No More Learning

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. 1820.

On a hill's northern side she dwelt. 1827. ]


[Variant 3.

1820.

. . . dwelt . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 4.

1827.

. . . wood . . . 1798]


[Variant 5.

1836.

And . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 6.

1827.

The bye-road . . . 1798. ]


* * * * *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare the many entries about "gathering sticks" in the
Alfoxden woods, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





HER EYES ARE WILD


Composed 1798. --Published 1798.


[Written at Alfoxden. The subject was reported to me by a lady of
Bristol, who had seen the poor creature. --I. F. ]

From 1798 to 1805 this poem was published under the title of 'The Mad
Mother'.

In the editions of 1815 and 1820 it was ranked as one of the "Poems
founded on the Affections. " In the editions of 1827 and 1832, it was
classed as one of the "Poems of the Imagination. " In 1836 and
afterwards, it was replaced among the "Poems founded on the
Affections. "--Ed.


I Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm, 5
Or else she were alone:
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the greenwood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue. 10


II "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear! 15
I pray thee have no fear of me;
But safe as in a cradle, here
My lovely baby! thou shalt be:
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe. 20


III "A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
Hung at my breast, [1] and pulled at me;
But then there came a sight of joy; 25
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood;
Oh joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he. 30


IV "Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh! press me with thy little hand; 35
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers prest.
The breeze I see is in the tree:
It comes to cool my babe and me. 40


V "Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
Thou art thy mother's only joy;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;
The high crag cannot work me harm, 45
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,
He saves for me my precious soul;
Then happy lie; for blest am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die. 50


VI "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
Bold as a lion will I be; [2]
And I will always be thy guide,
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I'll build an Indian bower; I know 55
The leaves that make the softest bed:
And, if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true till I am dead,
My pretty thing! then thou shall sing
As merry as the birds in spring. 60


VII "Thy father cares not for my breast,
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest;
'Tis all thine own! --and, if its hue
Be changed, that was so fair to view,
'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! 65
My beauty, little child, is flown,
But thou wilt live with me in love;
And what if my poor cheek be brown?
'Tis well for me, thou canst not see
How pale and wan it else would be. 70


VIII "Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
I am thy father's wedded wife;
And underneath the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.
If his sweet boy he could forsake, 75
With me he never would have stayed:
From him no harm my babe can take;
But he, poor man! is wretched made;
And every day we two will pray
For him that's gone and far away. 80


IX "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things:
I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
My little babe! thy lips are still,
And thou hast almost sucked thy fill.
--Where art thou gone, my own dear child? 85
What wicked looks are those I see?
Alas! alas! that look so wild,
It never, never came from me:
If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
Then I must be for ever sad. 90


X "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!
For I thy own dear mother am:
My love for thee has well been tried:
I've sought thy father far and wide.
I know the poisons of the shade; 95
I know the earth-nuts fit for food:
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid:
We'll find thy father in the wood.
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!
And there, my babe, we'll live for aye. " [A] 100


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1.

1820.

. . . breasts . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 2.

1832.

. . . I will be; 1798. ]


* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

"For myself, I would rather have written 'The Mad Mother' than all the
works of all the Bolingbrokes and Sheridans, those brilliant meteors,
that have been exhaled from the morasses of human depravity since the
loss of Paradise. "

(S. T. C. to W. Godwin, 9th December 1800. ) See 'William Godwin: his
Friends and Contemporaries', vol. ii. p. 14. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN;

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED


Composed 1798. --Published 1798.


[This old man had been huntsman to the Squires of Alfoxden, which, at
the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage
stood upon the Common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden
Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in
the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more
natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to
those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had
much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned
in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the
image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him
yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, 'I dearly love
their voice,' was word for word from his own lips. --I. F. ]

This poem was classed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,--
'Tis said [1] he once was tall.
[2] Full five-and-thirty [3] years he lived 5
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry. [4]

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee: 10
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse 15
The sleepers of the village. [5]

He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the chase [6] was done,
He reeled, and was stone blind. 20
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!

But, oh the heavy change! [A]--bereft 25
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! [7]
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead,--and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor. [8]

And [9] he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35
His legs are thin and dry.