No More Learning

She's coming from among the trees,
And now all full in view she sees 365
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

And Betty sees the Pony too:
Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy?
It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost,
'Tis he whom you so long have lost, 370
He whom you love, your Idiot Boy.

She looks again--her arms are up--
She screams--she cannot move for joy;
She darts, as with a torrent's force,
She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 375
And fast she holds her Idiot Boy.

And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud;
Whether in cunning or in joy
I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 380
To hear again her Idiot Boy.

And now she's at the Pony's tail,
And now is [31] at the Pony's head,--
On that side now, and now on this;
And, almost stifled with her bliss, 385
A few sad tears does Betty shed.

She kisses o'er and o'er again
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy;
She's happy here, is happy there, [32]
She is uneasy every where; 390
Her limbs are all alive with joy.

She pats the Pony, where or when
She knows not, happy Betty Foy!
The little Pony glad may be,
But he is milder far than she, 395
You hardly can perceive his joy.

"Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;
You've done your best, and that is all:"
She took the reins, when this was said,
And gently turned the Pony's head 400
From the loud waterfall.

By this the stars were almost gone,
The moon was setting on the hill,
So pale you scarcely looked at her:
The little birds began to stir, 405
Though yet their tongues were still.

The Pony, Betty, and her Boy,
Wind slowly through the woody dale;
And who is she, betimes abroad,
That hobbles up the steep rough road? 410
Who is it, but old Susan Gale?

Long time lay Susan lost in thought; [33]
And many dreadful fears beset her,
Both for her Messenger and Nurse;
And, as her mind grew worse and worse, 415
Her body--it grew better.

She turned, she tossed herself in bed,
On all sides doubts and terrors met her;
Point after point did she discuss;
And, while her mind was fighting thus, 420
Her body still grew better.

"Alas! what is become of them?
These fears can never be endured;
I'll to the wood. "--The word scarce said,
Did Susan rise up from her bed, 425
As if by magic cured.

Away she goes [34] up hill and down,
And to the wood at length is come;
She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting;
Oh me! it is a merry meeting 430
As ever was in Christendom.

The owls have hardly sung their last,
While our four travellers homeward wend;
The owls have hooted all night long,
And with the owls began my song, 435
And with the owls must end.

For while they all were travelling home,
Cried Betty, "Tell us, Johnny, do,
Where all this long night you have been,
What you have heard, what you have seen: 440
And, Johnny, mind you tell us true. "

Now Johnny all night long had heard
The owls in tuneful concert strive;
No doubt too he the moon had seen;
For in the moonlight he had been 445
From eight o'clock till five.

And thus, to Betty's question, he
Made answer, like a traveller bold,
(His very words I give to you,)
"The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 450
And the sun did shine so cold! "
--Thus answered Johnny in his glory,
And that was all his travel's story.


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

He shouts from . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 2: Inserted in the editions 1798 to 1820.

Beneath the moon that shines so bright,
Till she is tired, let Betty Foy
With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle;
But wherefore set upon a saddle
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy? ]


[Variant 3:

1836.

There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; 1798. ]


[Variant 4: Inserted in the editions 1798 to 1820.

The world will say 'tis very idle,
Bethink you of the time of night;
There's not a mother, no not one,
But when she hears what you have done,
Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright. ]


[Variant 5:

1836.

Has up upon the saddle set, 1798. ]


[Variant 6:

1820.

. . . that's in the dale, 1798. ]


[Variant 7:

1827.

. . . bough's . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 8:

1827.

And Betty's standing at the door,
And Betty's face with joy o'erflows, 1798. ]


[Variant 9:

1820.

And Johnny's in a merry tune, 1798. ]


[Variant 10:

1827.

And . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 11:

1836.

What comfort Johnny soon will bring, 1798.

What comfort soon her Boy will bring, 1827. ]


[Variant 12:

1827.

And Betty's still at Susan's side:
By this time she's not quite so flurried; 1798. ]


[Variant 13:

1827.

They'll both be . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 14:

1827.

'Tis on the stroke--"If Johnny's near,"
Quoth Betty, "he will soon be here," 1798. ]


[Variant 15:

1836.

Appear . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 16:

1827.

. . . she begins to fear 1798. ]

[Variant 17:

1800.

Good Betty [i] . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 18:

1836.

She's past the bridge that's in the dale,
And now the thought torments her sore, 1798.

She's past the bridge far in the dale; 1820.

The bridge is past--far in the dale; 1827. ]


[Variant 19:

1827.

. . . that's in the brook, 1798. ]


[Variant 20:

1827.

And now she's high . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 21.

1827.

. . . would . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 22.

1836.

And now she's got into the town, 1798. ]


[Variant 23:

1827.

. . . my Johnny here, 1798. ]


[Variant 24.

1836.

All like a silent horseman-ghost,
He travels on along the vale. 1798. ]


[Variant 25.

1820.

. . . he's hunting . . 1798. ]


[Variant 26.

1820.

. . . that's so trim . . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 27.

1827.

. . . he'll gallop . . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 28.

1802.

For sure he met . . . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 29.

1798.

. . . unfriendly. . . .

Only in MS. and in the edition of 1805. ]


[Variant 30:

1827.

. . . that's feeding . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 31:

1827.

And now she's . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 32:

1827.

. . . she's happy there, 1798. ]


[Variant 33:

1827

Long Susan lay deep lost in thought, 1798. ]


[Variant 34: 1836.

. . . she posts . . . 1798. ]


* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: As Wordsworth gives the date of this poem as 1798, the
above line implies that his poetical work began at least in 1784, when
he was fourteen years of age.
The note to 'An Evening Walk' dictated to
Miss Fenwick (see p. 5) implies the same. --Ed. ]


* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT

[Sub-Footnote i: This change was made by S. T. C. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR [A]


Composed 1798. --Published 1800.


The class of Beggars to which the old man here described
belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor,
and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to
a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed
days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received
charity; sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions. -W. W.
1800.

[Observed, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a child.
Written at Racedown and Alfoxden in my twenty-third year. [B] The
Political Economists were about that time beginning their war upon
mendicity in all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, on
alms-giving also. This heartless process has been carried as far as it
can go by the AMENDED Poor Law Bill, tho' the inhumanity that prevails
in this measure is somewhat disguised by the profession that one of
its objects is to throw the poor upon the voluntary donations of their
neighbours; that is, if rightly interpreted, to force them into a
condition between relief in the Union Poor House and alms robbed of
their Christian grace and spirit, as being _forced_ rather from the
benevolent than given by them; while the avaricious and selfish, and
all, in fact, but the humane and charitable, are at liberty to keep
all they possess from their distressed brethren. --I. F. ]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 5
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one; 10
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate [1] his food in solitude: 15
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds,
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 20
Approached within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known; and then
He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that for him 25
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack
And careless hand [2] his alms upon the ground,
But stops,--that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so,
But still, when he has given his horse the rein, 30
Watches the aged Beggar with a look [3]
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 35
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake
The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus warned [4]
The old man does not change his course, the boy 40
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground 45
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along,
_They_ move along the ground; and, evermore,
Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale,
And the blue sky, one little span of earth 50
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, [5]
He plies his weary journey; seeing still,
And seldom [6] knowing that he sees, some straw,
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, 55
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left
Impressed on the white road,--in the same line,
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet [7]
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still 60
In look and motion, that the cottage curs, [8]
Ere he has [9] passed the door, will turn away,
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
And urchins newly breeched--all pass him by: 65
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this Man useless. --Statesmen! ye
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
Who have a broom still ready in your hands
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, 70
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
Your talents, power, or [10] wisdom, deem him not
A burthen of the earth! 'Tis nature's law
That none, the meanest of created things,
Of forms created the most vile and brute, 75
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from good--a spirit and pulse of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably linked. Then be assured
That least of all can aught--that ever owned 80
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime [C]
Which man is born to--sink, howe'er depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 85
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
Worn out and worthless. [11] While from door to door
This old Man creeps, [12] the villagers in him
Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices of charity, 90
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 95
Among the farms and solitary huts,
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,
Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
The mild necessity of use compels
To acts of love; and habit does the work 100
Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued
Doth find herself [13] insensibly disposed
To virtue and true goodness. 105
Some there are,
By their good works exalted, lofty minds
And meditative, authors of delight
And happiness, which to the end of time
Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds [14] 110
In childhood, from this solitary Being,
Or from like wanderer, haply have received [15]
(A thing more precious far than all that books
Or the solicitudes of love can do! )
That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, 115
In which they found their kindred with a world
Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
Who sits at his own door,--and, like the pear
That [16] overhangs his head from the green wall,
Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, 120
The prosperous and unthinking, they who live
Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove
Of their own kindred;--all behold in him
A silent monitor, which on their minds
Must needs impress a transitory thought 125
Of self-congratulation, to the heart
Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,
Though he to no one give the fortitude
And circumspection needful to preserve 130
His present blessings, and to husband up
The respite of the season, he, at least,
And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.

Yet further. --Many, I believe, there are
Who live a life of virtuous decency, 135
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
No self-reproach; who of the moral law
Established in the land where they abide
Are strict observers; and not negligent
In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, [17] 140
Their kindred, and the children of their blood.
Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
--But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;
Go, and demand of him, if there be here
In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 145
And these inevitable charities,
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
No--man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been, 150
Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.
--Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, 155
My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself
By her own wants, she from her store [18] of meal
Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 160
Returning with exhilarated heart,
Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And while in that vast solitude to which
The tide of things has borne [19] him, he appears 165
To breathe and live but for himself alone,
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about
The good which the benignant law of Heaven
Has hung around him: and, while life is his,
Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers 170
To tender offices and pensive thoughts. [D]
--Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
The freshness of the valleys; let his blood
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; 175
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath
Beat his grey locks against his withered face.
Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
Gives the last human interest to his heart.
May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY, 180
Make him a captive! --for that pent-up din,
Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
Be his the natural silence of old age!
Let him be free of mountain solitudes;
And have around him, whether heard or not, 185
The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle upon earth
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal sun, [20] 190
Rising or setting, let the light at least
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, _where_ and _when_ he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or on a [21] grassy bank
Of highway side, and with the little birds 195
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die! [E]


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1805.

. . . eat . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 2:

1837.

The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw
With careless hand . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 3:

1827.

Towards the aged Beggar turns a look, 1800. ]


[Variant 4:

1827.

. . . and, if perchance 1800. ]


[Variant 5:

1800.

. . . and, evermore,
Instead of Nature's fair variety,]
Her ample scope of hill and dale, of clouds
And the blue sky, the same short span of earth
Is all his prospect. When the little birds
Flit over him, if their quick shadows strike
Across his path, he does not lift his head
Like one whose thoughts have been unsettled. So
Brow-bent, his eyes for ever . . . MS. ]


[Variant 6:

1827.

And never . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 7:

1800.

. . . his slow footsteps scarce MS. ]


[Variant 8:

1800.

. . . that the miller's dog
Is tired of barking at him. MS. ]


[Variant 9:

1837.

. . . have . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 10:

1837.

. . . and . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 11: The lines from "Then be assured" to "worthless" were added
in the edition of 1837. ]


[Variant 12:

1837.

. . . While thus he creeps
From door to door, . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 13:

1832.

. . . itself . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 14:

1827.

. . . ; minds like these, 1800. ]


[Variant 15:

1827.

This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd, 1800. ]


[Variant 16:

1827.

Which . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 17:

1827.

. . . and not negligent,
Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart
Or act of love . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 18:

1827.

. . . chest . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 19:

1827.

. . . led . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 20:

1837.

. . . if his eyes, which now
Have been so long familiar with the earth,
No more behold the horizontal sun 1800.

. . . if his eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle on the earth
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal sun, 1815. ]


[Variant 21:

1837.

. . . or by the . . . 1800. ]



* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In an early MS. the title of this poem is 'Description of a
Beggar', and in the editions 1800 to 1820 the title was 'The Old
Cumberland Beggar, a Description'. --Ed. ]


[Footnote B: Wordsworth went to Racedown in 1795, when he was
twenty-five years of age; and was at Alfoxden in his twenty-eighth
year. --Ed. ]


[Footnote C: Compare Ovid's 'Metamorphoses' I. 84:

Os homini sublime dedit, coelumque videre
Jussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus.

Ed.