Wordsworth

by Gavin Herbertson

  An historic detail has thus been given of the manner in which the hand of man has acted upon the surface of the inner regions of this mountainous country, as incorporated with and subservient to the powers and processes of nature. We will now take a view of the same agency— acting, within narrower bounds, for the production of the few works of art and accommodations of life which, in so simple a state of society, could be necessary. These are merely habitations of man and coverts for beasts, roads and bridges, and places of worship.

  And to begin with the Cottages. They are scattered over the vallies, and under the hill sides, and on the rocks; and, even to this day, in the more retired dales, without any intrusion of more assuming buildings;

  Cluster’d like stars some few, but single most,

  And lurking dimly in their shy retreats,

  Or glancing on each other cheerful looks,

  Like separated stars with clouds between.

  The dwelling-houses, and contiguous outhouses, are, in many instances, of the colour of the native rock, out of which they have been built; but, frequently the Dwelling or Fire-house, as it is ordinarily called, has been distinguished from the barn or byer by rough-cast and white wash, which, as the inhabitants are not hasty in renewing it, in a few years acquires, by the influence of weather, a tint at once sober and variegated. As these houses have been, from father to son, inhabited by persons engaged in the same occupations, yet necessarily with changes in their circumstances, they have received without incongruity additions and accommodations adapted to the needs of each successive occupant, who, being for the most part proprietor, was at liberty to follow his own fancy: so that these humble dwellings remind the contemplative spectator of a production of nature, and may (using a strong expression) rather be said to have grown than to have been erected;—to have risen, by an instinct of their own, out of the native rock—so little is there in them of formality, such is their wildness and beauty. Among the numerous recesses and projections in the walls and in the different stages of their roofs, are seen bold and harmonious effects of contrasted sunshine and shadow. It is a favourable circumstance, that the strong winds, which sweep down the vallies, induced the inhabitants, at a time when the materials for building were easily procured, to furnish many of these dwellings with substantial porches; and such as have not this defence, are seldom unprovided with a projection of two large slates over their thresholds. Nor will the singular beauty of the chimneys escape the eye of the attentive traveller. Sometimes a low chimney, almost upon a level with the roof, is overlaid with a slate, supported upon four slender pillars, to prevent the wind from driving the smoke down the chimney. Others are of a quadrangular shape, rising one or two feet above the roof; which low square is often surmounted by a tall cylinder, giving to the cottage chimney the most beautiful shape in which it is ever seen. Nor will it be too fanciful or refined to remark, that there is a pleasing harmony between a tall chimney of this circular form, and the living column of smoke, ascending from it through the still air. These dwellings, mostly built, as has been said, of rough unhewn stone, are roofed with slates, which were rudely taken from the quarry before the present art of splitting them was understood, and are, therefore, rough and uneven in their surface, so that both the coverings and sides of the houses have furnished places of rest for the seeds of lichens, mosses, ferns, and flowers. Hence buildings, which in their very form call to mind the processes of nature, do thus, clothed in part with a vegetable garb, appear to be received into the bosom of the living principle of things, as it acts and exists among the woods and fields; and, by their colour and their shape, affectingly direct the thoughts to that tranquil course of nature and simplicity, along which the humble-minded inhabitants have, through so many generations, been led. Add the little garden with its shed for bee-hives, its small bed of pot-herbs, and its borders and patches of flowers for Sunday posies, with sometimes a choice few too much prized to be plucked; an orchard of proportioned size; a cheesepress, often supported by some tree near the door; a cluster of embowering sycamores for summer shade; with a tall fir, through which the winds sing when other trees are leafless; the little rill or household spout murmuring in all seasons;—combine these incidents and images together, and you have the representative idea of a mountain-cottage in this country so beautifully formed in itself, and so richly adorned by the hand of nature.

  Till within the last sixty years there was no communication between any of these vales by carriage-roads; all bulky articles were transported on pack-horses. Owing, however, to the population not being concentrated in villages, but scattered, the vallies themselves were intersected as now by innumerable lanes and path-ways leading from house to house and from field to field. These lanes, where they are fenced by stone walls, are mostly bordered with ashes, hazels, wild roses, and beds of tall fern at their base; while the walls themselves, if old, are overspread with mosses, small ferns, wild strawberries, the geranium, and lichens: and, if the wall happen to rest against a bank of earth, it is sometimes almost wholly concealed by a rich facing of stone-fern. It is a great advantage to a traveller or resident, that these numerous lanes and paths, if he be a zealous admirer of nature, will lead him on into all the recesses of the country, so that the hidden treasures of its landscapes may, by an ever-ready guide, be laid open to his eyes.

  Likewise to the smallness of the several properties is owing the great number of bridges over the brooks and torrents, and the daring and graceful neglect of danger or accommodation with which so many of them are constructed, the rudeness of the forms of some, and their endless variety. But, when I speak of this rudeness, I must at the same time add, that many of these structures are in themselves models of elegance, as if they had been formed upon principles of the most thoughtful architecture. It is to be regretted that these monuments of the skill of our ancestors, and of that happy instinct by which consummate beauty was produced, are disappearing fast; but sufficient specimens remain to give a high gratification to the man of genuine taste. Travellers who may not have been accustomed to pay attention to things so inobtrusive, will excuse me if I point out the proportion between the span and elevation of the arch, the lightness of the parapet, and the graceful manner in which its curve follows faithfully that of the arch.

  Upon this subject I have nothing further to notice, except the Places of Worship, which have mostly a little school-house adjoining. The architecture of these churches and chapels, where they have not been recently rebuilt or modernised, is of a style not less appropriate and admirable than that of the dwelling houses and other structures. How sacred the spirit by which our forefathers were directed! The religio loci is no where violated by these unstinted, yet unpretending, works of human hands. They exhibit generally a well-proportioned oblong, with a suitable porch, in some instances a steeple tower, and in others nothing more than a small belfry, in which one or two bells hang visibly. But these objects, though pleasing in their forms, must necessarily, more than others in rural scenery, derive their interest from the sentiments of piety and reverence for the modest virtues and simple manners of humble life with which they may be contemplated. A man must be very insensible who would not be touched with pleasure at the sight of the chapel of Buttermere, so strikingly expressing, by its diminutive size, how small must be the congregation there assembled, as it were, like one family; and proclaiming at the same time to the passenger, in connection with the surrounding mountains, the depth of that seclusion in which the people live, that has rendered necessary the building of a separate place of worship for so few. A patriot, calling to mind the images of the stately fabrics of Canterbury, York, or Westminster, will find a heart-felt satisfaction in presence of this lowly pile, as a monument of the wise institutions of our country, and as evidence of the all-pervading and paternal care of that venerable Establishment, of which it is, perhaps, the humblest daughter. The edifice is scarcely larger than many of the single stones or fragments of rock which are scattered near
it.

  We have thus far confined our observations on this division of the subject, to that part of these Dales which runs up far into the mountains.

  As we descend towards the open country, we meet with halls and mansions, many of which have been places of defence against the incursions of the Scottish borderers; and they not unfrequently retain their towers and battlements. To these houses, parks are sometimes attached, and to their successive proprietors we chiefly owe whatever ornament is still left to the country of majestic timber. Through the open parts of the vales are scattered, also, houses of a middle rank between the pastoral cottage and the old hall residence of the knight or esquire. Such houses differ much from the rugged cottages before described, and are generally graced with a little court or garden in front, where may yet be seen specimens of those fantastic and quaint figures which our ancestors were fond of shaping out in yew-tree, holly, or box-wood. The passenger will sometimes smile at such elaborate display of petty art, while the house does not deign to look upon the natural beauty or the sublimity which its situation almost unavoidably commands.

  Thus has been given a faithful description, the minuteness of which the reader will pardon, of the face of this country as it was, and had been through centuries, till within the last sixty years. Towards the head of these Dales was found a perfect Republic of Shepherds and Agriculturists, among whom the plough of each man was confined to the maintenance of his own family, or to the occasional accommodation of his neighbour. Two or three cows furnished each family with milk and cheese. The chapel was the only edifice that presided over these dwellings, the supreme head of this pure Commonwealth; the members of which existed in the midst of a powerful empire like an ideal society or an organized community, whose constitution had been imposed and regulated by the mountains which protected it. Neither high-born nobleman, knight, nor esquire was here; but many of these humble sons of the hills had a consciousness that the land, which they walked over and tilled, had for more than five hundred years been possessed by men of their name and blood; and venerable was the transition, when a curious traveller, descending from the heart of the mountains, had come to some ancient manorial residence in the more open parts of the Vales, which, through the rights attached to its proprietor, connected the almost visionary mountain republic he had been contemplating with the substantial frame of society as existing in the laws and constitution of a mighty empire.

  * * * * *

  Anecdote for Fathers, Showing How the Practice of Lying May Be Taught

  I have a boy of five years old;

  His face is fair and fresh to see;

  His limbs are cast in beauty’s mould,

  And dearly he loves me.

  One morn we strolled on our dry walk,

  Our quiet home all full in view,

  And held such intermitted talk

  As we are wont to do.

  My thoughts on former pleasures ran;

  I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,

  Our pleasant home when spring began,

  A long, long year before.

  A day it was when I could bear

  Some fond regrets to entertain;

  With so much happiness to spare,

  I could not feel a pain.

  The green earth echoed to the feet

  Of lambs that bounded through the glade,

  From shade to sunshine, and as fleet

  From sunshine back to shade.

  Birds warbled round me—and each trace

  Of inward sadness had its charm;

  Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,

  And so is Liswyn farm.

  My boy beside me tripped, so slim

  And graceful in his rustic dress!

  And, as we talked, I questioned him,

  In very idleness.

  “Now tell me, had you rather be,”

  I said, and took him by the arm,

  “On Kilve’s smooth shore, by the green sea,

  Or here at Liswyn farm?”

  In careless mood he looked at me,

  While still I held him by the arm,

  And said, “At Kilve I’d rather be

  Than here at Liswyn farm.”

  “Now, little Edward, say why so:

  My little Edward, tell me why.”—

  “I cannot tell, I do not know.”—

  “Why, this is strange,” said I;

  “For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:

  There surely must some reason be

  Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm

  For Kilve by the green sea.”

  At this, my boy hung down his head,

  He blushed with shame, nor made reply;

  And three times to the child I said,

  “Why, Edward, tell me why?”

  His head he raised—there was in sight,

  It caught his eye, he saw it plain—

  Upon the house-top, glittering bright,

  A broad and gilded vane.

  Then did the boy his tongue unlock,

  And eased his mind with this reply:

  “At Kilve there was no weather-cock;

  And that’s the reason why.”

  O dearest, dearest boy! my heart

  For better lore would seldom yearn,

  Could I but teach the hundredth part

  Of what from thee I learn.

  Lines Written in Early Spring

  I heard a thousand blended notes,

  While in a grove I sate reclined,

  In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

  Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

  To her fair works did Nature link

  The human soul that through me ran;

  And much it grieved my heart to think

  What man has made of man.

  Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

  The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

  And ’tis my faith that every flower

  Enjoys the air it breathes.

  The birds around me hopped and played,

  Their thoughts I cannot measure:—

  But the least motion which they made,

  It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

  The budding twigs spread out their fan,

  To catch the breezy air;

  And I must think, do all I can,

  That there was pleasure there.

  If this belief from heaven be sent,

  If such be Nature’s holy plan,

  Have I not reason to lament

  What man has made of man?

  To My Sister

  It is the first mild day of March:

  Each minute sweeter than before

  The redbreast sings from the tall larch

  That stands beside our door.

  There is a blessing in the air,

  Which seems a sense of joy to yield

  To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

  And grass in the green field.

  My sister! (’tis a wish of mine)

  Now that our morning meal is done,

  Make haste, your morning task resign;

  Come forth and feel the sun.

  Edward will come with you;—and, pray,

  Put on with speed your woodland dress;

  And bring no book: for this one day

  We’ll give to idleness.

  No joyless forms shall regulate

  Our living calendar:

  We from to-day, my Friend, will date

  The opening of the year.

  Love, now a universal birth,

  From heart to heart is stealing,

  From earth to man, from man to earth:

  —It is the hour of feeling.

  On
e moment now may give us more

  Than years of toiling reason:

  Our minds shall drink at every pore

  The spirit of the season.

  Some silent laws our hearts will make,

  Which they shall long obey:

  We for the year to come may take

  Our temper from to-day.

  And from the blessed power that rolls

  About, below, above,

  We’ll frame the measure of our souls:

  They shall be tuned to love.

  Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,

  With speed put on your woodland dress;

  And bring no book: for this one day

  We’ll give to idleness.

  Expostulation and Reply

  “Why, William, on that old grey stone,

  Thus for the length of half a day,

  Why, William, sit you thus alone,

  And dream your time away?

  “Where are your books?—that light bequeathed