I've
measured
it from side to side:
'Tis three feet long [i] and two feet wide.
'Tis three feet long [i] and two feet wide.
William Wordsworth
"--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
A whirl-blast from behind the hill
Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound;
Then--all at once the air was still,
And showers of hailstones pattered round.
Where leafless oaks towered high above, 5
I sat within an undergrove
Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floor
With withered leaves is covered o'er, 10
[1] And all the year the bower is green. [C]
But see! where'er the hailstones drop
The withered leaves all skip and hop;
There's not a breeze--no breath of air--
Yet here, and there, and every where 15
Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,
The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if with pipes and music rare
Some Robin Good-fellow were there, 20
And all those leaves, in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy. [2] [3] [D]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1820.
You could not lay a hair between:
Inserted in the editions 1800-1815. ]
[Variant 2:
1815.
And all those leaves, that jump and spring,
Were each a joyous, living thing. 1800. ]
[Variant 3: The following additional lines occur in the editions 1800 to
1805:
Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease
That I may never cease to find,
Even in appearances like these
Enough to nourish and to stir my mind! ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the date 1798, and in
the spring of 1799 the Wordsworths were not at Alfoxden but in
Germany. --Ed. ]
[Footnote B: The friends were Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Fenwick, Edward and
Dora Quillinan, and William Wordsworth (the poet's son). The date was
May 13, 1841. --Ed. ]
[Footnote C: Compare a letter from Wordsworth to Sir George Beaumont,
written in November 1806, and one to Lady Beaumont in December
1806. --Ed. ]
[Footnote D:
"March 18, 1708. The Coleridges left us. A cold windy morning. Walked
with them half-way. On our return, sheltered under the hollies during
a hail shower. The withered leaves danced with the hailstones. William
wrote a description of the storm"
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal). --Ed. ]
* * * * *
THE THORN
Composed March 19, 1798. --Published 1798.
In the editions of 1800-1805, Wordsworth added the following note to
this poem:
"This Poem ought to have been preceded by an introductory Poem, which
I have been prevented from writing by never having felt myself in a
mood when it was probable that I should write it well. --The character
which I have here introduced speaking is sufficiently common. The
Reader will perhaps have a general notion of it, if he has ever known
a man, a Captain of a small trading vessel for example, who being past
the middle age of life, had retired upon an annuity or small
independent income to some village or country town of which he was not
a native, or in which he had not been accustomed to live. Such men
having little to do become credulous and talkative from indolence; and
from the same cause, and other predisposing causes by which it is
probable that such men may have been affected, they are prone to
superstition. On which account it appeared to me proper to select a
character like this to exhibit some of the general laws by which
superstition acts upon the mind. Superstitious men are almost always
men of slow faculties and deep feelings; their minds are not loose but
adhesive; they have a reasonable share of imagination, by which word I
mean the faculty which produces impressive effects out of simple
elements; but they are utterly destitute of fancy, the power by which
pleasure and surprise are excited by sudden varieties of situation and
by accumulated imagery.
"It was my wish in this poem to shew the manner in which such men
cleave to the same ideas; and to follow the turns of passion, always
different, yet not palpably different, by which their conversation is
swayed. I had two objects to attain; first, to represent a picture
which should not be unimpressive yet consistent with the character
that should describe it, secondly, while I adhered to the style in
which such persons describe, to take care that words, which in their
minds are impregnated with passion, should likewise convey passion to
Readers who are not accustomed to sympathize with men feeling in that
manner or using such language. It seemed to me that this might be done
by calling in the assistance of Lyrical and rapid Metre. It was
necessary that the Poem, to be natural, should in reality move slowly;
yet I hoped, that, by the aid of the metre, to those who should at all
enter into the spirit of the Poem, it would appear to move quickly.
The Reader will have the kindness to excuse this note as I am sensible
that an introductory Poem is necessary to give this Poem its full
effect.
"Upon this occasion I will request permission to add a few words
closely connected with 'The Thorn' and many other Poems in these
Volumes. There is a numerous class of readers who imagine that the
same words cannot be repeated without tautology; this is a great
error: virtual tautology is much oftener produced by using different
words when the meaning is exactly the same. Words, a Poet's words more
particularly, ought to be weighed in the balance of feeling and not
measured by the space which they occupy upon paper. For the Reader
cannot be too often reminded that Poetry is passion: it is the history
or science of feelings: now every man must know that an attempt is
rarely made to communicate impassioned feelings without something of
an accompanying consciousness of the inadequateness of our own powers,
or the deficiencies of language. During such efforts there will be a
craving in the mind, and as long as it is unsatisfied the Speaker will
cling to the same words, or words of the same character. There are
also various other reasons why repetition and apparent tautology are
frequently beauties of the highest kind. Among the chief of these
reasons is the interest which the mind attaches to words, not only as
symbols of the passion, but as 'things', active and efficient, which
are of themselves part of the passion. And further, from a spirit of
fondness, exultation, and gratitude, the mind luxuriates in the
repetition of words which appear successfully to communicate its
feelings. The truth of these remarks might be shown by innumerable
passages from the Bible and from the impassioned poetry of every
nation.
Awake, awake, Deborah! awake, awake, utter a song: Arise Barak, and
lead captivity captive, thou Son of Abinoam.
At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he
fell: where he bowed there he fell down dead.
Why is his Chariot so long in coming? why tarry the Wheels of his
Chariot?
(Judges, chap. v. verses 12th, 27th, and part of 28th. )
See also the whole of that tumultuous and wonderful Poem. "
"The poem of 'The Thorn', as the reader will soon discover, is not
supposed to be spoken in the author's own person: the character of the
loquacious narrator will sufficiently shew itself in the course of the
story. "
W. W. Advertisement to "Lyrical Ballads," 1798.
* * * * *
[Alfoxden, 1798. Arose out of my observing, on the ridge of Quantock
Hill, on a stormy day, a thorn, which I had often past in calm and
bright weather, without noticing it. I said to myself, "Cannot I by
some invention do as much to make this Thorn permanently as an
impressive object as the storm has made it to my eyes at this moment? "
I began the poem accordingly, and composed it with great rapidity. Sir
George Beaumont painted a picture from it, which Wilkie thought his
best. He gave it me: though when he saw it several times at Rydal
Mount afterwards, he said, 'I could make a better, and would like to
paint the same subject over again. ' The sky in this picture is nobly
done, but it reminds one too much of Wilson. The only fault, however,
of any consequence is the female figure, which is too old and decrepit
for one likely to frequent an eminence on such a call. --I. F. ]
* * * * *
'The Thorn' was always placed among the "Poems of the Imagination. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I "There is a Thorn--it looks so old,
In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.
Not higher than a two years' child 5
It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
No leaves it has, no prickly [1] points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone 10
With lichens is it overgrown. [2]
II "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop: 15
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
So close, you'd say that they are [3] bent
With plain and manifest intent
To drag it to the ground; 20
And all have [4] joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor Thorn for ever.
III "High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 25
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not five yards from the mountain path,
This Thorn you on your left espy;
And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pond 30
Of water--never dry
Though but of compass small, and bare
To thirsty suns and parching air. [5] [A]
IV "And, close beside this aged Thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight, 35
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
Just half a foot in height.
All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen;
And mossy network too is there, 40
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been;
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermilion dye.
V "Ah me! what lovely tints are there 45
Of olive green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white!
This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the Thorn you see, 50
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infant's grave in size,
As like as like can be:
But never, never any where,
An infant's grave was half so fair. 55
VI "Now would you see this aged Thorn,
This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,
You must take care and choose your time
The mountain when to cross.
For oft there sits between the heap 60
So like [6] an infant's grave in size,
And that same pond of which I spoke,
A Woman in a scarlet cloak,
And to herself she cries,
'Oh misery! oh misery! 65
Oh woe is me! oh misery! '
VII "At all times of the day and night
This wretched Woman thither goes;
And she is known to every star,
And every wind that blows; 70
And there, beside the Thorn, she sits
When the blue daylight's in the skies,
And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still
And to herself she cries, 75
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery! '"
VIII "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,
In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
Thus to the dreary mountain-top 80
Does this poor Woman go?
And why sits she beside the Thorn
When the blue daylight's in the sky,
Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still, 85
And wherefore does she cry? --
O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
Does she repeat that doleful cry? "
IX "I cannot tell; I wish I could;
For the true reason no one knows: 90
But would you [7] gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes;
The hillock like [8] an infant's grave,
The pond--and Thorn, so old and grey;
Pass by her door--'tis seldom shut-- 95
And, if you see her in her hut--
Then to the spot away!
I never heard of such as dare
Approach the spot when she is there. "
X "But wherefore to the mountain-top 100
Can this unhappy Woman go,
Whatever star is in the skies,
Whatever wind may blow? " [9]
"Full twenty years are past and gone [10]
Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 105
Gave with a maiden's true good-will
Her company to Stephen Hill;
And she was blithe and gay,
While friends and kindred all approved
Of him whom tenderly she loved. [11] 110
XI "And they had fixed the wedding day,
The morning that must wed them both;
But Stephen to another Maid
Had sworn another oath;
And, with this other Maid, to church 115
Unthinking Stephen went--
Poor Martha! on that woeful day
A pang of pitiless dismay
Into her soul was sent;
A fire was kindled in her breast, 121
Which might not burn itself to rest. [12]
XII "They say, full six months after this,
While yet the summer leaves were green,
She to the mountain-top would go, 125
And there was often seen.
What could she seek? --or wish to hide?
Her state to any eye was plain; [13]
She was with child, and she was mad;
Yet often was she [14] sober sad 130
From her exceeding pain.
O guilty Father--would that death
Had saved him from that breach of faith! [15]
XIII "Sad case for such a brain to hold
Communion with a stirring child! 135
Sad case, as you may think, for one
Who had a brain so wild!
Last Christmas-eve we talked of this,
And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen
Held that the unborn infant wrought [16] 140
About its mother's heart, and brought
Her senses back again:
And, when at last her time drew near,
Her looks were calm, her senses clear.
XIV "More know I not, I wish I did, 145
And it should all be told to you; [17]
For what became of this poor child
No mortal ever knew; [18]
Nay--if a child to her was born
No earthly tongue could ever tell; [19] 150
And if 'twas born alive or dead,
Far less could this with proof be said; [20]
But some remember well,
That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb. 155
XV "And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
'Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
The churchyard path to seek:
For many a time and oft were heard 160
Cries coming from the mountain head:
Some plainly living voices were;
And others, I've heard many swear,
Were voices of the dead:
I cannot think, whate'er they say, 165
They had to do with Martha Ray.
XVI "But that she goes to this old Thorn,
The Thorn which I described [21] to you,
And there sits in a scarlet cloak,
I will be sworn is true. 170
For one day with my telescope,
To view the ocean wide and bright,
When to this country first I came,
Ere I had heard of Martha's name,
I climbed the mountain's height:-- 175
A storm came on, and I could see
No object higher than my knee.
XVII "'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain:
No screen, no fence could I discover;
And then the wind! in sooth, [22] it was 180
A wind full ten times over.
I looked around, I thought I saw
A jutting crag,--and off I ran,
Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
The shelter of the crag to gain; 185
And, as I am a man,
Instead of jutting crag, I found
A Woman seated on the ground.
XVIII "I did not speak--I saw her face;
Her face! --it was [23] enough for me: 190
I turned about and heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery! '
And there she sits, until the moon
Through half the clear blue sky will go;
And, when the little breezes make 195
The waters of the pond to shake,
As all the country know,
She shudders, and you hear her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery! '"
XIX "But what's the Thorn? and what the pond? 200
And what the hill of moss to her?
And what the creeping breeze that comes [24]
The little pond to stir? "
"I cannot tell; but some will say
She hanged her baby on the tree; 205
Some say she drowned it in the pond,
Which is a little step beyond:
But all and each agree,
The little Babe was buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 210
XX "I've heard, the moss is spotted red [25]
With drops of that poor infant's blood;
But kill a new-born infant thus,
I do not think she could!
Some say, if to the pond you go, 215
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby's face,
And that it looks at you;
Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain 220
The baby looks at you again.
XXI "And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infant's bones
With spades they would have sought. 225
But instantly the hill of moss [26]
Before their eyes began to stir!
And, for full fifty yards around,
The grass--it shook upon the ground!
Yet [27] all do still aver 230
The little Babe lies [28] buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
XXII "I cannot tell how this may be
But plain it is the Thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss that strive 235
To drag it to the ground;
And this I know, full many a time,
When she was on the mountain high,
By day, and in the silent night,
When all the stars shone clear and bright, 240
That I have heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery! '"
* * * * *
Compare 'The Heart of Midlothian' (vol. iii. chap. v. edition of 1818):
"Are ye sure ye ken the way ye are taking us? " said Jeanie, who began
to imagine that she was getting deeper into the woods, and more remote
from the highroad.
"Do I ken the road? Wasna I mony a day living here, and what for
shouldna I ken the road? I might hae forgotten, too, for it was afore
my accident; but there are some things ane can never forget, let them
try it as muckle as they like. "
By this time they had gained the deepest part of a patch of woodland.
The trees were a little separated from each other, and at the foot of
one of them, a beautiful poplar, was a hillock of moss, such as the
poet of Grasmere has described in the motto to our chapter. So soon as
she arrived at this spot, Madge Wildfire, joining her hands above her
head, with a loud scream that resembled laughter, flung herself all at
once upon the spot, and remained there lying motionless.
Jeanie's first idea was to take the opportunity of flight; but her
desire to escape yielded for a moment to apprehension for the poor
insane being, who, she thought, might perish for want of relief. With
an effort, which, in her circumstances, might be termed heroic, she
stooped down, spoke in a soothing tone, and tried to raise up the
forlorn creature. She effected this with difficulty, and as she placed
her against the tree in a sitting posture, she observed with surprise,
that her complexion, usually florid, was now deadly pale, and that her
face was bathed in tears. Notwithstanding her own extreme danger,
Jeanie was affected by the situation of her companion; and the rather
that, through the whole train of her wavering and inconsistent state
of mind and line of conduct, she discerned a general colour of
kindness towards herself, for which she felt gratitude.
"Let me alane! --let me alane! " said the poor young woman, as her
paroxysm of sorrow began to abate. "Let me alane; it does me good to
weep. I canna shed tears but maybe anes or twice a-year, and I aye
come to wet this turf with them, that the flowers may grow fair, and
the grass may be green. "
"But what is the matter with you? " said Jeanie. "Why do you weep so
bitterly? "
"There's matter enow," replied the lunatic; "mair than ae puir mind
can bear, I trow. Stay a bit, and I'll tell you a' about it; for I
like ye, Jeanie Deans; a'body spoke weel about ye when we lived in the
Pleasaunts. And I mind aye the drink o' milk ye gae me yon day, when I
had been on Arthur's Seat for four-and-twenty hours, looking for the
ship that somebody was sailing in. "
Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
. . . thorny . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 2:
1836.
. . . it is overgrown. 1798. ]
[Variant 3:
1836.
. . . were . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 4:
1836.
. . . had . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 5:
1820.
I've measured it from side to side:
'Tis three feet long [i] and two feet wide. 1798. ]
[Variant 6:
1827.
That's like . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 7:
1827.
But if you'd . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 8:
1827.
The heap that's like . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 9: In the editions 1798 to 1815.
Nay rack your brain--'tis all in vain,
I'll tell you every thing I know;
But to the thorn, and to the pond
Which is a little step beyond,
I wish that you would go:
Perhaps when you are at the place
You something of her tale may trace.
XI I'll give you the best help I can:
Before you up the mountain go,
Up to the dreary mountain-top,
I'll tell you all I know. ]
[Variant 10:
1845.
'Tis now some two and twenty years, 1798.
'Tis known, that twenty years are passed 1820. ]
[Variant 11:
1820.
And she was happy, happy still
Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill. 1798. ]
[Variant 12:
1815.
. . . on that woful day
A cruel, cruel fire, they say,
Into her bones was sent:
It dried her body like a cinder,
And almost turn'd her brain to tinder. 1798. ]
[Variant 13:
1836.
'Tis said, a child was in her womb,
As now to any eye was plain; 1798.
'Tis said, her lamentable state
Even to a careless eye was plain; 1820.
Alas! her lamentable state 1827. ]
[Variant 14:
1836.
. . . she was. . . 1798. ]
[Variant 15:
1820.
Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather
That he had died, that cruel father! 1798. ]
[Variant 16:
1820.
Last Christmas when we talked of this,
Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,
That in her womb the infant wrought 1798. ]
[Variant 17:
1827.
No more I know, I wish I did,
And I would tell it all to you; 1798. ]
[Variant 18:
1827.
There's none that ever knew: 1798. ]
[Variant 19:
1827.
And if a child was born or no,
There's no one that could ever tell; 1798. ]
[Variant 20:
1827.
There's no one knows, as I have said, 1798. ]
[Variant 21:
1827.
. . . I've described . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 22:
1845.
. . . in faith, . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 23:
1798.
In truth, it was . . . 1800.
The edition of 1815 returns to the text of 1798. ]
[Variant 24:
1827.
. . . and what's the pond?
And what's the hill of moss to her?
And what's the . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 25:
1800.
I've heard the scarlet moss is red 1798. ]
[Variant 26:
1845.
But then the beauteous hill of moss 1798.
It might not be--the Hill of moss 1827.
But then the beauteous Hill of moss 1832.
(Returning to the text of 1798. )
But then the speckled hill of moss 1836. ]
[Variant 27:
1827.
But . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 28:
1845.
. . . is buried . . . 1798. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A:
"March 19, 1798. William and Basil and I walked to the hill tops. A
very cold bleak day. William wrote some lines describing a stunted
Thorn" (Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal). --Ed.
"April 20. Walked in the evening up the hill dividing the coombes.
Came home the Crookham way, by the Thorn, and the little muddy pond"
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal). --Ed. ]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT
[Sub-Footnote i: Compare in Burger's 'Pfarrer's Tochter', "drei Spannen
lang," and see Appendix V. --Ed. ]
* * * * *
GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL
A TRUE STORY
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
[Written at Alfoxden. The incident from Dr. Darwin's 'Zoonomia'. --I.
F. ]
See Erasmus Darwin's 'Zoonomia', vol. iv. pp. 68-69, ed. 1801. It is the
story of a man named Tullis, narrated by an Italian, Signer L. Storgosi,
in a work called 'Il Narratore Italiano'.
"I received good information of the truth of the following case, which
was published a few years ago in the newspapers. A young farmer in
Warwickshire, finding his hedges broke, and the sticks carried away
during a frosty season, determined to watch for the thief. He lay many
cold hours under a haystack, and at length an old woman, like a witch
in a play, approached, and began to pull up the hedge; he waited till
she had tied up her bundle of sticks, and was carrying them off, that
he might convict her of the theft, and then springing from his
concealment, he seized his prey with violent threats. After some
altercation, in which her load was left upon the ground, she kneeled
upon her bundle of sticks, and raising her arms to Heaven, beneath the
bright moon then at the full, spoke to the farmer, already shivering
with cold, 'Heaven grant that thou mayest never know again the
blessing to be warm. ' He complained of cold all the next day, and wore
an upper coat, and in a few days another, and in a fortnight took to
his bed, always saying nothing made him warm; he covered himself with
many blankets, and had a sieve over his face as he lay; and from this
one insane idea he kept his bed above twenty years for fear of the
cold air, till at length he died. "
In the "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads,"
Wordsworth says, "The tale of 'Goody Blake and Harry Gill' is founded on
a well-authenticated fact which happened in Warwickshire. "
The following curious letter appeared in the 'Ipswich Magazine' of April
1799:
"IPSWICH, April 2, 1799.
"To the Editors of the 'Ipswich Magazine'.
"GENTLEMEN--The scarcity of Coal at this time, and the piercing cold
of the weather, cannot fail to be some apology for the depredations
daily committed on the hedges in the neighbourhood. If ever it be
permitted, it ought in the present season. Should there be any Farmer
more rigorous than the rest, let him attend to the poetical story
inserted in page 118 of this Magazine, and tremble at the fate of
Farmer Gill, who was about to prosecute a poor old woman for a similar
offence. The thing is a fact, and told by one of the first physicians
of the present day, as having happened in the south of England, 'and
which has, a short time since', been turned by a _lyric poet_ into
that excellent ballad. "
From 1815 to 1843, this poem was classed among those of "the
Imagination. " In 1845 it was transferred to the list of "Miscellaneous
Poems. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 5
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.
In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 10
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 15
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!
Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three. 20
Old [1] Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.
All day she spun in her poor dwelling: 25
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village-green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 30
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt. [2]
By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage; 35
But she, poor Woman! housed [3] alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the _canty_ Dame
Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 40
But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh then how her old bones would shake;
You would have said, if you had met her,
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead: 45
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;
And then for cold not sleep a wink.
O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout; 50
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, turf [4] or stick, 55
Enough to warm her for three days.
Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could anything be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 60
And, now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.
Now Harry he had long suspected 65
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected--
That [5] he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take; 70
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.
And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly, 75
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
--He hears a noise--he's all awake--
Again? --on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps--'tis Goody Blake;
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! 80
Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about, 85
The by-way [6] back again to take;
He started forward, with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast, 90
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, "I've caught you then at last! "
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 95
To God that is the judge of all.
She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm--
"God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm! " 100
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
Young Harry heard what she had said:
And icy cold he turned away.
He went complaining all the morrow 105
That he was cold and very chill:
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he: 110
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.
'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets were about him pinned;
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say, 'tis plain
That, live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again. 120
No word to any man he utters,
A-bed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold. "
A-bed or up, by night or day; 125
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill! [A]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1802.
Auld 1798. ]
[Variant 2:
1836
--This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,
Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
And in that country coals are dear,
For they come far by wind and tide. 1798.
Remote from sheltering village green,
Upon a bleak hill-side, she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt.
* * * * *
THE POEM
A whirl-blast from behind the hill
Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound;
Then--all at once the air was still,
And showers of hailstones pattered round.
Where leafless oaks towered high above, 5
I sat within an undergrove
Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floor
With withered leaves is covered o'er, 10
[1] And all the year the bower is green. [C]
But see! where'er the hailstones drop
The withered leaves all skip and hop;
There's not a breeze--no breath of air--
Yet here, and there, and every where 15
Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,
The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if with pipes and music rare
Some Robin Good-fellow were there, 20
And all those leaves, in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy. [2] [3] [D]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1820.
You could not lay a hair between:
Inserted in the editions 1800-1815. ]
[Variant 2:
1815.
And all those leaves, that jump and spring,
Were each a joyous, living thing. 1800. ]
[Variant 3: The following additional lines occur in the editions 1800 to
1805:
Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease
That I may never cease to find,
Even in appearances like these
Enough to nourish and to stir my mind! ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the date 1798, and in
the spring of 1799 the Wordsworths were not at Alfoxden but in
Germany. --Ed. ]
[Footnote B: The friends were Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Fenwick, Edward and
Dora Quillinan, and William Wordsworth (the poet's son). The date was
May 13, 1841. --Ed. ]
[Footnote C: Compare a letter from Wordsworth to Sir George Beaumont,
written in November 1806, and one to Lady Beaumont in December
1806. --Ed. ]
[Footnote D:
"March 18, 1708. The Coleridges left us. A cold windy morning. Walked
with them half-way. On our return, sheltered under the hollies during
a hail shower. The withered leaves danced with the hailstones. William
wrote a description of the storm"
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal). --Ed. ]
* * * * *
THE THORN
Composed March 19, 1798. --Published 1798.
In the editions of 1800-1805, Wordsworth added the following note to
this poem:
"This Poem ought to have been preceded by an introductory Poem, which
I have been prevented from writing by never having felt myself in a
mood when it was probable that I should write it well. --The character
which I have here introduced speaking is sufficiently common. The
Reader will perhaps have a general notion of it, if he has ever known
a man, a Captain of a small trading vessel for example, who being past
the middle age of life, had retired upon an annuity or small
independent income to some village or country town of which he was not
a native, or in which he had not been accustomed to live. Such men
having little to do become credulous and talkative from indolence; and
from the same cause, and other predisposing causes by which it is
probable that such men may have been affected, they are prone to
superstition. On which account it appeared to me proper to select a
character like this to exhibit some of the general laws by which
superstition acts upon the mind. Superstitious men are almost always
men of slow faculties and deep feelings; their minds are not loose but
adhesive; they have a reasonable share of imagination, by which word I
mean the faculty which produces impressive effects out of simple
elements; but they are utterly destitute of fancy, the power by which
pleasure and surprise are excited by sudden varieties of situation and
by accumulated imagery.
"It was my wish in this poem to shew the manner in which such men
cleave to the same ideas; and to follow the turns of passion, always
different, yet not palpably different, by which their conversation is
swayed. I had two objects to attain; first, to represent a picture
which should not be unimpressive yet consistent with the character
that should describe it, secondly, while I adhered to the style in
which such persons describe, to take care that words, which in their
minds are impregnated with passion, should likewise convey passion to
Readers who are not accustomed to sympathize with men feeling in that
manner or using such language. It seemed to me that this might be done
by calling in the assistance of Lyrical and rapid Metre. It was
necessary that the Poem, to be natural, should in reality move slowly;
yet I hoped, that, by the aid of the metre, to those who should at all
enter into the spirit of the Poem, it would appear to move quickly.
The Reader will have the kindness to excuse this note as I am sensible
that an introductory Poem is necessary to give this Poem its full
effect.
"Upon this occasion I will request permission to add a few words
closely connected with 'The Thorn' and many other Poems in these
Volumes. There is a numerous class of readers who imagine that the
same words cannot be repeated without tautology; this is a great
error: virtual tautology is much oftener produced by using different
words when the meaning is exactly the same. Words, a Poet's words more
particularly, ought to be weighed in the balance of feeling and not
measured by the space which they occupy upon paper. For the Reader
cannot be too often reminded that Poetry is passion: it is the history
or science of feelings: now every man must know that an attempt is
rarely made to communicate impassioned feelings without something of
an accompanying consciousness of the inadequateness of our own powers,
or the deficiencies of language. During such efforts there will be a
craving in the mind, and as long as it is unsatisfied the Speaker will
cling to the same words, or words of the same character. There are
also various other reasons why repetition and apparent tautology are
frequently beauties of the highest kind. Among the chief of these
reasons is the interest which the mind attaches to words, not only as
symbols of the passion, but as 'things', active and efficient, which
are of themselves part of the passion. And further, from a spirit of
fondness, exultation, and gratitude, the mind luxuriates in the
repetition of words which appear successfully to communicate its
feelings. The truth of these remarks might be shown by innumerable
passages from the Bible and from the impassioned poetry of every
nation.
Awake, awake, Deborah! awake, awake, utter a song: Arise Barak, and
lead captivity captive, thou Son of Abinoam.
At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he
fell: where he bowed there he fell down dead.
Why is his Chariot so long in coming? why tarry the Wheels of his
Chariot?
(Judges, chap. v. verses 12th, 27th, and part of 28th. )
See also the whole of that tumultuous and wonderful Poem. "
"The poem of 'The Thorn', as the reader will soon discover, is not
supposed to be spoken in the author's own person: the character of the
loquacious narrator will sufficiently shew itself in the course of the
story. "
W. W. Advertisement to "Lyrical Ballads," 1798.
* * * * *
[Alfoxden, 1798. Arose out of my observing, on the ridge of Quantock
Hill, on a stormy day, a thorn, which I had often past in calm and
bright weather, without noticing it. I said to myself, "Cannot I by
some invention do as much to make this Thorn permanently as an
impressive object as the storm has made it to my eyes at this moment? "
I began the poem accordingly, and composed it with great rapidity. Sir
George Beaumont painted a picture from it, which Wilkie thought his
best. He gave it me: though when he saw it several times at Rydal
Mount afterwards, he said, 'I could make a better, and would like to
paint the same subject over again. ' The sky in this picture is nobly
done, but it reminds one too much of Wilson. The only fault, however,
of any consequence is the female figure, which is too old and decrepit
for one likely to frequent an eminence on such a call. --I. F. ]
* * * * *
'The Thorn' was always placed among the "Poems of the Imagination. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I "There is a Thorn--it looks so old,
In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.
Not higher than a two years' child 5
It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
No leaves it has, no prickly [1] points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone 10
With lichens is it overgrown. [2]
II "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop: 15
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
So close, you'd say that they are [3] bent
With plain and manifest intent
To drag it to the ground; 20
And all have [4] joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor Thorn for ever.
III "High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 25
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not five yards from the mountain path,
This Thorn you on your left espy;
And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pond 30
Of water--never dry
Though but of compass small, and bare
To thirsty suns and parching air. [5] [A]
IV "And, close beside this aged Thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight, 35
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
Just half a foot in height.
All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen;
And mossy network too is there, 40
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been;
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermilion dye.
V "Ah me! what lovely tints are there 45
Of olive green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white!
This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the Thorn you see, 50
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infant's grave in size,
As like as like can be:
But never, never any where,
An infant's grave was half so fair. 55
VI "Now would you see this aged Thorn,
This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,
You must take care and choose your time
The mountain when to cross.
For oft there sits between the heap 60
So like [6] an infant's grave in size,
And that same pond of which I spoke,
A Woman in a scarlet cloak,
And to herself she cries,
'Oh misery! oh misery! 65
Oh woe is me! oh misery! '
VII "At all times of the day and night
This wretched Woman thither goes;
And she is known to every star,
And every wind that blows; 70
And there, beside the Thorn, she sits
When the blue daylight's in the skies,
And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still
And to herself she cries, 75
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery! '"
VIII "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,
In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
Thus to the dreary mountain-top 80
Does this poor Woman go?
And why sits she beside the Thorn
When the blue daylight's in the sky,
Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still, 85
And wherefore does she cry? --
O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
Does she repeat that doleful cry? "
IX "I cannot tell; I wish I could;
For the true reason no one knows: 90
But would you [7] gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes;
The hillock like [8] an infant's grave,
The pond--and Thorn, so old and grey;
Pass by her door--'tis seldom shut-- 95
And, if you see her in her hut--
Then to the spot away!
I never heard of such as dare
Approach the spot when she is there. "
X "But wherefore to the mountain-top 100
Can this unhappy Woman go,
Whatever star is in the skies,
Whatever wind may blow? " [9]
"Full twenty years are past and gone [10]
Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 105
Gave with a maiden's true good-will
Her company to Stephen Hill;
And she was blithe and gay,
While friends and kindred all approved
Of him whom tenderly she loved. [11] 110
XI "And they had fixed the wedding day,
The morning that must wed them both;
But Stephen to another Maid
Had sworn another oath;
And, with this other Maid, to church 115
Unthinking Stephen went--
Poor Martha! on that woeful day
A pang of pitiless dismay
Into her soul was sent;
A fire was kindled in her breast, 121
Which might not burn itself to rest. [12]
XII "They say, full six months after this,
While yet the summer leaves were green,
She to the mountain-top would go, 125
And there was often seen.
What could she seek? --or wish to hide?
Her state to any eye was plain; [13]
She was with child, and she was mad;
Yet often was she [14] sober sad 130
From her exceeding pain.
O guilty Father--would that death
Had saved him from that breach of faith! [15]
XIII "Sad case for such a brain to hold
Communion with a stirring child! 135
Sad case, as you may think, for one
Who had a brain so wild!
Last Christmas-eve we talked of this,
And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen
Held that the unborn infant wrought [16] 140
About its mother's heart, and brought
Her senses back again:
And, when at last her time drew near,
Her looks were calm, her senses clear.
XIV "More know I not, I wish I did, 145
And it should all be told to you; [17]
For what became of this poor child
No mortal ever knew; [18]
Nay--if a child to her was born
No earthly tongue could ever tell; [19] 150
And if 'twas born alive or dead,
Far less could this with proof be said; [20]
But some remember well,
That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb. 155
XV "And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
'Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
The churchyard path to seek:
For many a time and oft were heard 160
Cries coming from the mountain head:
Some plainly living voices were;
And others, I've heard many swear,
Were voices of the dead:
I cannot think, whate'er they say, 165
They had to do with Martha Ray.
XVI "But that she goes to this old Thorn,
The Thorn which I described [21] to you,
And there sits in a scarlet cloak,
I will be sworn is true. 170
For one day with my telescope,
To view the ocean wide and bright,
When to this country first I came,
Ere I had heard of Martha's name,
I climbed the mountain's height:-- 175
A storm came on, and I could see
No object higher than my knee.
XVII "'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain:
No screen, no fence could I discover;
And then the wind! in sooth, [22] it was 180
A wind full ten times over.
I looked around, I thought I saw
A jutting crag,--and off I ran,
Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
The shelter of the crag to gain; 185
And, as I am a man,
Instead of jutting crag, I found
A Woman seated on the ground.
XVIII "I did not speak--I saw her face;
Her face! --it was [23] enough for me: 190
I turned about and heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery! '
And there she sits, until the moon
Through half the clear blue sky will go;
And, when the little breezes make 195
The waters of the pond to shake,
As all the country know,
She shudders, and you hear her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery! '"
XIX "But what's the Thorn? and what the pond? 200
And what the hill of moss to her?
And what the creeping breeze that comes [24]
The little pond to stir? "
"I cannot tell; but some will say
She hanged her baby on the tree; 205
Some say she drowned it in the pond,
Which is a little step beyond:
But all and each agree,
The little Babe was buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 210
XX "I've heard, the moss is spotted red [25]
With drops of that poor infant's blood;
But kill a new-born infant thus,
I do not think she could!
Some say, if to the pond you go, 215
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby's face,
And that it looks at you;
Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain 220
The baby looks at you again.
XXI "And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infant's bones
With spades they would have sought. 225
But instantly the hill of moss [26]
Before their eyes began to stir!
And, for full fifty yards around,
The grass--it shook upon the ground!
Yet [27] all do still aver 230
The little Babe lies [28] buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
XXII "I cannot tell how this may be
But plain it is the Thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss that strive 235
To drag it to the ground;
And this I know, full many a time,
When she was on the mountain high,
By day, and in the silent night,
When all the stars shone clear and bright, 240
That I have heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery! '"
* * * * *
Compare 'The Heart of Midlothian' (vol. iii. chap. v. edition of 1818):
"Are ye sure ye ken the way ye are taking us? " said Jeanie, who began
to imagine that she was getting deeper into the woods, and more remote
from the highroad.
"Do I ken the road? Wasna I mony a day living here, and what for
shouldna I ken the road? I might hae forgotten, too, for it was afore
my accident; but there are some things ane can never forget, let them
try it as muckle as they like. "
By this time they had gained the deepest part of a patch of woodland.
The trees were a little separated from each other, and at the foot of
one of them, a beautiful poplar, was a hillock of moss, such as the
poet of Grasmere has described in the motto to our chapter. So soon as
she arrived at this spot, Madge Wildfire, joining her hands above her
head, with a loud scream that resembled laughter, flung herself all at
once upon the spot, and remained there lying motionless.
Jeanie's first idea was to take the opportunity of flight; but her
desire to escape yielded for a moment to apprehension for the poor
insane being, who, she thought, might perish for want of relief. With
an effort, which, in her circumstances, might be termed heroic, she
stooped down, spoke in a soothing tone, and tried to raise up the
forlorn creature. She effected this with difficulty, and as she placed
her against the tree in a sitting posture, she observed with surprise,
that her complexion, usually florid, was now deadly pale, and that her
face was bathed in tears. Notwithstanding her own extreme danger,
Jeanie was affected by the situation of her companion; and the rather
that, through the whole train of her wavering and inconsistent state
of mind and line of conduct, she discerned a general colour of
kindness towards herself, for which she felt gratitude.
"Let me alane! --let me alane! " said the poor young woman, as her
paroxysm of sorrow began to abate. "Let me alane; it does me good to
weep. I canna shed tears but maybe anes or twice a-year, and I aye
come to wet this turf with them, that the flowers may grow fair, and
the grass may be green. "
"But what is the matter with you? " said Jeanie. "Why do you weep so
bitterly? "
"There's matter enow," replied the lunatic; "mair than ae puir mind
can bear, I trow. Stay a bit, and I'll tell you a' about it; for I
like ye, Jeanie Deans; a'body spoke weel about ye when we lived in the
Pleasaunts. And I mind aye the drink o' milk ye gae me yon day, when I
had been on Arthur's Seat for four-and-twenty hours, looking for the
ship that somebody was sailing in. "
Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
. . . thorny . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 2:
1836.
. . . it is overgrown. 1798. ]
[Variant 3:
1836.
. . . were . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 4:
1836.
. . . had . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 5:
1820.
I've measured it from side to side:
'Tis three feet long [i] and two feet wide. 1798. ]
[Variant 6:
1827.
That's like . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 7:
1827.
But if you'd . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 8:
1827.
The heap that's like . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 9: In the editions 1798 to 1815.
Nay rack your brain--'tis all in vain,
I'll tell you every thing I know;
But to the thorn, and to the pond
Which is a little step beyond,
I wish that you would go:
Perhaps when you are at the place
You something of her tale may trace.
XI I'll give you the best help I can:
Before you up the mountain go,
Up to the dreary mountain-top,
I'll tell you all I know. ]
[Variant 10:
1845.
'Tis now some two and twenty years, 1798.
'Tis known, that twenty years are passed 1820. ]
[Variant 11:
1820.
And she was happy, happy still
Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill. 1798. ]
[Variant 12:
1815.
. . . on that woful day
A cruel, cruel fire, they say,
Into her bones was sent:
It dried her body like a cinder,
And almost turn'd her brain to tinder. 1798. ]
[Variant 13:
1836.
'Tis said, a child was in her womb,
As now to any eye was plain; 1798.
'Tis said, her lamentable state
Even to a careless eye was plain; 1820.
Alas! her lamentable state 1827. ]
[Variant 14:
1836.
. . . she was. . . 1798. ]
[Variant 15:
1820.
Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather
That he had died, that cruel father! 1798. ]
[Variant 16:
1820.
Last Christmas when we talked of this,
Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,
That in her womb the infant wrought 1798. ]
[Variant 17:
1827.
No more I know, I wish I did,
And I would tell it all to you; 1798. ]
[Variant 18:
1827.
There's none that ever knew: 1798. ]
[Variant 19:
1827.
And if a child was born or no,
There's no one that could ever tell; 1798. ]
[Variant 20:
1827.
There's no one knows, as I have said, 1798. ]
[Variant 21:
1827.
. . . I've described . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 22:
1845.
. . . in faith, . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 23:
1798.
In truth, it was . . . 1800.
The edition of 1815 returns to the text of 1798. ]
[Variant 24:
1827.
. . . and what's the pond?
And what's the hill of moss to her?
And what's the . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 25:
1800.
I've heard the scarlet moss is red 1798. ]
[Variant 26:
1845.
But then the beauteous hill of moss 1798.
It might not be--the Hill of moss 1827.
But then the beauteous Hill of moss 1832.
(Returning to the text of 1798. )
But then the speckled hill of moss 1836. ]
[Variant 27:
1827.
But . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 28:
1845.
. . . is buried . . . 1798. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A:
"March 19, 1798. William and Basil and I walked to the hill tops. A
very cold bleak day. William wrote some lines describing a stunted
Thorn" (Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal). --Ed.
"April 20. Walked in the evening up the hill dividing the coombes.
Came home the Crookham way, by the Thorn, and the little muddy pond"
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal). --Ed. ]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT
[Sub-Footnote i: Compare in Burger's 'Pfarrer's Tochter', "drei Spannen
lang," and see Appendix V. --Ed. ]
* * * * *
GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL
A TRUE STORY
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
[Written at Alfoxden. The incident from Dr. Darwin's 'Zoonomia'. --I.
F. ]
See Erasmus Darwin's 'Zoonomia', vol. iv. pp. 68-69, ed. 1801. It is the
story of a man named Tullis, narrated by an Italian, Signer L. Storgosi,
in a work called 'Il Narratore Italiano'.
"I received good information of the truth of the following case, which
was published a few years ago in the newspapers. A young farmer in
Warwickshire, finding his hedges broke, and the sticks carried away
during a frosty season, determined to watch for the thief. He lay many
cold hours under a haystack, and at length an old woman, like a witch
in a play, approached, and began to pull up the hedge; he waited till
she had tied up her bundle of sticks, and was carrying them off, that
he might convict her of the theft, and then springing from his
concealment, he seized his prey with violent threats. After some
altercation, in which her load was left upon the ground, she kneeled
upon her bundle of sticks, and raising her arms to Heaven, beneath the
bright moon then at the full, spoke to the farmer, already shivering
with cold, 'Heaven grant that thou mayest never know again the
blessing to be warm. ' He complained of cold all the next day, and wore
an upper coat, and in a few days another, and in a fortnight took to
his bed, always saying nothing made him warm; he covered himself with
many blankets, and had a sieve over his face as he lay; and from this
one insane idea he kept his bed above twenty years for fear of the
cold air, till at length he died. "
In the "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads,"
Wordsworth says, "The tale of 'Goody Blake and Harry Gill' is founded on
a well-authenticated fact which happened in Warwickshire. "
The following curious letter appeared in the 'Ipswich Magazine' of April
1799:
"IPSWICH, April 2, 1799.
"To the Editors of the 'Ipswich Magazine'.
"GENTLEMEN--The scarcity of Coal at this time, and the piercing cold
of the weather, cannot fail to be some apology for the depredations
daily committed on the hedges in the neighbourhood. If ever it be
permitted, it ought in the present season. Should there be any Farmer
more rigorous than the rest, let him attend to the poetical story
inserted in page 118 of this Magazine, and tremble at the fate of
Farmer Gill, who was about to prosecute a poor old woman for a similar
offence. The thing is a fact, and told by one of the first physicians
of the present day, as having happened in the south of England, 'and
which has, a short time since', been turned by a _lyric poet_ into
that excellent ballad. "
From 1815 to 1843, this poem was classed among those of "the
Imagination. " In 1845 it was transferred to the list of "Miscellaneous
Poems. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 5
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.
In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 10
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 15
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!
Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three. 20
Old [1] Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.
All day she spun in her poor dwelling: 25
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village-green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 30
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt. [2]
By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage; 35
But she, poor Woman! housed [3] alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the _canty_ Dame
Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 40
But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh then how her old bones would shake;
You would have said, if you had met her,
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead: 45
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;
And then for cold not sleep a wink.
O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout; 50
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, turf [4] or stick, 55
Enough to warm her for three days.
Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could anything be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 60
And, now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.
Now Harry he had long suspected 65
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected--
That [5] he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take; 70
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.
And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly, 75
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
--He hears a noise--he's all awake--
Again? --on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps--'tis Goody Blake;
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! 80
Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about, 85
The by-way [6] back again to take;
He started forward, with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast, 90
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, "I've caught you then at last! "
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 95
To God that is the judge of all.
She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm--
"God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm! " 100
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
Young Harry heard what she had said:
And icy cold he turned away.
He went complaining all the morrow 105
That he was cold and very chill:
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he: 110
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.
'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets were about him pinned;
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say, 'tis plain
That, live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again. 120
No word to any man he utters,
A-bed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold. "
A-bed or up, by night or day; 125
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill! [A]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1802.
Auld 1798. ]
[Variant 2:
1836
--This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,
Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
And in that country coals are dear,
For they come far by wind and tide. 1798.
Remote from sheltering village green,
Upon a bleak hill-side, she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt.
