The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb Volume I Part 21

The volume before us, as we learn from the Preface, is "a detached portion of an unfinished poem, containing views of man, nature, and society;" to be called the Recluse, as having for its princ.i.p.al subject the "sensations and opinions of a poet living in retirement;" and to be preceded by a "record in verse of the origin and progress of the author's own powers, with reference to the fitness which they may be supposed to have conferred for the task." To the completion of this plan we look forward with a confidence which the execution of the finished part is well calculated to inspire.--Meanwhile, in what is before us there is ample matter for entertainment: for the "Excursion" is not a branch (as might have been suspected) prematurely plucked from the parent tree to gratify an overhasty appet.i.te for applause; but is, in itself, a complete and legitimate production.

It opens with the meeting of the poet with an aged man whom he had known from his school days; in plain words, a Scottish pedlar; a man who, though of low origin, had received good learning and impressions of the strictest piety from his stepfather, a minister and village schoolmaster. Among the hills of Athol, the child is described to have become familiar with the appearances of nature in his occupation as a feeder of sheep; and from her silent influences to have derived a character, meditative, tender, and poetical. With an imagination and feelings thus nourished--his intellect not unaided by books, but those, few, and chiefly of a religious cast--the necessity of seeking a maintenance in riper years, had induced him to make choice of a profession, the _appellation_ for which has been gradually declining into contempt, but which formerly designated a cla.s.s of men, who, journeying in country places, when roads presented less facilities for travelling, and the intercourse between towns and villages was unfrequent and hazardous, became a sort of link of neighbourhood to distant habitations; resembling, in some small measure, in the effects of their periodical returns, the caravan which Thomson so feelingly describes as blessing the cheerless Siberian in its annual visitation, with "news of human kind."

In the solitude incident to this rambling life, power had been given him to keep alive that devotedness to nature which he had imbibed in his childhood, together with the opportunity of gaining such notices of persons and things from his intercourse with society, as qualified him to become a "teacher of moral wisdom." With this man, then, in a hale old age, released from the burthen of his occupation, yet retaining much of its active habits, the poet meets, and is by him introduced to a second character--a sceptic--one who had been partially roused from an overwhelming desolation, brought upon him by the loss of wife and children, by the powerful incitement of hope which the French Revolution in its commencement put forth, but who, disgusted with the failure of all its promises, had fallen back into a laxity of faith and conduct which induced at length a total despondence as to the dignity and final destination of his species. In the language of the poet, he

----broke faith with those whom he had laid In earth's dark chambers,

Yet he describes himself as subject to compunctious visitations from that silent quarter.

----Feebly must They have felt, Who, in old time, attired with snakes and whips The vengeful Furies. _Beautiful_ regards Were turned on me--the face of her I loved; The Wife and Mother; pitifully fixing Tender reproaches, insupportable!--p. 133.

The conversations with this person, in which the Wanderer a.s.serts the consolatory side of the question against the darker views of human life maintained by his friend, and finally calls to his a.s.sistance the experience of a village priest, the third, or rather fourth interlocutor, (for the poet himself is one,) form the groundwork of the "Excursion."

It will be seen by this sketch that the poem is of a didactic nature, and not a fable or story; yet it is not wanting in stories of the most interesting kind,--such as the lovers of Cowper and Goldsmith will recognise as something familiar and congenial to them. We might instance the Ruined Cottage, and the Solitary's own story, in the first half of the work; and the second half, as being almost a continued cl.u.s.ter of narration. But the prevailing charm of the poem is, perhaps, that, conversational as it is in its plan, the dialogue throughout is carried on in the very heart of the most romantic scenery which the poet's native hills could supply; and which, by the perpetual references made to it either in the way of ill.u.s.tration or for variety and pleasurable description's sake, is brought before us as we read. We breathe in the fresh air, as we do while reading Walton's Complete Angler; only the country about us is as much bolder than Walton's, as the thoughts and speculations, which form the matter of the poem, exceed the trifling pastime and low-pitched conversation of his humble fishermen. We give the description of the "two huge peaks," which from some other vale peered into that in which the Solitary is entertaining the poet and companion. "Those," says their host,

----if here you dwelt, would be Your prized Companions.--Many are the notes Which in his tuneful course the wind draws forth From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing sh.o.r.es; And well those lofty Brethren bear their part In the wild concert--chiefly when the storm Rides high; then all the upper air they fill With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, Like smoke, along the level of the blast In mighty current; theirs, too, is the song Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails; And in the grim and breathless hour of noon, Methinks that I have heard them echo back The thunder's greeting:--nor have Nature's laws Left them ungifted with a power to yield Music of finer frame; a harmony, So do I call it, though it be the hand Of silence, though there be no voice;--the clouds, The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, Motions of moonlight, all come thither--touch, And have an answer--thither come, and shape A language not unwelcome to sick hearts And idle spirits:--there the sun himself At the calm close of summer's longest day Rests his substantial Orb;--between those heights And on the top of either pinnacle, More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, Sparkle the Stars as of their station proud.

Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man Than the mute agent stirring there:--alone Here do I sit and watch.--p. 84.

To a mind const.i.tuted like that of Mr. Wordsworth, the stream, the torrent, and the stirring leaf--seem not merely to suggest a.s.sociations of deity, but to be a kind of speaking communication with it. He walks through every forest, as through some Dodona; and every bird that flits among the leaves, like that miraculous one[31] in Ta.s.so, but in language more intelligent, reveals to him far higher lovelays. In his poetry nothing in Nature is dead. Motion is synonymous with life. "Beside yon spring," says the Wanderer, speaking of a deserted well, from which, in former times, a poor woman, who died heart-broken, had been used to dispense refreshment to the thirsty traveller,

----beside yon Spring I stood, And eyed its waters till we seem'd to feel One sadness, they and I. For them a bond Of brotherhood is broken: time has been When, every day, the touch of human hand Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up In mortal stillness;--p. 27.

[31]

With partie coloured plumes and purple bill, A woondrous bird among the rest there flew, That in plaine speech sung love laies loud and shrill, Her leden was like humaine language trew, So much she talkt, and with such wit and skill, That strange it seemed how much good she knew.

_Fairefax's Translation_ [Book 16, Stanza 13].

To such a mind, we say--call it strength or weakness--if weakness, a.s.suredly a fortunate one--the visible and audible things of creation present, not dim symbols, or curious emblems, which they have done at all times to those who have been gifted with the poetical faculty; but revelations and quick insights into the life within us, the pledge of immortality:--

----the whispering Air Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights, And blind recesses of the caverned rocks; The little Rills, and Waters numberless, Inaudible by day-light,

"I have seen," the poet says, and the ill.u.s.tration is an happy one:

----I have seen A curious Child [who dwelt upon a tract Of inland ground], applying to his ear The convolutions of a smooth-lipp'd Sh.e.l.l; To which, in silence hushed, his very soul Listened intensely, and his countenance soon Brightened with joy; for murmurings from within Were heard,--sonorous cadences! whereby, To his belief, the Monitor expressed Mysterious union with its native Sea.

Even such a Sh.e.l.l the Universe itself Is to the ear of Faith; and [there are times, I doubt not, when to you it] doth impart Authentic tidings of invisible things; Of ebb and flow, and ever during power; And central peace subsisting at the heart Of endless agitation.--p. 191.

Sometimes this harmony is imaged to us by an echo; and in one instance, it is with such transcendant beauty set forth by a shadow and its corresponding substance, that it would be a sin to cheat our readers at once of so happy an ill.u.s.tration of the poet's system, and so fair a proof of his descriptive powers.

Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw A two-fold Image; on a gra.s.sy bank A snow-white Ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same! Most beautiful, On the green turf, with his imperial front s.h.a.ggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb, The breathing Creature stood; as beautiful, Beneath him, shewed his shadowy Counterpart.

Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky, And each seemed centre of his own fair world: Antipodes unconscious of each other, Yet, in part.i.tion, with their several spheres, Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight!--p. 407.

Combinations, it is confessed, "like those reflected in that quiet pool," cannot be lasting: it is enough for the purpose of the poet, if they are felt.--They are at least his system; and his readers, if they reject them for their creed, may receive them merely as poetry. In him, _faith_, in friendly alliance and conjunction with the religion of his country, appears to have grown up, fostered by meditation and lonely communions with Nature--an internal principle of lofty consciousness, which stamps upon his opinions and sentiments (we were almost going to say) the character of an expanded and generous Quakerism.

From such a creed we should expect unusual results; and, when applied to the purposes of consolation, more touching considerations than from the mouth of common teachers. The finest speculation of this sort perhaps in the poem before us, is the notion of the thoughts which may sustain the spirit, while they crush the frame of the sufferer, who from loss of objects of love by death, is commonly supposed to pine away under a broken heart.

----If there be whose tender frames have drooped Even to the dust; apparently, through weight Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power An agonizing spirit to trans.m.u.te, Infer not hence a hope from those withheld When wanted most; a confidence impaired So pitiably, that, having ceased to see With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love Of what is lost, and perish through regret.

Oh! no, full oft the innocent Sufferer sees Too clearly; feels too vividly; and longs To realize the Vision with intense And overconstant yearning--there--there lies The excess, by which the balance is destroyed.

Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh, This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs, Though inconceivably endowed, too dim For any pa.s.sion of the soul that leads To extacy; and, all the crooked paths Of time and change disdaining, takes its course Along the line of limitless desires.--p. 148.

With the same modifying and incorporating power, he tells us,--

Within the soul a Faculty abides, That with interpositions, which would hide And darken, so can deal, that they become Contingencies of pomp; and serve to exalt Her native brightness. As the ample Moon, In the deep stillness of a summer even Rising behind a thick and lofty Grove, Burns like an unconsuming fire of light, In the green tree; and, kindling on all sides Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil Into a substance glorious as her own, Yea with her own incorporated, by power Capacious and serene. Like power abides In Man's celestial Spirit; Virtue thus Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire, From the inc.u.mbrances of mortal life, From error, disappointment,--nay from guilt; And sometimes, so relenting Justice wills, From palpable oppressions of Despair.--p. 188.

This is high poetry; though (as we have ventured to lay the basis of the author's sentiments in a sort of liberal Quakerism) from some parts of it, others may, with more plausibility, object to the appearance of a kind of Natural Methodism: we could have wished therefore that the tale of Margaret had been postponed, till the reader had been strengthened by some previous acquaintance with the author's theory, and not placed in the front of the poem, with a kind of ominous aspect, beautifully tender as it is. It is a tale of a cottage, and its female tenant, gradually decaying together, while she expected the return of one whom poverty and not unkindness had driven from her arms. We trust ourselves only with the conclusion--

Nine tedious years; From their first separation, nine long years, She lingered in unquiet widowhood, A Wife and Widow. [Needs must it have been A sore heart-wasting!] I have heard, my Friend, That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath-day; And if a dog pa.s.sed by she still would quit The shade, and look abroad. On this old Bench For hours she sate; and evermore her eye Was busy in the distance, shaping things That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, [Now faint,--the gra.s.s has crept o'er its grey line;]

There, to and fro, she paced through many a day Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp That girt her waist, spinning the long drawn thread With backward steps. Yet ever as there pa.s.s'd A man whose garments shew'd the Soldier's[32] red, [Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor's garb], The little Child who sate to turn the wheel Ceas'd from his task; and she with faultering voice Made many a fond enquiry; and when they, Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, That bars the Traveller's road, she often stood, And when a stranger Horseman came the latch Would lift, and in his face look wistfully; Most happy, if, from aught discovered there Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor hut Sank to decay: for he was gone--whose hand, At the first nipping of October frost, Closed up each c.h.i.n.k, and with fresh bands of straw Checquered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived Through the long winter, reckless and alone; Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain, Was sapped; and while she slept the nightly damps Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind; Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds Have parted hence: and still that length of road, And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my Friend, In sickness she remains; and here she died, Last human Tenant of these ruined Walls.--p. 44.

[32] Her husband had enlisted for a soldier.

The fourth book, ent.i.tled "Despondency Corrected," we consider as the most valuable portion of the poem. For moral grandeur; for wide scope of thought and a long train of lofty imagery; for tender personal appeals; and a _versification_ which we feel we ought to notice, but feel it also so involved in the poetry, that we can hardly mention it as a distinct excellence; it stands without compet.i.tion among our didactic and descriptive verse. The general tendency of the argument (which we might almost affirm to be the leading moral of the poem) is to abate the pride of the calculating _understanding_, and to reinstate the _imagination_ and the _affections_ in those seats from which modern philosophy has laboured but too successfully to expel them.

"Life's autumn past," says the grey-haired Wanderer,

----I stand on Winter's verge, And daily lose what I desire to keep: Yet rather would I instantly decline To the traditionary sympathies Of a most rustic ignorance, and take A fearful apprehension from the owl Or death-watch,--and as readily rejoice, If two auspicious magpies crossed my way; This rather would I do than see and hear The repet.i.tions wearisome of sense, Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place;--p. 168.

In the same spirit, those illusions of the imaginative faculty to which the peasantry in solitary districts are peculiarly subject, are represented as the kindly ministers of _conscience_:

----with whose service charged They come and go, appear and disappear; Diverting evil purposes, remorse Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief, Or pride of heart abating:

Reverting to more distant ages of the world, the operation of that same faculty in producing the several fictions of Chaldean, Persian, and Grecian idolatry, is described with such seductive power, that the Solitary, in good earnest, seems alarmed at the tendency of his own argument.--Notwithstanding his fears, however, there is one thought so uncommonly fine, relative to the spirituality which lay hid beneath the gross material forms of Greek worship, in metal or stone, that we cannot resist the allurement of transcribing it--

----triumphant o'er this pompous show Of Art, this palpable array of Sense, On every side encountered; in despite Of the gross fictions, chaunted in the streets By wandering Rhapsodists; and in contempt Of doubt and bold denials hourly urged Amid the wrangling Schools--a SPIRIT hung, Beautiful Region! o'er thy Towns and Farms, Statues and Temples, and memorial Tombs; And emanations were perceived; and acts Of immortality, in Nature's course, Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt As bonds, on grave Philosopher imposed And armed Warrior; and in every grove A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed When piety more awful had relaxed.

"Take, running River, take these Locks of mine"-- Thus would the Votary say--"this severed hair, My Vow fulfilling, do I here present, Thankful for my beloved Child's return.

Thy banks, Cephissus, he again hath trod, Thy murmurs heard; and drunk the chrystal lymph With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip, And moisten all day long these flowery fields."

And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired; That hath been, is, and where it was and is There shall be,--seen, and heard, and felt, and known, And recognized,--existence unexposed To the blind walk of mortal accident; From diminution safe and weakening age; While Man grows old, and dwindles, and decays; And countless generations of Mankind Depart; and leave no vestige where they trod.--p. 173.

In discourse like this the first day pa.s.ses away.--The second (for this almost dramatic poem takes up the action of two summer days) is varied by the introduction of the village priest; to whom the Wanderer resigns the office of chief speaker, which had been yielded to his age and experience on the first. The conference is begun at the gate of the church-yard; and after some natural speculations concerning death and immortality--and the custom of funereal and sepulchral observances, as deduced from a feeling of immortality--certain doubts are proposed respecting the quant.i.ty of moral worth existing in the world, and in that mountainous district in particular. In the resolution of these doubts, the priest enters upon a most affecting and singular strain of narration, derived from the graves around him. Pointing to hillock after hillock, he gives short histories of their tenants, disclosing their humble virtues, and touching with tender hand upon their frailties.

Nothing can be conceived finer than the manner of introducing these tales. With heaven above his head, and the mouldering turf at his feet--standing betwixt life and death--he seems to maintain that spiritual relation which he bore to his living flock, in its undiminished strength, even with their ashes; and to be in his proper cure, or diocese, among the dead.

We might extract powerful instances of pathos from these tales--the story of Ellen in particular--but their force is in combination, and in the circ.u.mstances under which they are introduced. The traditionary anecdote of the Jacobite and Hanoverian, as less liable to suffer by transplanting, and as affording an instance of that finer species of humour, that thoughtful playfulness in which the author more nearly perhaps than in any other quality resembles Cowper, we shall lay (at least a part of it) before our readers. It is the story of a whig who, having wasted a large estate in election contests, retired "beneath a borrowed name" to a small town among these northern mountains, where a Caledonian laird, a follower of the house of Stuart, who had fled his country after the overthrow at Culloden, returning with the return of lenient times, had also fixed his residence.

----Here, then, they met, Two doughty Champions; flaming Jacobite And sullen Hanoverian! you might think That losses and vexations, less severe Than those which they had severally sustained, Would have inclined each to abate his zeal For his ungrateful cause; no,--I have heard My reverend Father tell that, mid the calm Of that small Town encountering thus, they filled Daily its Bowling-green with harmless strife; Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the Church; And vexed the Market-place. But in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s Of these Opponents gradually was wrought, With little change of general sentiment, Such change towards each other, that their days By choice were spent in constant fellowship; And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke, Those very bickerings made them love it more.

A favourite boundary to their lengthened walks This Church-yard was. And, whether they had come Treading their path in sympathy and linked In social converse, or by some short s.p.a.ce Discreetly parted to preserve the peace, One Spirit seldom failed to extend its sway Over both minds, when they awhile had marked The visible quiet of this holy ground And breathed its soothing air;---- [_Seven lines omitted_].

--There live who yet remember to have seen Their courtly Figures,--seated on a stump Of an old Yew, their favourite resting-place.

But, as the Remnant of the long-lived Tree Was disappearing by a swift decay, They, with joint care, determined to erect, Upon its site, a Dial, which should stand For public use; and also might survive As their own private monument; for this Was the particular spot, in which they wished (And Heaven was pleased to accomplish their desire) That, undivided their Remains should lie.

So, where the mouldered Tree had stood, was raised Yon Structure, framing, with the ascent of steps That to the decorated Pillar lead, A work of art, more sumptuous, as might seem, Than suits this Place; yet built in no proud scorn Of rustic homeliness; they only aimed To ensure for it respectful guardianship.

Around the margin of the Plate, whereon The Shadow falls, to note the stealthy hours, Winds an inscriptive Legend,----At these words Thither we turned; and gathered, as we read, The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched.

"Time flies; it is his melancholy task To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes, And re-produce the troubles he destroys.

But, while his blindness thus is occupied.

Discerning Mortal! do thou serve the will Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace, Which the World wants, shall be for Thee confirmed."--pp. 270-3.

The causes which have prevented the poetry of Mr. Wordsworth from attaining its full share of popularity are to be found in the boldness and originality of his genius. The times are past when a poet could securely follow the direction of his own mind into whatever tracts it might lead. A writer, who would be popular, must timidly coast the sh.o.r.e of prescribed sentiment and sympathy. He must have just as much more of the imaginative faculty than his readers, as will serve to keep their apprehensions from stagnating, but not so much as to alarm their jealousy. He must not think or feel too deeply.

If he has had the fortune to be bred in the midst of the most magnificent objects of creation, he must not have given away his heart to them; or if he have, he must conceal his love, or not carry his expressions of it beyond that point of rapture, which the occasional tourist thinks it not overstepping decorum to betray, or the limit which that gentlemanly spy upon Nature, the picturesque traveller, has vouchsafed to countenance. He must do this, or be content to be thought an enthusiast.