of May to the 7th of June. John
left Grasmere on Michaelmas day (September 29th) 1800, and never
returned to it again. The following is Miss Wordsworth's record of that
day in her Journal of 1800:
"On Monday, 29th, John left us. William and I parted with him in sight
of Ullswater. It was a fine day, showery, but with sunshine and fine
clouds. Poor fellow, my heart was right sad, I could not help thinking
we should see him again, because he was only going to Penrith. "
In the spring of 1801, John Wordsworth sailed for China in the
'Abergavenny'. He returned from this voyage in safety, and the brothers
met once again in London. He went to sea again in 1803, and returned to
London in 1804, but could not visit Grasmere; and in the month of
February 1805--shortly after he was appointed to the command of the
'Abergavenny'--the ship was lost at the Bill of Portland, and every one
on board perished. It is clear that the latter part of the poem, "When,
to the attractions of the busy world," was written between John
Wordsworth's departure from Grasmere and the loss of the 'Abergavenny',
i. e. between September 1800 and February 1805, as there are references
in it both to what his brother did at Grasmere and to his return to
sea:
'Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone. '
There are some things in the earlier part of the poem that appear to
negative the idea of its having been written in 1800. The opening lines
seem to hint at an experience somewhat distant. He speaks of being
"wont" to do certain things. But, on the other hand, I find an entry in
Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, which leads me to believe that the poem
may have been begun in 1800, and that the first part, ending (as it did
then) with the line:
'While she is travelling through the dreary sea,'
may have been finished before John Wordsworth left Grasmere;
the second part being written afterwards, while he was at sea;
and that this is the explanation of the date given in the editions
of 1815 and 1820, viz. 1802.
Passages occur in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal to the
following effect:
"Monday Morning, 1st September. --We walked in the wood by the lake.
William read 'Joanna' and 'the Firgrove' to Coleridge. "
A little earlier there is the record,
"Saturday, 22nd August. --William was composing all the morning. . . .
William read us the poem of 'Joanna' beside the Rothay by the
roadside. "
Then, on Friday, the 25th August, there is the entry,
"We walked over the hill by the Firgrove, I sate upon a rock and
observed a flight of swallows gathering together high above my head.
We walked through the wood to the stepping stones, the lake of Rydale
very beautiful, partly still, I left William to compose an
inscription, that about the path. . . . "
Then, next day,
"Saturday morning, 30th August. --William finished his inscription of
the Pathway, then walked in the wood, and when John returned he sought
him, and they bathed together. "
To what poem Dorothy Wordsworth referred under the name of the
"Inscription of the Pathway" has puzzled me much. There is no poem
amongst his "Inscriptions" (written in or before August 1800) that
corresponds to it in the least. But, if my conjecture is right that this
"Poem on the Naming of Places," beginning:
'When, to the attractions of the busy world,'
was composed at two different times, it is quite possible that "the
Firgrove" which was read--along with 'Joanna'--to Coleridge on September
1st, 1800, was the first part of this very poem.
If this supposition is correct, some light is cast both on the
"Inscription of the Pathway. " and on the date assigned by Wordsworth
himself to the poem. There is a certain fitness, however, in this poem
being placed--as it now is--in sequence to the 'Elegiac Verses' in
memory of John Wordsworth, beginning, "The Sheep-boy whistled loud," and
near the fourth poem 'To the Daisy', beginning, "Sweet Flower! belike
one day to have. "
The "Fir-grove" still exists. It is between Wishing Gate and White Moss
Common, and almost exactly opposite the former. Standing at the gate and
looking eastwards, the grove is to the left, not forty yards distant.
Some of the firs (Scotch ones) still survive, and several beech trees,
not "a single beech-tree," as in the poem. From this, one might infer
that the present colony had sprung up since the beginning of the
century, and that the special tree, in which was the thrush's nest, had
perished; but Dr. Cradock wrote to me that "Wordsworth pointed out the
tree to Miss Cookson a few days before Dora Wordsworth's death. The tree
is near the upper wall and tells its own tale. " The Fir-grove--"John's
Grove"--can easily be entered by a gate about a hundred yards beyond
the Wishing-gate, as one goes toward Rydal. The view from it, the
"visionary scene,"
'the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, . .
