No More Learning

]


[Variant 8:

1827.

I trail . . . 1807. ]




* * * * *


SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: This return, in 1832, to the original text of the poem
was due to Barren Field's criticism, the justice of which Wordsworth
admitted. --Ed. ]


In the Wordsworth household this poem went by the name
of "The Singing Bird" as well as 'The Sailor's Mother'.

"Thursday (March 11th). --A fine morning. William worked at the poem of
'The Singing Bird. ' . . . "

"Friday (March 12th). --William finished his poem of 'The Singing
Bird. '"


(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal. )--Ed.





* * * * *





ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY [A]


Composed March 12th and 13th, 1802. --Published 1807


[Written to gratify Mr. Graham of Glasgow, brother of the author of 'The
Sabbath'. He was a zealous coadjutor of Mr. Clarkson, and a man of
ardent humanity. The incident had happened to himself, and he urged me
to put it into verse, for humanity's sake. The humbleness, meanness if
you like, of the subject, together with the homely mode of treating it,
brought upon me a world of ridicule by the small critics, so that in
policy I excluded it from many editions of my poems, till it was
restored at the request of some of my friends, in particular my
son-in-law, Edward Quillinan. --I. F. ]

It was only excluded from the editions of 1820, 1827, and 1832. In the
edition of 1807 it was placed amongst a group of "Poems composed during
a Tour, chiefly on foot. " In 1815, in 1836, and afterwards, it was
included in the group "referring to the Period of Childhood. "

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal, the following reference to
this poem occurs:

"Feb. 16, 1802. --Mr. Graham said he wished William had been with him
the other day. He was riding in a post-chaise, and he heard a strange
cry that he could not understand. The sound continued, and he called
to the chaise-driver to stop. It was a little girl that was crying as
if her heart would burst. She had got up behind the chaise, and her
cloak had been caught by the wheel, and was jammed in, and it hung
there. She was crying after it, poor thing. Mr. Graham took her into
the chaise, and her cloak was released from the wheel, but the child's
misery did not cease, for her cloak was torn to rags. It had been a
miserable cloak before; but she had no other, and it was the greatest
sorrow that could befall her. Her name was Alice Fell. She had no
parents, and belonged to the next town. At the next town Mr. G. left
money to buy her a new cloak. "

"Friday (March 12). --In the evening after tea William wrote 'Alice
Fell'. "

"Saturday Morning (13th March). --William finished 'Alice Fell'. . . . "

Ed.




The post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threatening clouds the moon had drowned;
When, as we hurried on, my ear
Was smitten with a startling sound. [1]

As if the wind blew many ways, 5
I heard the sound,--and more and more;
It seemed to follow with the chaise,
And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy called out;
He stopped his horses at the word, 10
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast
The horses scampered through the rain;
But, hearing soon upon the blast 15
The cry, I bade him halt again. [2]

Forthwith alighting on the ground,
"Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan? " [3]
And there a little Girl I found,
Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 20

"My cloak! " no other word she spake,
But loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her innocent heart would break; [4]
And down from off her seat [5] she leapt.

"What ails you, child? "--she sobbed "Look here! " 25
I saw it in the wheel entangled,
A weather-beaten rag as e'er
From any garden scare-crow dangled.

There, twisted between nave and spoke,
It hung, nor could at once be freed; 30
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, [6]
A miserable rag indeed! [7]

"And whither are you going, child,
To-night along these lonesome ways? "
"To Durham," answered she, half wild--35
"Then come with me into the chaise. "

Insensible to all relief
Sat the poor girl, and forth did send
Sob after sob, as if her grief [8]
Could never, never have an end. 40

"My child, in Durham do you dwell? "
She checked herself in her distress,
And said, "My name is Alice Fell;
I'm fatherless and motherless.

"And I to Durham, Sir, belong. " 45
Again, [9] as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tattered cloak!

The chaise drove on; our journey's end
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, 50
As if she had lost [10] her only friend
She wept, nor would be pacified.

Up to the tavern-door we post;
Of Alice and her grief I told;
And I gave money to the host, 55
To buy a new cloak for the old.

"And let it be of duffil grey,
As warm a cloak as man can sell! "
Proud creature was she the next day,
The little orphan, Alice Fell! 60



* * * * *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

When suddenly I seem'd to hear
A moan, a lamentable sound. 1807. ]


[Variant 2:

1845.

And soon I heard upon the blast
The voice, and bade . . . . 1807. ]


[Variant 3:

1845.

Said I, alighting on the ground,
"What can it be, this piteous moan? " 1807.

Forthwith alighted on the ground
To learn what voice the piteous moan
Had made, a little girl I found, C. ]


[Variant 4:

1836.

"My Cloak! " the word was last and first,
And loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her very heart would burst; 1807.

"My cloak, my cloak" she cried, and spake
No other word, but loudly wept, C. ]


[Variant 5:

1815.

. . . off the Chaise . . . 1807. ]


[Variant 6:

1845.

'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke;
Her help she lent, and with good heed
Together we released the Cloak; 1807.

. . . between . . . 1840. ]


[Variant 7:

1836.

A wretched, wretched rag indeed! 1807. ]


[Variant 8:

1845.

She sate like one past all relief;
Sob after sob she forth did send
In wretchedness, as if her grief 1807. ]


[Variant 9:

1836.

And then, . . . 1807. ]


[Variant 10:

1836.

. . . she'd lost . . . 1807. ]



* * * * *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: There was no sub-title in the edition of 1807. --Ed. ]



Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815, referring to
the revisions of this and other poems:

"I am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoundrels. I
would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the
stript shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have atoned all their
malice; I would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls. "

See 'Letters of Charles Lamb' (Ainger), vol. i. p. 283. --Ed.





* * * * *





BEGGARS


Composed March 13th and 14th, 1802. --Published 1807


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Met, and described to me by my sister,
near the quarry at the head of Rydal Lake, [A] a place still a chosen
resort of vagrants travelling with their families. --I. F. ]

The following are Dorothy Wordsworth's references to this poem in her
Grasmere Journal. They justify the remark of the late Bishop of Lincoln,

"his poems are sometimes little more than poetical versions of her
descriptions of the objects which she had seen, _and he treated them
as seen by himself_. "

(See
'Memoirs of Wordsworth', vol. i. pp. 180-1. )

"Saturday (March 13, 1802). --William wrote the poem of the Beggar
Woman, taken from a woman whom I had seen in May (now nearly two years
ago), when John and he were at Gallow Hill. I sat with him at
intervals all the morning, and took down his stanzas. After tea I read
W. the account I had written of the little boy belonging to the tall
woman: and an unlucky thing it was, for he could not escape from those
very words, and so he could not write the poem. He left it unfinished,
and went tired to bed. In our walk from Rydal he had got warmed with
the subject, and had half cast the poem. "

"Sunday Morning (March 14). --William had slept badly. He got up at 9
o'clock, but before he rose he had finished the Beggar Boy. "

The following is the "account" written in her Journal on Tuesday, May
23, 1800:

"A very tall woman, tall much beyond the measure of tall women, called
at the door. She had on a very long brown cloak, and a very white cap,
without bonnet. Her face was brown, but it had plainly once been fair.
She led a little barefooted child about two years old by the hand, and
said her husband, who was a tinker, was gone before with the other
children. I gave her a piece of bread. Afterwards, on my road to
Ambleside, beside the bridge at Rydal, I saw her husband sitting at
the roadside, his two asses standing beside him, and the two young
children at play upon the grass. The man did not beg. I passed on, and
about a quarter of a mile farther I saw two boys before me, one about
ten, the other about eight years old, at play, chasing a butterfly.
They were wild figures, not very ragged, but without shoes and
stockings. The hat of the elder was wreathed round with yellow
flowers; the younger, whose hat was only a rimless crown, had stuck it
round with laurel leaves. They continued at play till I drew very
near, and then they addressed me with the begging cant and the whining
voice of sorrow. I said, 'I served your mother this morning' (the boys
were so like the woman who had called at our door that I could not be
mistaken). 'O,' says the elder, 'you could not serve my mother, for
she's dead, and my father's in at the next town; he's a potter. ' I
persisted in my assertion, and that I would give them nothing. Says
the elder, 'Come, let's away,' and away they flew like lightning. They
had, however, sauntered so long in their road that they did not reach
Ambleside before me, and I saw them go up to Mathew Harrison's house
with their wallet upon the elder's shoulder, and creeping with a
beggar's complaining foot. On my return through Ambleside I met, in
the street, the mother driving her asses, in the two panniers of one
of which were the two little children, whom she was chiding and
threatening with a wand with which she used to drive on her asses,
while the little things hung in wantonness over the pannier's edge.
The woman had told me in the morning that she was of Scotland, which
her accent fully proved, and that she had lived (I think at Wigtown);
that they could not keep a house, and so they travelled. "

This was one of the "Poems of the Imagination. "--Ed.




She had a tall man's height or more;
Her face from summer's noontide heat
No bonnet shaded, but she wore
A mantle, to her very feet
Descending with a graceful flow, 5
And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. [1]

Her skin was of Egyptian brown:
Haughty, as if her eye had seen
Its own light to a distance thrown,
She towered, fit person for a Queen [2] 10
To lead [3] those ancient Amazonian files;
Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles.

Advancing, forth she stretched her hand
And begged an alms with doleful plea
That ceased not; on our English land 15
Such woes, I knew, could never be; [4]
And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature
Was beautiful to see--a weed of glorious feature. [B]

I left her, and pursued my way;
And soon before me did espy 20
A pair of little Boys at play,
Chasing a crimson butterfly;
The taller followed with his hat in hand,
Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. [5]

The other wore a rimless crown 25
With leaves of laurel stuck about;
And, while both [6] followed up and down,
Each whooping with a merry shout,
In their fraternal features I could trace
Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. [7] 30

Yet _they_, so blithe of heart, seemed fit [8]
For finest tasks of earth or air:
Wings let them have, and they might flit
Precursors to [9] Aurora's car,
Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween, 35
To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green.

They dart across my path--but lo, [10]
Each ready with a plaintive whine!
Said I, "not half an hour ago
Your Mother has had alms of mine. " 40
"That cannot be," one answered--"she is dead:"--
I looked reproof--they saw--but neither hung his head. [11]

"She has been dead, Sir, many a day. "--
"Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie; [12]
It was your Mother, as I say! " 45
And, in the twinkling of an eye,
"Come! come! " cried one, and without more ado,
Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew! [13] [C]



* * * * *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

She had a tall Man's height, or more;
No bonnet screen'd her from the heat;
A long drab-colour'd Cloak she wore,
A Mantle reaching to her feet:
What other dress she had I could not know;
Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow. 1807.

Before me as the Wanderer stood,
No bonnet screened her from the heat;
Nor claimed she service from the hood
Of a blue mantle, to her feet
Depending with a graceful flow;
Only she wore a cap pure as unsullied snow. 1827.
Before my eyes a Wanderer stood;
Her face from summer's noon-day heat
Nor bonnet shaded, nor the hood
Of that blue cloak which to her feet
Depended with a graceful flow;
Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow. 1832.

No bonnet shaded, nor the hood
Of the blue cloak . . . 1836.

She had a tall man's height or more;
And while, 'mid April's noontide heat,
A long blue cloak the vagrant wore,
A mantle reaching to her feet,
No bonnet screened her lofty brow,
Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow. C.

She had a tall man's height or more;
A garment for her stature meet,
And for a vagrant life, she wore
A mantle reaching to her feet.
Nor hood, nor bonnet screened her lofty brow, C. ]


[Variant 2:

1827.

In all my walks, through field or town,
Such Figure had I never seen:
Her face was of Egyptian brown:
Fit person was she for a Queen, 1807.

Such figure had I never seen
In all my walks through field or town,
Fit person seemed she for a Queen, C. ]


[Variant 3:

1836.

To head . . . 1807. ]


[Variant 4:

1845.

Before me begging did she stand,
Pouring out sorrows like a sea;
Grief after grief:--on English Land
Such woes I knew could never be; 1807.

Her suit no faltering scruples checked;
Forth did she pour, in current free,
Tales that could challenge no respect
But from a blind credulity; 1827.

She begged an alms; no scruple checked
The current of her ready plea,
Words that could challenge . . . 1832.

Before me begging did she stand
And boldly urged a doleful plea,
Grief after grief, on English land
Such woes I knew could never be. C. ]


[Variant 5:

1807.

With yellow flowers around, as with a golden band. C. ]


[Variant 6:

1827.

And they both . . . 1807. ]


[Variant 7:

1820.

Two Brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old;
And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold. 1807. ]


[Variant 8: This stanza was added in the edition of 1827. ]


[Variant 9:

1836.

Precursors of . . . 1827. ]


[Variant 10:

1827.

They bolted on me thus, and lo! 1807. ]


[Variant 11:

1827.

"Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread. " 1807. ]


[Variant 12:

1845.

"Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie; 1807.

. . . Heaven hears that rash reply; 1827.

The text of 1807 was resumed in 1836. ]


[Variant 13:

1827.

. . . they both together flew. 1807.

. . . the thoughtless vagrants flew. C. ]



* * * * *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The spot is easily identified, as the quarry still
exists. --Ed. ]


[Footnote B: In the MS. of this poem (1807) the words, "a weed of
glorious feature," are placed within inverted commas. The quotation is
from Spenser's 'Muiopotmos' ('The Fate of the Butterflie'), stanza 27;
and is important, as it affects the meaning of the phrase. It is curious
that Wordsworth dropped the commas in his subsequent editions. --Ed. ]


[Footnote C: In Wordsworth's letter to Barron Field, of 24th October
1828 (see the volumes containing his correspondence), a detailed account
is given of the reasons which had led him to alter the text of this
poem. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING,

COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER


Composed 1817. --Published 1827


In the edition of 1840 the year assigned to this Sequel is 1817. It does
not occur in the edition of 1820, but was first published in 1827. It
was one of the "Poems of the Imagination. "--Ed.




Where are they now, those wanton Boys?
For whose free range the daedal earth
Was filled with animated toys,
And implements of frolic mirth;
With tools for ready wit to guide; 5
And ornaments of seemlier pride,
More fresh, more bright, than princes wear;
For what one moment flung aside,
Another could repair;
What good or evil have they seen 10
Since I their pastime witnessed here,
Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer?
I ask--but all is dark between!
[1]

They met me in a genial hour,
When universal nature breathed 15
As with the breath of one sweet flower,--
A time to overrule the power
Of discontent, and check the birth
Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife,
The most familiar bane of life 20
Since parting Innocence bequeathed
Mortality to Earth!
Soft clouds, the whitest of the year,
Sailed through the sky--the brooks ran clear;
The lambs from rock to rock were bounding; 25
With songs the budded groves resounding;
And to my heart are still endeared
The thoughts with which it then was cheered; [2]
The faith which saw that gladsome pair
Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. 30
Or, if such faith [3] must needs deceive--
Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, [A]
Associates in that eager chase;
Ye, who within the blameless mind
Your favourite seat of empire find--35
Kind Spirits! may we not believe
That they, so happy and so fair
Through your sweet influence, and the care
Of pitying Heaven, at least were free
From touch of _deadly_ injury? 40
Destined, whate'er their earthly doom,
For mercy and immortal bloom?



* * * * *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

Spirits of beauty and of grace!
Associates in that eager chase;
Ye, by a course to nature true,
The sterner judgment can subdue;
And waken a relenting smile
When she encounters fraud or guile;
And sometimes ye can charm away
The inward mischief, or allay,
Ye, who within the blameless mind
Your favourite seat of empire find!

The above is a separate stanza in the editions of 1827 and 1832. Only
the first two and the last two lines of this stanza were retained in the
edition of 1836, and were then transferred to the place they occupy in
the final text. --Ed. ]


[Variant 2:

1836.

And to my heart is still endeared
The faith with which . . . 1827. ]


[Variant 3:

1836.

. . . such thoughts . . . 1827. ]



* * * * *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This and the three following lines were placed here in the
edition of 1836. See note to the previous page. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





TO A BUTTERFLY (#1)


Composed March 14, 1802. --Published 1807


[Written in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. My sister and I were parted
immediately after the death of our mother, who died in 1778, both being
very young. --I. F. ]

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood. "--Ed.




Stay near me--do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart! 5
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 10
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline [A] and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey:--with leaps and springs 15
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her! feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.


* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In the MS. for the edition of 1807 the transcriber (not W.
W. ) wrote "Dorothy. " This, Wordsworth erased, putting in
"Emmeline. "--Ed. ]


The text of this poem was never changed. It refers to days of childhood
spent at Cockermouth before 1778. "My sister Emmeline" is Dorothy
Wordsworth. In her Grasmere Journal, of Sunday, March 14, 1802, the
following occurs:

"While we were at breakfast he" (William) "wrote the poem 'To a
Butterfly'. He ate not a morsel, but sate with his shirt neck
unbuttoned, and his waistcoat open when he did it. The thought first
came upon him as we were talking about the pleasure we both always
felt at the sight of a butterfly. I told him that I used to chase them
a little, but that I was afraid of brushing the dust off their wings,
and did not catch them. He told me how he used to kill all the white
ones when he went to school, because they were Frenchmen. Mr. Simpson
came in just as he was finishing the poem. After he was gone, I wrote
it down, and the other poems, and I read them all over to him. . . .
William began to try to alter 'The Butterfly', and tired himself. "

Compare the later poem 'To a Butterfly' (#2) (April 20), p. 297. --Ed.





* * * * *





THE EMIGRANT MOTHER


Composed March 16th and 17th, 1802. --Published 1807


[Suggested by what I have noticed in more than one French fugitive
during the time of the French Revolution. If I am not mistaken the lines
were composed at Sockburn when I was on a visit to Mary and her
brothers. --I. F. ]

In the editions of 1807 and 1815, this poem had no distinctive title;
but in the Wordsworth circle, it was known from the year 1802 as 'The
Emigrant Mother', and at least one copy was transcribed with this title
in 1802. It was first published under that name in 1820. It was revised
and altered in 1820, 1827, 1832, 1836, and more especially in 1845.

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following entries occur:

"Tuesday (March 16). --William went up into the orchard, and wrote a
part of 'The Emigrant Mother'. "

"Wednesday. --William went up into the orchard, and finished the
poem. . . . I went and sate with W. , and walked backwards and forwards in
the orchard till dinner-time. He read me his poem. "

This poem was included among those "founded on the Affections. "--Ed.




Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned
In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;
The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,
In friendship she to me would often tell.

This Lady, [1] dwelling upon British [2] ground, 5
Where she was childless, daily would [3] repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay, 10
Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
Such things as she unto the Babe might say: [4]
And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed, [5]
My song the workings of her heart expressed.

I "Dear Babe, thou daughter of another, 15
One moment let me be thy mother!
An infant's face and looks are thine
And sure a mother's heart is mine:
Thy own dear mother's far away,
At labour in the harvest field: 20
Thy little sister is at play;--
What warmth, what comfort would it yield
To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be
One little hour a child to me!

II "Across the waters I am come, 25
And I have left a babe at home:
A long, long way of land and sea!
Come to me--I'm no enemy:
I am the same who at thy side
Sate yesterday, and made a nest 30
For thee, sweet Baby! --thou hast tried,
Thou know'st the pillow of my breast;
Good, good art thou:--alas! to me
Far more than I can be to thee.

III "Here, little Darling, dost thou lie; 35
An infant thou, a mother I!
Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;
Mine art thou--spite of these my tears.
Alas! before I left the spot,
My baby and its dwelling-place; 40
The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not
Be shed upon an infant's face,
It was unlucky'--no, no, no;
No truth is in them who say so!

IV "My own dear Little-one will sigh, 45
Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.
'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,
And you may see his hour is come. '
Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles,
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 50
Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,
And countenance like a summer's day,
They would have hopes of him;--and then
I should behold his face again!

V "'Tis gone--like dreams that we forget; 55
There was a smile or two--yet--yet [6]
I can remember them, I see
The smiles, worth all the world to me.
Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;
Thou troublest me with strange alarms; 60
Smiles hast thou, bright [7] ones of thy own;
I cannot keep thee in my arms;
For they confound me;--where--where is
That last, that sweetest smile of his? [8]

VI "Oh! how I love thee! --we will stay 65
Together here this one half day.
My sister's child, who bears my name,
From France to sheltering England came; [9]
She with her mother crossed the sea;
The babe and mother near me dwell: 70
Yet does my yearning heart to thee
Turn rather, though I love her well: [10]
Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here!
Never was any child more dear!

VII "--I cannot help it; ill intent 75
I've none, my pretty Innocent!
I weep--I know they do thee wrong,
These tears--and my poor idle tongue.
Oh, what a kiss was that!