My fancy had shaped forth of sights and shows, 110
Processions, equipages, lords and dukes,
The King and the King’s palace, and not last
Or least, heaven bless him! the renowned Lord Mayor —
Dreams hardly less intense than those which wrought
A change of purpose in young Whittington 115
When he in fiendlessness, a drooping boy,
Sate on a stone and heard the bells speak out
Articulate music. Above all, one thought
Baffled my understanding, how men lived
Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet still 120
Strangers, and knowing not each other’s names.
Oh wondrous power of words, how sweet they are
According to the meaning which they bring —
Vauxhall and Ranelagh, I then had heard
Of your green groves and wilderness of lamps, 125
Your gorgeous ladies, fairy cataracts,
And pageant fireworks. Nor must we forget
Those other wonders, different in kind
Though scarcely less illustrious in degree,
The river proudly bridged, the giddy top 130
And Whispering Gallery of St. Paul’s, the tombs
Of Westminster, the Giants of Guildhall,
Bedlam and the two figures at its gates,
Streets without end and churches numberless,
Statues with flowery gardens in vast squares, 135
The Monument, and Armoury of the Tower.
These fond imaginations, of themselves,
Had long before given way in season due,
Leaving a throng of others in their stead;
And now I looked upon the real scene, 140
Familiarly perused it day by day,
With keen and lively pleasure even there
Where disappointment was the strongest, pleased
Through courteous self-submission, as a tax
Paid to the object by prescriptive right, 145
A thing that ought to be. Shall I give way,
Copying the impression of the memory —
Though things remembered idly do half seem
The work of fancy — shall I, as the mood
Inclines me, here describe for pastime’s sake, 150
Some portion of that motley imagery,
A vivid pleasure of my youth, and now,
Among the lonely places that I love,
A frequent daydream for my riper mind?
And first, the look and aspect of the place — 155
The broad highway appearance, as it strikes
On strangers of all ages, the quick dance
Of colours, lights and forms, the Babel din,
The endless stream of men and moving things,
From hour to hour the illimitable walk 160
Still among streets, with clouds and sky above,
The wealth, the bustle and the eagerness,
The glittering chariots with their pampered steeds,
Stalls, barrows, porters, midway in the street
The scavenger that begs with hat in hand, 165
The labouring hackney-coaches, the rash speed
Of coaches travelling far, whirled on with horn
Loud blowing, and the sturdy drayman’s team
Ascending from some alley of the Thames
And striking right across the crowded Strand 170
Till the fore-horse veer round with punctual skill;
Here, there, and everywhere, a weary throng,
That comers and the goers face to face —
Face after face — the string of dazzling wares,
Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned names, 175
And all the tradesman’s honours overhead:
Here, fronts of houses, like a title-page
With letters huge inscribed from top to toe;
Stationed above the door like guardian saints,
There, allegoric shapes, female or male, 180
Or physiognomies of real men,
Land-warriors, kings, or admirals of the sea,
Boyle, Shakespear, Newton, or the attractive head
Of some quack-doctor, famous in his day.
Meanwhile the roar continues, till at length, 185
Escaped as from an enemy, we turn
Abruptly into some sequestered nook,
Still as a sheltered place when winds blow loud.
At leisure thence, through tracts of thin resort,
And sights and sounds that come at intervals, 190
We take our way — a raree-show is here
With children gathered round, another street
Presents a company of dancing dogs,
Or dromedary with an antic pair
Of monkies on his back, a minstrel-band 195
Of Savoyards, single and alone,
An English ballad-singer. Private courts,
Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes
Thrilled by some female vendor’s scream — belike
The very shrillest of all London cries — 200
May then entangle us awhile,
Conducted through those labyrinths unawares
To privileged regions and inviolate,
Where from their aery lodges studious lawyers
Look out on waters, walks, and gardens green. 205
Thence back into the throng, until we reach —
Following the tide that slackens by degrees —
Some half-frequented scene where wider streets
Bring straggling breezes of suburban air.
Here files of ballads dangle from dead walls, 210
Advertisements of giant size, from high
Press forward in all colours on the sight —
These, bold in conscious merit — lower down,
That, fronted with a most imposing word,
Is peradventure one in masquerade. 215
As on the broadening causeway we advance,
Behold a face turned up towards us, strong
In lineaments, and red with over-toil:
‘Tis one perhaps already met elsewhere,
A travelling cripple, by the trunk cut short, 220
And stumping with his arms. In sailor’s garb
Another lies at length beside a range
Of written characters, with chalk inscribed
Upon the smooth flat stones. The nurse is here,
The bachelor that loves to sun himself, 225
The military idler, and the dame
That field-ward takes her walk in decency.
Now homeward through the thickening hubbub, where
See — among less distinguishable shapes —
The Italian, with his frame of images 230
Upon his head; with basket at his waist,
The Jew; the stately and slow-moving Turk,
With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm.
Briefly, we find (if tired of random sights,
And haply to that search our thoughts should turn) 235
Among the crowd, conspicuous less or more
As we proceed, all specimens of man
Through all the colours which the sun bestows,
And every character of form and face:
The Swede, the Russian; from the genial south, 240
The Frenchman and the Spaniard; from remote
America, the hunter Indian; Moors,
Malays, Lascars, the Tartar and Chinese,
And Negro ladies in white muslin gowns.
At leisure let us view from day to day, 245
As they present themselves, the spectacles
Within doors: troops of wild beasts, birds and beasts
Of every nature from all climes convened,
And, next to these, those mimic sights that ape
The absolute presence of reality, 250
Expressing as in mirror sea and land,
And what earth is, and what she hath to shew —
I do not here allude to subtlest craft,
By means refined attaining purest ends,
But imitations fondly made in plain 255
Confession of man’s weakness and his loves.
Whether the painter — fashioning a work
To Nature’s circumambient scenery,
And with his greedy pencil taking in
A whole horizon on all sides — with power 260
Like that of angels or commissioned spirits,
Plant us upon some lofty pinnacle
Or in a ship on waters, with a world
Of life and lifelike mockery to east,
To west, beneath, behind us, and before, 265
Or more mechanic artist represent
By scale exact, in model, wood or clay,
From shading colours also borrowing help,
Some miniature of famous spots and things,
Domestic, or the boast of foreign realms: 270
The Firth of Forth, and Edinburgh, throned
On crags, fit empress of that mountain land;
St Peter’s Church; or, more aspiring aim,
In microscopic vision, Rome itself;
Or else, perhaps, some rural haunt, the Falls 275
Of Tivoli, and dim Frescati’s bowers,
And high upon the steep that mouldering fane,
The Temple of the Sibyl — every tree
Through all the landscape, tuft, stone, scratch minute,
And every cottage, lurking in the rocks — 280
All that the traveller sees when he is there.
And to these exhibitions mute and still
Others of wider scope, where living men,
Music, and shifting pantomimic scenes, 285
Together joined their multifarious aid
To heighten the allurement. Need I fear
To mention by its name, as in degree
Lowest of these, and humblest in attempt —
Yet richly graced with honours of its own — 290
Half-rural Sadler’s Wells? Though at that time
Intolerant, as is the way of youth
Unless itself be pleased, I more than once
Here took my seat, and, maugre frequent fits
Of irksomeness, with ample recompense 295
Saw singes, rope-dancers, giants and dwarfs,
Clowns, conjurors, posture-masters, harlequins,
Amid the uproar of the rabblement,
Perform their feats. Nor was it mean delight
To watch crude Nature work in untaught minds, 300
To note the laws and progress of belief —
Though obstinate on this way, yet on that
How willingly we travel, and how far! —
To have, for instance, brought upon the scene
The champion, Jack the Giant-killer; lo, 305
He dons his coat of darkness, on the stage
Walks, and atchieves his wonders, from the eye
Of living mortal safe as is the moon
‘Hid in her vacant interlunar cave’.
Delusion bold (and faith must needs be coy) 310
How is it wrought? — his garb is black, the word
INVISIBLE flames forth upon his chest.
Nor was it unamusing here to view
Those samples, as of the ancient comedy
And Thespian times, dramas of living men 315
And recent things yet warm with life: a sea-fight,
Shipwreck, or some domestic incident
The fame of which is scattered through the land,
Such as this daring brotherhood of late
Set forth — too holy theme for such a place, 320
And doubtless treated with irreverence,
Albeit with their very best of skill —
I mean, O distant friend, a story drawn
From our own ground, the Maid of Buttermere,
And how the spoiler came, ‘a bold bad man’ 325
To God unfaithful, children, wife, and home,
And wooed the artless daughter of the hills,
And wedded her, in cruel mockery
Of love and marriage bonds. O friend, I speak
With tender recollection of that time 330
When first we saw the maiden, then a name
By us unheard of — in her cottage-inn
Were welcomed, and attended on by her,
Both stricken with one feeling of delight,
An admiration of her modest mien 335
And carriage, marked by unexampled grace.
Not unfamiliarly we since that time
Have seen her, her discretion have observed,
Her just opinions, female modesty,
Her patience, and retiredness of mind 340
Unspoiled by commendation and excess
Of public notice. This memorial verse
Comes from the poet’s heart, and is her due;
For we were nursed — as almost might be said —
On the same mountains, children at one time, 345
Must haply often on the self-same day
Have from our several dwellings gone abroad
To gather daffodils on Coker’s stream.
These last words uttered, to my argument
I was returning, when — with sundry forms 350
Mingled, that in the way which I must tread
Before me stand — thy image rose again,
Mary of Buttermere! She lives in peace
Upon the spot where she as born and reared;
Without contamination does she live 355
In quietness, without anxiety.
Beside the mountain chapel sleeps in earth
Her new-born infant, fearless as a lamb
That thither comes from some unsheltered place
To rest beneath the little rock-like pile 360
When storms are blowing. Happy are they both,
Mother and child! These feelings, in themselves
Trite, do yet scarcely seem so when I think
Of those ingenuous moments of our youth
Ere yet by use we have learnt to slight the crimes 365
And sorrows of the world. Those days are now
My theme, and, ‘mid the numerous scenes which they
Have left behind them, foremost I am crossed
Here by remembrance of two figures: one
A rosy babe, who for a twelvemonth’s space 370
Perhaps had been of age to deal about
Articulate prattle, child as beautiful
As ever sate upon a mother’s knee;
The other was the parent of that babe —
But on the mother’s cheek the tints were false, 375
A painted bloom. ‘Twas at a theatre
That I beheld this pair; the boy had been
The pride and pleasure of all lookers-on
In whatsoever place, but seemed in this
A sort of alien scattered from the clouds. 380
Of lusty vigour, more than infantine,
He was in limbs, in face a cottage rose
Just three part blown — a cottage-child, but ne’er
Saw I by cottage or elsewhere a babe
By Nature’s gifts so honored. Upon a board, 385
Whence an attendant of the theatre
Served out refreshments, had this child been placed,
And there he sate environed with a ring
Of chance spectators, chiefly dissolute men
And shameless women — treated and caressed — 390
Ate, drank, and with the fruit and glasses played,
While oaths, indecent speech, and ribaldry
Were rife about him as are songs of birds
In springtime after showers. The mother, too,
Was present, but of her I know no more 395
Than hath been said, and scarcely at this time
Do I remember her; but I behold
The lovely boy as I beheld him then,
Among the wretched
and the falsely gay,
Like one of those who walked with hair unsinged 400
Amid the fiery furnace. He hath since
Appeared to me ofttimes as if embalmed
By Nature — through some special privilege
Stopped at the growth he had — destined to live,
To be, to have been, come, and go, a child 405
And nothing more, no partner in the years
That bear us forward to distress and guilt,
Pain and abasement; beauty in such excess
Adorned him in that miserable place.
So have I thought of him a thousand times — 410
And seldom otherwise — but he perhaps,
Mary, may now have lived till he could look
With envy on thy nameless babe that sleeps
Beside the mountain chapel undisturbed.
It was but little more than three short years 415
Before the season which I speak of now
When first, a traveller from our pastoral hills,
Southward two hundred miles I had advanced,
And for the first time in my life did hear
The voice of woman utter blasphemy — 420
Saw woman as she is to open shame
Abandoned, and the pride of public vice.
Full surely from the bottom of my heart
I shuddered; but the pain was almost lost,
Absorbed and buried in the immensity 425
Of the effect: a barrier seemed at once
Thrown in, that from humanity divorced
The human form, splitting the race of man
In twain, yet leaving the same outward shape.
Distress of mind ensued upon this sight, 430
And ardent meditation — afterwards
A milder sadness on such spectacles
Attended: thought, commiseration, grief,
For the individual and the overthrow
Of her soul’s beauty — farther at that time 435
Than this I was but seldom led; in truth
The sorrow of the passion stopped me here.
I quit this painful theme, enough is said
To shew what thoughts must often have been mine
At theatres, which then were my delight — 440
A yearning made more strong by obstacles
Which slender funds imposed. Life then was new,
The senses easily pleased; the lustres, lights,
The carving and the gilding, paint and glare,
And all the mean upholstery of the place, 445
Wanted not animation in my sight,
Far less the living figures on the stage,
Solemn or gay — whether some beauteous dame
Advanced in radiance through a deep recess
Of thick-entangled forest, like the moon 450
Opening the clouds; or sovereign king, announced
With flourishing trumpets, came in full-blown state
Of the world’s greatness, winding round with train
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 98
