Volume 3 — The WaggonerA
Reading edition
The WaggonerA
Composed 1805.—Published 1819
The Poem [Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The characters and story from fact.—I. F.]
"In Cairo's crowded streets The impatient Merchant, wondering, waits in vain, And Mecca saddens at the long delay." Thomson.B
To Charles Lamb, Esq. My Dear Friend, When I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of Peter Bell, you asked "why The Waggoner was not added?"—To say the truth,—from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehended, this little Piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, The Waggoner was read to you in manuscript; and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on which it partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you; in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your Writings, and of the high esteem with which I am Very truly yours, William Wordsworth. Rydal Mount, May 20th, 1819.
The Poem
Canto the First
Canto Second
Canto Third
Canto Fourth
Canto the First
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'Tis spent—this burning day of June! Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing; The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheeling,— That solitary bird Is all that can be heard In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon! Confiding Glow-worms, 'tis a night Propitious to your earth-born light! But, where the scattered stars are seen In hazy straits the clouds between, Each, in his station twinkling not, Seems changed into a pallid spot. The mountains against heaven's grave weight Rise up, and grow to wondrous height. The air, as in a lion's den, Is close and hot;—and now and then Comes a tired and sultry breeze With a haunting and a panting, Like the stifling of disease; But the dews allay the heat, And the silence makes it sweet. Hush, there is some one on the stir! 'Tis Benjamin the Waggoner; Who long hath trod this toilsome way, Companion of the night and day. That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer, Mix'd with a faint yet grating sound In a moment lost and found, The Wain announces—by whose side Along the banks of Rydal Mere He paces on, a trusty Guide,— Listen! you can scarcely hear! Hither he his course is bending;— Now he leaves the lower ground, And up the craggy hill ascending Many a stop and stay he makes, Many a breathing-fit he takes;— Steep the way and wearisome, Yet all the while his whip is dumb! The Horses have worked with right good-will, And so have gained the top of the hill; He was patient, they were strong, And now they smoothly glide along, Recovering breath, and pleased to win The praises of mild Benjamin. Heaven shield him from mishap and snare! But why so early with this prayer? Is it for threatenings in the sky? Or for some other danger nigh? No; none is near him yet, though he Be one of much infirmity; For at the bottom of the brow, Where once the Dove and Olive-bough Offered a greeting of good ale To all who entered Grasmere Vale; And called on him who must depart To leave it with a jovial heart; There, where the Dove and Olive-bough Once hung, a Poet harbours now, A simple water-drinking Bard; Why need our Hero then (though frail His best resolves) be on his guard? He marches by, secure and bold; Yet while he thinks on times of old, It seems that all looks wondrous cold; He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head, And, for the honest folk within, It is a doubt with Benjamin Whether they be alive or dead! Here is no danger,—none at all! Beyond his wish he walks secure; But pass a mile—and then for trial,— Then for the pride of self-denial; If he resist that tempting door, Which with such friendly voice will call; If he resist those casement panes, And that bright gleam which thence will fall Upon his Leaders' bells and manes, Inviting him with cheerful lure: For still, though all be dark elsewhere, Some shining notice will be there Of open house and ready fare. The place to Benjamin right well Is known, and by as strong a spell As used to be that sign of love And hope—the Olive-bough and Dove; He knows it to his cost, good Man! Who does not know the famous Swan? Object uncouth! and yet our boast, For it was painted by the Host; His own conceit the figure planned, 'Twas coloured all by his own hand; And that frail Child of thirsty clay, Of whom I sing this rustic lay, Could tell with self-dissatisfaction Quaint stories of the bird's attraction! Well! that is past—and in despite Of open door and shining light. And now the conqueror essays The long ascent of Dunmail-raise; And with his team is gentle here As when he clomb from Rydal Mere; His whip they do not dread—his voice They only hear it to rejoice. To stand or go is at their pleasure; Their efforts and their time they measure By generous pride within the breast; And, while they strain, and while they rest, He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure. Now am I fairly safe to-night— And with proud cause my heart is light: I trespassed lately worse than ever— But Heaven has blest a good endeavour; And, to my soul's content, I find The evil One is left behind. Yes, let my master fume and fret, Here am I—with my horses yet! My jolly team, he finds that ye Will work for nobody but me! Full proof of this the Country gained; It knows how ye were vexed and strained, And forced unworthy stripes to bear, When trusted to another's care. Here was it—on this rugged slope, Which now ye climb with heart and hope, I saw you, between rage and fear, Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear, And ever more and more confused, As ye were more and more abused: As chance would have it, passing by I saw you in that jeopardy: A word from me was like a charm; Ye pulled together with one mind; And your huge burthen, safe from harm, Moved like a vessel in the wind! —Yes, without me, up hills so high 'Tis vain to strive for mastery. Then grieve not, jolly team! though tough The road we travel, steep, and rough; Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise, And all their fellow banks and braes, Full often make you stretch and strain, And halt for breath and halt again, Yet to their sturdiness 'tis owing That side by side we still are going! While Benjamin in earnest mood His meditations thus pursued, A storm, which had been smothered long, Was growing inwardly more strong; And, in its struggles to get free, Was busily employed as he. The thunder had begun to growl— He heard not, too intent of soul; The air was now without a breath— He marked not that 'twas still as death. But soon large rain-drops on his head Fell with the weight of drops of lead;— He starts—and takes, at the admonition, A sage survey of his condition. The road is black before his eyes, Glimmering faintly where it lies; Black is the sky—and every hill, Up to the sky, is blacker still— Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room, Hung round and overhung with gloom; Save that above a single height Is to be seen a lurid light, Above Helm-crag—a streak half dead, A burning of portentous red; And near that lurid light, full well The Astrologer, sage Sidrophel, Where at his desk and book he sits, Puzzling aloft his curious wits; He whose domain is held in common With no one but the Ancient Woman, Cowering beside her rifted cell, As if intent on magic spell;- Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather, Still sit upon Helm-crag together! The Astrologer was not unseen By solitary Benjamin; But total darkness came anon, And he and every thing was gone: And suddenly a ruffling breeze, (That would have rocked the sounding trees Had aught of sylvan growth been there) Swept through the Hollow long and bare: The rain rushed down—the road was battered, As with the force of billows shattered; The horses are dismayed, nor know Whether they should stand or go; And Benjamin is groping near them, Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them. He is astounded,—wonder not,— With such a charge in such a spot; Astounded in the mountain gap With thunder-peals, clap after clap, Close-treading on the silent flashes— And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes Among the rocks; with weight of rain, And sullen motions long and slow, That to a dreary distance go— Till, breaking in upon the dying strain, A rending o'er his head begins the fray again. Meanwhile, uncertain what to do, And oftentimes compelled to halt, The horses cautiously pursue Their way, without mishap or fault; And now have reached that pile of stones, Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones; He who had once supreme command, Last king of rocky Cumberland; His bones, and those of all his Power, Slain here in a disastrous hour! When, passing through this narrow strait, Stony, and dark, and desolate, Benjamin can faintly hear A voice that comes from some one near, A female voice:—"Whoe'er you be, Stop," it exclaimed, "and pity me!" And, less in pity than in wonder, Amid the darkness and the thunder, The Waggoner, with prompt command, Summons his horses to a stand. While, with increasing agitation, The Woman urged her supplication, In rueful words, with sobs between— The voice of tears that fell unseen; There came a flash—a startling glare, And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare! 'Tis not a time for nice suggestion, And Benjamin, without a question, Taking her for some way-worn rover, Said, "Mount, and get you under cover!" Another voice, in tone as hoarse As a swoln brook with rugged course, Cried out, "Good brother, why so fast? I've had a glimpse of you—'avast!' Or, since it suits you to be civil, Take her at once—for good and evil!" "It is my Husband," softly said The Woman, as if half afraid: By this time she was snug within, Through help of honest Benjamin; She and her Babe, which to her breast With thankfulness the Mother pressed; And now the same strong voice more near Said cordially, "My Friend, what cheer? Rough doings these! as God's my judge, The sky owes somebody a grudge! We've had in half an hour or less A twelvemonth's terror and distress!" Then Benjamin entreats the Man Would mount, too, quickly as he can: The Sailor—Sailor now no more, But such he had been heretofore— To courteous Benjamin replied, "Go you your way, and mind not me; For I must have, whate'er betide, My Ass and fifty things beside,— Go, and I'll follow speedily!" The Waggon moves—and with its load Descends along the sloping road; And the rough Sailor instantly Turns to a little tent hard by: For when, at closing-in of day, The family had come that way, Green pasture and the soft warm air Tempted them to settle there.— Green is the grass for beast to graze, Around the stones of Dunmail-raise! The Sailor gathers up his bed, Takes down the canvass overhead; And, after farewell to the place, A parting word—though not of grace, Pursues, with Ass and all his store, The way the Waggon went before. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 C D E 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 165 170 175 180 185 190 195 200 205 210 215 220 225 230 235 240 245 250 255 260 265 270 275
Canto Second
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If Wytheburn's modest House of prayer, As lowly as the lowliest dwelling, Had, with its belfry's humble stock, A little pair that hang in air, Been mistress also of a clock, (And one, too, not in crazy plight) Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling Under the brow of old Helvellyn— Its bead-roll of midnight, Then, when the Hero of my tale Was passing by, and, down the vale (The vale now silent, hushed I ween As if a storm had never been) Proceeding with a mind at ease; While the old Familiar of the seas Intent to use his utmost haste, Gained ground upon the Waggon fast, And gives another lusty cheer; For spite of rumbling of the wheels, A welcome greeting he can hear;— It is a fiddle in its glee Dinning from the Cherry Tree! Thence the sound—the light is there— As Benjamin is now aware, Who, to his inward thoughts confined, Had almost reached the festive door, When, startled by the Sailor's roar, He hears a sound and sees the light, And in a moment calls to mind That 'tis the village Merry-Night! Although before in no dejection, At this insidious recollection His heart with sudden joy is filled,— His ears are by the music thrilled, His eyes take pleasure in the road Glittering before him bright and broad; And Benjamin is wet and cold, And there are reasons manifold That make the good, tow'rds which he's yearning, Look fairly like a lawful earning. Nor has thought time to come and go, To vibrate between yes and no; For, cries the Sailor, "Glorious chance That blew us hither!—let him dance, Who can or will!—my honest soul, Our treat shall be a friendly bowl!" He draws him to the door—"Come in, Come, come," cries he to Benjamin! And Benjamin—ah, woe is me! Gave the word—the horses heard And halted, though reluctantly. "Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have we, Feasting at the Cherry Tree!" This was the outside proclamation, This was the inside salutation; What bustling—jostling—high and low! A universal overflow! What tankards foaming from the tap! What store of cakes in every lap! What thumping—stumping—overhead! The thunder had not been more busy: With such a stir you would have said, This little place may well be dizzy! 'Tis who can dance with greatest vigour— 'Tis what can be most prompt and eager; As if it heard the fiddle's call, The pewter clatters on the wall; The very bacon shows its feeling, Swinging from the smoky ceiling! A steaming bowl, a blazing fire, What greater good can heart desire? 'Twere worth a wise man's while to try The utmost anger of the sky: To seek for thoughts of a gloomy cast, If such the bright amends at last. Now should you say I judge amiss, The Cherry Tree shows proof of this; For soon of all the happy there, Our Travellers are the happiest pair; All care with Benjamin is gone— A Cæsar past the Rubicon! He thinks not of his long, long strife;— The Sailor, Man by nature gay, Hath no resolves to throw away; And he hath now forgot his Wife, Hath quite forgotten her—or may be Thinks her the luckiest soul on earth, Within that warm and peaceful berth, Under cover, Terror over, Sleeping by her sleeping Baby. With bowl that sped from hand to hand, The gladdest of the gladsome band, Amid their own delight and fun, They hear—when every dance is done, When every whirling bout is o'er— The fiddle's squeak—that call to bliss, Ever followed by a kiss; They envy not the happy lot, But enjoy their own the more! While thus our jocund Travellers fare, Up springs the Sailor from his chair— Limps (for I might have told before That he was lame) across the floor— Is gone—returns—and with a prize; With what?—a Ship of lusty size; A gallant stately Man-of-war, Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car. Surprise to all, but most surprise To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes, Not knowing that he had befriended A Man so gloriously attended! "This," cries the Sailor, "a Third-rate is— Stand back, and you shall see her gratis! This was the Flag-ship at the Nile, The Vanguard—you may smirk and smile, But, pretty Maid, if you look near, You'll find you've much in little here! A nobler ship did never swim, And you shall see her in full trim: I'll set, my friends, to do you honour, Set every inch of sail upon her." So said, so done; and masts, sails, yards, He names them all; and interlards His speech with uncouth terms of art, Accomplished in the showman's part; And then, as from a sudden check, Cries out—"'Tis there, the quarter-deck On which brave Admiral Nelson stood— A sight that would have roused your blood! One eye he had, which, bright as ten, Burned like a fire among his men; Let this be land, and that be sea, Here lay the French—and thus came we!" Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound, The dancers all were gathered round, And, such the stillness of the house, You might have heard a nibbling mouse; While, borrowing helps where'er he may, The Sailor through the story runs Of ships to ships and guns to guns; And does his utmost to display The dismal conflict, and the might And terror of that marvellous night! "A bowl, a bowl of double measure," Cries Benjamin, "a draught of length, To Nelson, England's pride and treasure, Her bulwark and her tower of strength!" When Benjamin had seized the bowl, The mastiff, from beneath the waggon, Where he lay, watchful as a dragon, Rattled his chain;—'twas all in vain, For Benjamin, triumphant soul! He heard the monitory growl; Heard—and in opposition quaffed A deep, determined, desperate draught! Nor did the battered Tar forget, Or flinch from what he deemed his debt: Then, like a hero crowned with laurel, Back to her place the ship he led; Wheeled her back in full apparel; And so, flag flying at mast head, Re-yoked her to the Ass:—anon, Cries Benjamin, "We must be gone." Thus, after two hours' hearty stay, Again behold them on their way! 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 F G H 280 285 290 295 300 305 310 315 320 325 330 335 340 345 350 355 360 365 370 375 380 385 390 395 400 405 410 415 420 425 430 435 440
Canto Third
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Right gladly had the horses stirred, When they the wished-for greeting heard, The whip's loud notice from the door, That they were free to move once more. You think, those doings must have bred In them disheartening doubts and dread; No, not a horse of all the eight, Although it be a moonless night, Fears either for himself or freight; For this they know (and let it hide, In part, the offences of their guide) That Benjamin, with clouded brains, Is worth the best with all their pains; And, if they had a prayer to make, The prayer would be that they may take With him whatever comes in course, The better fortune or the worse; That no one else may have business near them, And, drunk or sober, he may steer them. So, forth in dauntless mood they fare, And with them goes the guardian pair. Now, heroes, for the true commotion, The triumph of your late devotion! Can aught on earth impede delight, Still mounting to a higher height; And higher still—a greedy flight! Can any low-born care pursue her, Can any mortal clog come to her? No notion have they—not a thought, That is from joyless regions brought! And, while they coast the silent lake, Their inspiration I partake; Share their empyreal spirits—yea, With their enraptured vision, see— O fancy—what a jubilee! What shifting pictures—clad in gleams Of colour bright as feverish dreams! Earth, spangled sky, and lake serene, Involved and restless all—a scene Pregnant with mutual exaltation, Rich change, and multiplied creation! This sight to me the Muse imparts;— And then, what kindness in their hearts! What tears of rapture, what vow-making, Profound entreaties, and hand-shaking! What solemn, vacant, interlacing, As if they'd fall asleep embracing! Then, in the turbulence of glee, And in the excess of amity, Says Benjamin, "That Ass of thine, He spoils thy sport, and hinders mine: If he were tethered to the waggon, He'd drag as well what he is dragging; And we, as brother should with brother, Might trudge it alongside each other!" Forthwith, obedient to command, The horses made a quiet stand; And to the waggon's skirts was tied The Creature, by the Mastiff's side, The Mastiff wondering, and perplext With dread of what will happen next; And thinking it but sorry cheer, To have such company so near! This new arrangement made, the Wain Through the still night proceeds again; No Moon hath risen her light to lend; But indistinctly may be kenned The Vanguard, following close behind, Sails spread, as if to catch the wind! "Thy wife and child are snug and warm, Thy ship will travel without harm; I like," said Benjamin, "her shape and stature: And this of mine—this bulky creature Of which I have the steering—this, Seen fairly, is not much amiss! We want your streamers, friend, you know; But, altogether as we go, We make a kind of handsome show! Among these hills, from first to last, We've weathered many a furious blast; Hard passage forcing on, with head Against the storm, and canvass spread. I hate a boaster; but to thee Will say't, who know'st both land and sea, The unluckiest hulk that stems the brine Is hardly worse beset than mine, When cross-winds on her quarter beat; And, fairly lifted from my feet, I stagger onward—heaven knows how; But not so pleasantly as now: Poor pilot I, by snows confounded, And many a foundrous pit surrounded! Yet here we are, by night and day Grinding through rough and smooth our way; Through foul and fair our task fulfilling; And long shall be so yet—God willing!" "Ay," said the Tar, "through fair and foul— But save us from yon screeching owl!" That instant was begun a fray Which called their thoughts another way: The mastiff, ill-conditioned carl! What must he do but growl and snarl, Still more and more dissatisfied With the meek comrade at his side! Till, not incensed though put to proof, The Ass, uplifting a hind hoof, Salutes the Mastiff on the head; And so were better manners bred, And all was calmed and quieted. "Yon screech-owl," says the Sailor, turning Back to his former cause of mourning, "Yon owl!—pray God that all be well! 'Tis worse than any funeral bell; As sure as I've the gift of sight, We shall be meeting ghosts to-night!" —Said Benjamin, "This whip shall lay A thousand, if they cross our way. I know that Wanton's noisy station, I know him and his occupation; The jolly bird hath learned his cheer Upon the banks of Windermere; Where a tribe of them make merry, Mocking the Man that keeps the ferry; Hallooing from an open throat, Like travellers shouting for a boat. —The tricks he learned at Windermere This vagrant owl is playing here— That is the worst of his employment: He's at the top of his enjoyment!" This explanation stilled the alarm, Cured the foreboder like a charm; This, and the manner, and the voice, Summoned the Sailor to rejoice; His heart is up—he fears no evil From life or death, from man or devil; He wheels—and, making many stops, Brandished his crutch against the mountain tops; And, while he talked of blows and scars, Benjamin, among the stars, Beheld a dancing—and a glancing; Such retreating and advancing As, I ween, was never seen In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars! 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 J 445 450 455 460 465 470 475 480 485 490 495 500 505 510 515 520 525 530 535 540 545 550 555 560 565 570 575 580 585
Canto Fourth
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Thus they, with freaks of proud delight, Beguile the remnant of the night; And many a snatch of jovial song Regales them as they wind along; While to the music, from on high, The echoes make a glad reply.— But the sage Muse the revel heeds No farther than her story needs; Nor will she servilely attend The loitering journey to its end. —Blithe spirits of her own impel The Muse, who scents the morning air, To take of this transported pair A brief and unreproved farewell; To quit the slow-paced waggon's side, And wander down yon hawthorn dell, With murmuring Greta for her guide. —There doth she ken the awful form Of Raven-crag—black as a storm— Glimmering through the twilight pale; And Ghimmer-crag, his tall twin brother, Each peering forth to meet the other:— And, while she roves through St. John's Vale, Along the smooth unpathwayed plain, By sheep-track or through cottage lane, Where no disturbance comes to intrude Upon the pensive solitude, Her unsuspecting eye, perchance, With the rude shepherd's favoured glance, Beholds the faeries in array, Whose party-coloured garments gay The silent company betray: Red, green, and blue; a moment's sight! For Skiddaw-top with rosy light Is touched—and all the band take flight. —Fly also, Muse! and from the dell Mount to the ridge of Nathdale Fell; Thence, look thou forth o'er wood and lawn Hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn; Across yon meadowy bottom look, Where close fogs hide their parent brook; And see, beyond that hamlet small, The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall, Lurking in a double shade, By trees and lingering twilight made! There, at Blencathara's rugged feet, Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat To noble Clifford; from annoy Concealed the persecuted boy, Well pleased in rustic garb to feed His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed Among this multitude of hills, Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills; Which soon the morning shall enfold, From east to west, in ample vest Of massy gloom and radiance bold. The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed Hung low, begin to rise and spread; Even while I speak, their skirts of grey Are smitten by a silver ray; And lo!—up Castrigg's naked steep (Where, smoothly urged, the vapours sweep Along—and scatter and divide, Like fleecy clouds self-multiplied) The stately waggon is ascending, With faithful Benjamin attending, Apparent now beside his team— Now lost amid a glittering steam: And with him goes his Sailor-friend, By this time near their journey's end; And, after their high-minded riot, Sickening into thoughtful quiet; As if the morning's pleasant hour, Had for their joys a killing power. And, sooth, for Benjamin a vein Is opened of still deeper pain, As if his heart by notes were stung From out the lowly hedge-rows flung; As if the warbler lost in light Reproved his soarings of the night, In strains of rapture pure and holy Upbraided his distempered folly. Drooping is he, his step is dull; But the horses stretch and pull; With increasing vigour climb, Eager to repair lost time; Whether, by their own desert, Knowing what cause there is for shame, They are labouring to avert As much as may be of the blame, Which, they foresee, must soon alight Upon his head, whom, in despite Of all his failings, they love best; Whether for him they are distrest, Or, by length of fasting roused, Are impatient to be housed: Up against the hill they strain Tugging at the iron chain, Tugging all with might and main, Last and foremost, every horse To the utmost of his force! And the smoke and respiration, Rising like an exhalation, Blend with the mist—a moving shroud To form, an undissolving cloud; Which, with slant ray, the merry sun Takes delight to play upon. Never golden-haired Apollo, Pleased some favourite chief to follow Through accidents of peace or war, In a perilous moment threw Around the object of his care Veil of such celestial hue; Interposed so bright a screen— Him and his enemies between! Alas! what boots it?—who can hide, When the malicious Fates are bent On working out an ill intent? Can destiny be turned aside? No—sad progress of my story! Benjamin, this outward glory Cannot shield thee from thy Master, Who from Keswick has pricked forth, Sour and surly as the north; And, in fear of some disaster, Comes to give what help he may, And to hear what thou canst say; If, as needs he must forebode, Thou hast been loitering on the road! His fears, his doubts, may now take flight— The wishcd-for object is in sight; Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath Stirred him up to livelier wrath; Which he stifles, moody man! With all the patience that he can; To the end that, at your meeting, He may give thee decent greeting. There he is—resolved to stop, Till the waggon gains the top; But stop he cannot—must advance: Him Benjamin, with lucky glance, Espies—and instantly is ready, Self-collected, poised, and steady: And, to be the better seen, Issues from his radiant shroud, From his close-attending cloud, With careless air and open mien. Erect his port, and firm his going; So struts yon cock that now is crowing; And the morning light in grace Strikes upon his lifted face, Hurrying the pallid hue away That might his trespasses betray. But what can all avail to clear him, Or what need of explanation, Parley or interrogation? For the Master sees, alas! That unhappy Figure near him, Limping o'er the dewy grass, Where the road it fringes, sweet, Soft and cool to way-worn feet; And, O indignity! an Ass, By his noble Mastiffs side, Tethered to the waggon's tail: And the ship, in all her pride, Following after in full sail! Not to speak of babe and mother; Who, contented with each other, And snug as birds in leafy arbour, Find, within, a blessed harbour! With eager eyes the Master pries; Looks in and out, and through and through; Says nothing—till at last he spies A wound upon the Mastiff's head, A wound, where plainly might be read What feats an Ass's hoof can do! But drop the rest:—this aggravation, This complicated provocation, A hoard of grievances unsealed; All past forgiveness it repealed; And thus, and through distempered blood On both sides, Benjamin the good, The patient, and the tender-hearted, Was from his team and waggon parted; When duty of that day was o'er, Laid down his whip—and served no more.— Nor could the waggon long survive, Which Benjamin had ceased to drive: It lingered on;—guide after guide Ambitiously the office tried; But each unmanageable hill Called for his patience and his skill;— And sure it is, that through this night, And what the morning brought to light, Two losses had we to sustain, We lost both Waggoner and Wain! Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame, The gift of this adventurous song; A record which I dared to frame, Though timid scruples checked me long; They checked me—and I left the theme Untouched;—in spite of many a gleam Of fancy which thereon was shed, Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still Upon the side of a distant hill: But Nature might not be gainsaid; For what I have and what I miss I sing of these;—it makes my bliss! Nor is it I who play the part, But a shy spirit in my heart, That comes and goes—will sometimes leap From hiding-places ten years deep; Or haunts me with familiar face, Returning, like a ghost unlaid, Until the debt I owe be paid. Forgive me, then; for I had been On friendly terms with this Machine: In him, while he was wont to trace Our roads, through many a long year's space, A living almanack had we; We had a speaking diary, That in this uneventful place, Gave to the days a mark and name By which we knew them when they came. —Yes, I, and all about me here, Through all the changes of the year, Had seen him through the mountains go, In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, Majestically huge and slow: Or, with a milder grace adorning The landscape of a summer's morning; While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain The moving image to detain; And mighty Fairfield, with a chime Of echoes, to his march kept time; When little other business stirred, And little other sound was heard; In that delicious hour of balm, Stillness, solitude, and calm, While yet the valley is arrayed, On this side with a sober shade; On that is prodigally bright— Crag, lawn, and wood—with rosy light. —But most of all, thou lordly Wain! I wish to have thee here again, When windows flap and chimney roars, And all is dismal out of doors; And, sitting by my fire, I see Eight sorry carts, no less a train! Unworthy successors of thee, Come straggling through the wind and rain: And oft, as they pass slowly on, Beneath my windows, one by one, See, perched upon the naked height The summit of a cumbrous freight, A single traveller—and there Another; then perhaps a pair— The lame, the sickly, and the old; Men, women, heartless with the cold; And babes in wet and starveling plight; Which once, be weather as it might, Had still a nest within a nest, Thy shelter—and their mother's breast! Then most of all, then far the most, Do I regret what we have lost; Am grieved for that unhappy sin Which robbed us of good Benjamin;— And of his stately Charge, which none Could keep alive when He was gone! Note Contents 1805 Main Contents 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 K L M 590 595 600 605 610 615 620 625 630 635 640 645 650 655 660 665 670 675 680 685 690 695 700 705 710 715 720 725 730 735 740 745 750 755 760 765 770 775 780 785 790 795 800 805 810 815 820 825 830 835 840 845 850 855
Variant 1:
1819
The Night-hawk is singing his frog-like tune, Twirling his watchman's rattle about— 1805. MS.a
The dor-hawk, solitary bird, Round the dim crags on heavy pinions wheeling, Buzzes incessantly, a tiresome tune; That constant voice is all that can be heard 1820
... on heavy pinions wheeling, With untired voice sings an unvaried tune; Those burring notes are all that can be heard 1836
The text of 1845 returns to the first version of 1819. return Variant 2:
1819
Now that the children are abed The little glow-worms nothing dread, Such prize as their bright lamps would be. Sooth they come in company, And shine in quietness secure, On the mossy bank by the cottage door, As safe as on the loneliest moor. In the play, or on the hill, Everything is hushed and still; The clouds show here and there a spot Of a star that twinkles not, The air as in ... From a MS. copy of the poem in Henry Crabb Robinson's Diary, etc. 1812.
Now that the children's busiest schemes Do all lie buried in blank sleep, Or only live in stirring dreams, The glow-worms fearless watch may keep; Rich prize as their bright lamps would be, They shine, a quiet company, On mossy bank by cottage-door, As safe as on the loneliest moor. In hazy straits the clouds between, And in their stations twinkling not, Some thinly-sprinkled stars are seen, Each changed into a pallid spot. 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 3:
1836
The mountains rise to wond'rous height, And in the heavens there is a weight; 1819
And in the heavens there hangs a weight; 1827
In the editions of 1819 to 1832, these two lines follow the line "Like the stifling of disease." return Variant 4:
1819
... faint ... 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 5:
1819
But welcome dews ... 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 6:
1819
... or ... 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 7:
1819
Listen! you can hardly hear! Now he has left the lower ground, And up the hill his course is bending, With many a stop and stay ascending;— 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 8:
1836
And now ... 1819
return Variant 9:
1836
Gathering ... 1819
return Variant 10:
1819
No;—him infirmities beset, But danger is not near him yet; 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 11:
1836
is he secure; 1819
return Variant 12:
1836
full well 1819
return Variant 13:
1836
Uncouth although the object be, An image of perplexity; Yet not the less it is our boast, 1819
return Variant 14:
1827
... I frame ... 1819
return Variant 15:
1836
And never was my heart more light. 1819
return Variant 16:
1836
... will bless ... 1819
return Variant 17:
1836
... delight, ... 1819
return Variant 18:
1836
Good proof of this the Country gain'd, One day, when ye were vex'd and strain'd— Entrusted to another's care, And forc'd unworthy stripes to bear. 1819
return Variant 19:
1836. (Expanding four lines into six.)
Here was it—on this rugged spot Which now contented with our lot We climb—that piteously abused Ye plung'd in anger and confused: 1819
return Variant 20:
1836
... in your ... 1819
return Variant 21:
1836
The ranks were taken with one mind; 1819
return Variant 22:
1819
Our road be, narrow, steep, and rough; 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 23:
1836
large drops upon his head 1819
return Variant 24:
1836
He starts-and, at the admonition, Takes a survey of his condition. 1819
return Variant 25:
1836
A huge and melancholy room, 1819
return Variant 26:
1836
... on high ... 1819
return Variant 27: 1836. The previous four lines were added in the edition of 1820, where they read as follows:
And suddenly a ruffling breeze (That would have sounded through the trees Had aught of sylvan growth been there) Was felt throughout the region bare: 1820
return Variant 28:
1836
By peals of thunder, clap on clap! And many a terror-striking flash;— And somewhere, as it seems, a crash, 1819
return Variant 29:
1820
And rattling ... 1819
return Variant 30:
1836. (Compressing six lines into four.)
The voice, to move commiseration, Prolong'd its earnest supplication— "This storm that beats so furiously— This dreadful place! oh pity me!" While this was said, with sobs between, And many tears, by one unseen; 1819
return Variant 31:
1845
And Benjamin, without further question, Taking her for some way-worn rover, 1819
And, kind to every way-worn rover, Benjamin, without a question, 1836
return Variant 32:
1820
... trouble ... 1819
return Variant 33:
1845
And to a little tent hard by Turns the Sailor instantly; 1819
And to his tent-like domicile, Built in a nook with cautious skill, The Sailor turns, well pleased to spy His shaggy friend who stood hard by Drenched—and, more fast than with a tether, Bound to the nook by that fierce weather, Which caught the vagrants unaware: For, when, ere closing-in ... 1836
return Variant 34:
1836
Had tempted ... 1819
return Variant 35:
1836
Proceeding with an easy mind; While he, who had been left behind, 1819
return Variant 36:
1820
Who neither heard nor saw—no more Than if he had been deaf and blind, Till, startled by the Sailor's roar, 1819
return Variant 37:
1819
That blew us hither! dance, boys, dance! Rare luck for us! my honest soul, I'll treat thee to a friendly bowl!" 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 38:
1836
To seek for thoughts of painful cast, If such be the amends at last. 1819
return Variant 39:
1836
... think ... 1819
return Variant 40:
1819
For soon among ... 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 41:
1819
And happiest far is he, the One No longer with himself at strife, A Cæsar past the Rubicon! The Sailor, Man by nature gay, Found not a scruple in his way; 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 42:
1836
Deems that she is happier, laid Within that warm and peaceful bed; 1819
return Variant 43:
1845
With bowl in hand, (It may not stand) Gladdest of the gladsome band, Amid their own delight and fun, 1819
With bowl that sped from hand to hand, Refreshed, brimful of hearty fun, The gladdest of the gladsome band, 1836
return Variant 44:
1836
They hear—when every fit is o'er— 1819
return Variant 45:
1836
... wondrous ... 1819
return Variant 46:
1836
... these ... 1819
return Variant 47:
1836
... the Mastiff's side, (The Mastiff not well pleased to be So very near such company.) 1819
return Variant 48:
1832
... all together, ... 1819
return Variant 49:
1836
... sails ... 1819
return Variant 50:
1836
On ... 1819
return Variant 51:
1836
He's in the height ... 1819
return Variant 52:
1836
He wheel'd— ... 1819
return Variant 53:
1827
And, rambling on ... 1819
return Variant 54:
1819
Now hidden by the glittering steam: 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 55: 1845. The previous eight lines were added in 1836, when they read thus:
Say more: for by that power a vein Seems opened of brow-saddening pain: As if their hearts by notes were stung From out the lowly hedge-rows flung; As if the warbler lost in light Reproved their soarings of the night; In strains of rapture pure and holy Upbraided their distempered folly. 1836
return Variant 56:
1845
They are drooping, weak, and dull; 1819
Drooping are they, and weak and dull;— 1836
return Variant 57:
1836
Knowing that there's cause ... 1819
Knowing there is cause ... 1827
return Variant 58:
1845
They are labouring to avert At least a portion of the blame 1819
They now are labouring to avert (Kind creatures!) something of the blame, 1836
return Variant 59:
1836
Which full surely will alight Upon his head, whom, in despite Of all his faults, they love the best; 1819
Upon his head, ... 1820
return Variant 60:
1836
Blends ... 1819
return Variant 61:
1845
Never, surely, old Apollo, He, or other God as old, Of whom in story we are told, Who had a favourite to follow Through a battle or elsewhere, Round the object of his care, In a time of peril, threw Veil of such celestial hue; 1819
Never Venus or Apollo, Pleased a favourite chief to follow Through accidents of peace or war, In a time of peril threw, Round the object of his care, Veil of such celestial hue; 1832
Never golden-haired Apollo, Nor blue-eyed Pallas, nor the Idalian Queen, When each was pleased some favourite chief to follow Through accidents of peace or war, In a perilous moment threw Around the object of celestial care A veil so rich to mortal view. 1836
Never Venus or Apollo, Intent some favourite chief to follow Through accidents of peace or war, Round the object of their care In a perilous moment threw A veil of such celestial hue. C.
Round each object of their care C.
return Variant 62:
1819
Fails to shield ... 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 63:
1836
Or ... 1819
return Variant 64:
1819
If, as he cannot but forebode, 1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819. return Variant 65:
1836
Thou hast loitered ... 1819
return Variant 66:
1836
His doubts—his fears ... 1819
return Variant 67:
1827. (Compressing two lines into one.)
Sometimes, as in the present case, Will show a more familiar face; 1819
Or, proud all rivalship to chase, Will haunt me with familiar face; 1820
return Variant 68:
1819
Or, with milder grace ... 1832
The edition of 1845 reverts to the text of 1819. return Variant 69:
1836
... window ... 1819
return Variant 70: "Once" 'italicised' in 1820 only. return
Footnote A: The title page of the edition of 1819 runs as follows:
The Waggoner, A Poem. To which are added, Sonnets. By William Wordsworth.
"What's in a Name?" ... "Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Cæsar!"
London, etc. etc., 1819.
Ed. return to footnote mark Footnote B: See The Seasons (Summer), ll. 977-79.—Ed. return Footnote C: Such is the progress of refinement, this rude piece of self-taught art has been supplanted by a professional production.—W. W. 1819. Mr. William Davies writes to me,
"I spent a week there (the Swan Inn) early in the fifties, and well remember the sign over the door distinguishable from afar: the inn, little more than a cottage (the only one), with clean well-sanded floor, and rush-bottomed chairs: the landlady, good old soul, one day afraid of burdening me with some old coppers, insisted on retaining them till I should return from an uphill walk, when they were duly tendered to me. Here I learnt many particulars of Hartley Coleridge, dead shortly before, who had been a great favourite with the host and hostess. The grave of Wordsworth was at that time barely grassed over."
Ed. return Footnote D: See Wordsworth's note, p. 109.—Ed. return Footnote E: A mountain of Grasmere, the broken summit of which presents two figures, full as distinctly shaped as that of the famous cobler, near Arracher, in Scotland.—W. W. 1819. return Footnote F: A term well known in the North of England, as applied to rural Festivals, where young persons meet in the evening for the purpose of dancing.—W. W. 1819. return Footnote G: At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a particular note from the fiddle summons the Rustic to the agreeable duty of saluting his Partner.— W. W. 1819. return Footnote H: Compare in Tristram Shandy:
"And this, said he, is the town of Namur, and this is the citadel: and there lay the French, and here lay his honour and myself."
Ed. return Footnote J: See Wordsworth's note, p. 109.—Ed. return Footnote K: The crag of the ewe lamb.—W. W. 1820. return Footnote L: Compare Tennyson's "Farewell, we lose ourselves in light."—Ed. return Footnote M: Compare Wordsworth's lines, beginning, "She was a Phantom of delight," p. i, and Hamlet, act II. sc. ii. l. 124.—Ed. return
Footnote a: See Wordsworth's note, p. 109.—Ed. return
Note I: Several years after the event that forms the subject of the foregoing poem, in company with my friend, the late Mr. Coleridge, I happened to fall in with the person to whom the name of Benjamin is given. Upon our expressing regret that we had not, for a long time, seen upon the road either him or his waggon, he said:—"They could not do without me; and as to the man who was put in my place, no good could come out of him; he was a man of no ideas." The fact of my discarded hero's getting the horses out of a great difficulty with a word, as related in the poem, was told me by an eye-witness.
Note II:
'The Dor-hawk, solitary bird.'
When the Poem was first written the note of the bird was thus described:
'The Night-hawk is singing his frog-like tune, Twirling his watchman's rattle about—'
but from unwillingness to startle the reader at the outset by so bold a mode of expression, the passage was altered as it now stands.
Note III: After the line, 'Can any mortal clog come to her', followed in the MS. an incident which has been kept back. Part of the suppressed verses shall here be given as a gratification of private feeling, which the well-disposed reader will find no difficulty in excusing. They are now printed for the first time.
Can any mortal clog come to her? It can: ... ... But Benjamin, in his vexation, Possesses inward consolation; He knows his ground, and hopes to find A spot with all things to his mind, An upright mural block of stone, Moist with pure water trickling down. A slender spring; but kind to man It is, a true Samaritan; Close to the highway, pouring out Its offering from a chink or spout; Whence all, howe'er athirst, or drooping With toil, may drink, and without stooping. Cries Benjamin, "Where is it, where? Voice it hath none, but must be near." —A star, declining towards the west, Upon the watery surface threw Its image tremulously imprest, That just marked out the object and withdrew: Right welcome service! ... ... Rock of Names! Light is the strain, but not unjust To Thee and thy memorial-trust, That once seemed only to express Love that was love in idleness; Tokens, as year hath followed year, How changed, alas, in character! For they were graven on thy smooth breast By hands of those my soul loved best; Meek women, men as true and brave As ever went to a hopeful grave: Their hands and mine, when side by side With kindred zeal and mutual pride, We worked until the Initials took Shapes that defied a scornful look.— Long as for us a genial feeling Survives, or one in need of healing, The power, dear Rock, around thee cast, Thy monumental power, shall last For me and mine! O thought of pain, That would impair it or profane! Take all in kindness then, as said With a staid heart but playful head; And fail not Thou, loved Rock! to keep Thy charge when we are laid asleep.
W. W.
Editor's Note: There is no poem more closely identified with the Grasmere district of the English Lakes—and with the road from Grasmere to Keswick—than The Waggoner is, and in none are the topographical allusions more minute and faithful. Wordsworth seemed at a loss to know in what "class" of his poems to place The Waggoner; and his frequent changes—removing it from one group to another—shew the artificial character of these classes. Thus, in the edition of 1820, it stood first among the "Poems of the Fancy." In 1827 it was the last of the "Poems founded on the Affections." In 1832 it was reinstated among the "Poems of the Fancy." In 1836 it had a place of its own, and was inserted between the "Poems of the Fancy" and those "Founded on the Affections;" while in 1845 it was sent back to its original place among the "Poems of the Fancy;" although in the table of contents it was printed as an independent poem, closing the series. The original text of The Waggoner underwent little change, till the year 1836, when it was carefully revised, and altered throughout. The final edition of 1845, however, reverted, in many instances—especially in the first canto—to the original text of 1819. As this poem was dedicated to Charles Lamb, it may be of interest to note that, some six months afterwards, Lamb presented Wordsworth with a copy of the first edition of 'Paradise Regained' (the edition of 1671), writing on it the following sentence,
"Charles Lamb, to the best knower of Milton, and therefore the worthiest occupant of this pleasant edition.—Jan. 2nd, 1820."
The opening stanzas are unrivalled in their description of a sultry June evening, with a thunder-storm imminent.
' 'Tis spent—this burning day of June! Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing; The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheeling,— That solitary bird Is all that can be heard In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon! ... ... The mountains against heaven's grave weight Rise up, and grow to wondrous height. The air, as in a lion's den, Is close and hot;—and now and then Comes a tired and sultry breeze With a haunting and a panting, Like the stifling of disease; But the dews allay the heat, And the silence makes it sweet.'
The Waggoner takes what is now the middle road, of the three leading from Rydal to Grasmere (see the note to The Primrose of the Rock). The "craggy hill" referred to in the lines
'Now he leaves the lower ground, And up the craggy hill ascending ... Steep the way and wearisome,'
is the road from Rydal Quarry up to White Moss Common, with the Glowworm rock on the right, and the "two heath-clad rocks," referred to in the last of the "Poems on the Naming of Places," on the left. He next passes "The Wishing Gate" on the left, John's Grove on the right, and descends by Dove Cottage—where Wordsworth lived—to Grasmere.
'... at the bottom of the brow, Where once the Dove and Olive-Bough Offered a greeting of good ale To all who entered Grasmere Vale; And called on him who must depart To leave it with a jovial heart; There, where the Dove and Olive-Bough Once hung, a Poet harbours now, A simple water-drinking Bard.'
He goes through Grasmere, passes the Swan Inn, '
He knows it to his cost, good Man! Who does not know the famous Swan? Object uncouth! and yet our boast, For it was painted by the Host; His own conceit the figure planned, 'Twas coloured all by his own hand.'
As early as 1819, when the poem was first published, "this rude piece of self-taught art had been supplanted" by a more pretentious figure. The Waggoner passes the Swan,
'And now the conqueror essays The long ascent of Dunmail-raise.'
As he proceeds, the storm gathers, and "struggles to get free." Road, hill, and sky are dark; and he barely sees the well-known rocks at the summit of Helm-crag, where two figures seem to sit, like those on the Cobbler, near Arrochar, in Argyle.
'Black is the sky—and every hill, Up to the sky, is blacker still— Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room, Hung round and overhung with gloom; Save that above a single height Is to be seen a lurid light, Above Helm-crag—a streak half dead, A burning of portentous red; And near that lurid light, full well The Astrologer, sage Sidrophel, Where at his desk and book he sits, Puzzling aloft his curious wits; He whose domain is held in common With no one but the Ancient Woman, Cowering beside her rifted cell, As if intent on magic spell;— Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather, Still sit upon Helm-crag together!'
At the top of the "raise"—the water-shed between the vales of Grasmere and Wytheburn—he reaches the familiar pile of stones, at the boundary between the shires of Westmoreland and Cumberland.
'... that pile of stones, Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones; ... Green is the grass for beast to graze, Around the stones of Dunmail-raise!'
The allusion to Seat-Sandal laid bare by the flash of lightning, and the description, in the last canto, of the ascent of the Raise by the Waggoner on a summer morning, are as true to the spirit of the place as anything that Wordsworth has written. He tells his friend Lamb, fourteen years after he wrote the poem of The Waggoner,
'Yes, I, and all about me here, Through all the changes of the year, Had seen him through the mountains go, In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, Majestically huge and slow: Or, with a milder grace adorning The landscape of a summer's morning; While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain The moving image to detain; And mighty Fairfield, with a chime Of echoes, to his march kept time; When little other business stirred, And little other sound was heard; In that delicious hour of balm, Stillness, solitude, and calm, While yet the valley is arrayed, On this side with a sober shade; On that is prodigally bright— Crag, lawn, and wood—with rosy light.'
From Dunmail-raise the Waggoner descends to Wytheburn. Externally,
'... Wytheburn's modest House of prayer, As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,'
remains very much as it was in 1805; but the primitive simplicity and "lowliness" of the chapel was changed by the addition a few years ago of an apse, by the removal of some of the old rafters, and by the reseating of the pews. The Cherry Tree Tavern, where "the village Merry-night" was being celebrated, still stands on the eastern or Helvellyn side of the road. It is now a farm-house; but it will be regarded with interest from the description of the rustic dance, which recalls ('longo intervallo') 'The Jolly Beggars' of Burns. After two hours' delay at the Cherry Tree, the Waggoner and Sailor "coast the silent lake" of Thirlmere, and pass the Rock of Names. This rock was, until lately, one of the most interesting memorials of Wordsworth and his friends that survived in the Lake District; but the vale of Thirlmere is now a Manchester water-tank, and the place which knew the Rock of Names now knows it no more. It was a sort of trysting place of the poets of Grasmere and Keswick—being nearly half-way between the two places—and there, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and other members of their households often met. When Coleridge left Grasmere for Keswick, the Wordsworths usually accompanied him as far as this rock; and they often met him there on his way over from Keswick to Grasmere. Compare the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge's Reminiscences. (Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. ii. p. 310.) The rock was on the right hand of the road, a little way past Waterhead, at the southern end of Thirlmere; and on it were cut the letters,
W. W. M. H. D. W. S. T. C. J. W. S. H.
the initials of William Wordsworth, Mary Hutchinson, Dorothy Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, John Wordsworth, and Sarah Hutchinson. The Wordsworths settled at Grasmere at the close of the year 1799. As mentioned in a previous note, John Wordsworth lived with his brother and sister during most of that winter, and during the whole of the spring, summer, and autumn of 1800, leaving it finally on September 29, 1800. These names must therefore have been cut during the spring or summer of 1800. There is no record of the occurrence, and no allusion to the rock, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal of 1800. But that Journal, so far as I have seen it, begins on the 14th of May 1800. Almost every detail of the daily life and ways of the household at Dove Cottage is so minutely recorded in it, that I am convinced that this incident of the cutting of names in the Thirlmere Rock would have been mentioned, had it happened between the 14th of May and John Wordsworth's departure from Grasmere in September. Such references as this, for example, occur in the Journal:
"Saturday, August 2.—William and Coleridge went to Keswick. John went with them to Wytheburn, and staid all day fishing."
I therefore infer that it was in the spring or early summer of 1800 that the names were cut. I may add that the late Dean of Westminster—Dean Stanley—took much interest in this Rock of Names; and doubt having been cast on the accuracy of the place and the genuineness of the inscriptions, in a letter from Dr. Fraser, then Bishop of Manchester, which he forwarded to me, he entered into the question with all the interest with which he was wont to track out details in the architecture or the history of a Church. There were few memorials connected with Wordsworth more worthy of preservation than this "upright mural block of stone." When one remembered that the initials on the rock were graven by the hands of William and John Wordsworth, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, possibly with the assistance of Dorothy Wordsworth, the two Hutchinsons (Mary and Sarah), and that Wordsworth says of it,
'We worked until the Initials took Shapes that defied a scornful look,'
this Thirlmere Rock was felt to be a far more interesting memento of the group of poets that used to meet beside it, than the Stone in the grounds of Rydal Mount, which was spared at Wordsworth's suit, "from some rude beauty of its own." There was simplicity, as well as strength, in the way in which the initials were cut. But the stone was afterwards desecrated by tourists, and others, who had the audacity to scratch their own names or initials upon it. In 1877 I wrote, "The rock is as yet wonderfully free from such; and its preservation is probably due to the dark olive-coloured moss, with which the 'pure water trickling down' has covered the face of the 'mural block,' and thus secured it from observation, even on that highway;" but I found in the summer of 1882 that several other names had been ruthlessly added. When the Manchester Thirlmere scheme was finally resolved upon, an effort was made to remove the Stone, with the view of its being placed higher up the hill on the side of the new roadway. In the course of this attempt, the Stone was broken to pieces. There is a very good drawing of "The Rock of Names" by Mr. Harry Goodwin, in Through the Wordsworth Country, 1892. "The Muse" takes farewell of the Waggoner as he is proceeding with the Sailor and his quaint model of the Vanguard along the road toward Keswick. She "scents the morning air," and
'Quits the slow-paced waggon's side, To wander down yon hawthorn dell, With murmuring Greta for her guide.'
The "hawthorn dell" is the upper part of the Vale of St. John.
'—There doth she ken the awful form Of Raven-crag—black as a storm— Glimmering through the twilight pale; And Ghimmer-crag, his tall twin brother, Each peering forth to meet the other.'
Raven-crag is well known,—H.C. Robinson writes of it in his Diary in 1818, as "the most significant of the crags at a spot where there is not one insignificant,"—a rock on the western side of Thirlmere, where the Greta issues from the lake. But there is no rock in the district now called by the name of Ghimmer-crag, or the crag of the Ewe-lamb. I am inclined to think that Wordsworth referred to the "Fisher-crag" of the Ordnance Survey and the Guide Books. No other rock round Thirlmere can with any accuracy be called the "tall twin brother" of Raven-crag: certainly not Great How, nor any spur of High Seat or Bleaberry Fell. Fisher-crag resembles Raven-crag, as seen from Thirlmere Bridge, or from the high road above it; and it is somewhat remarkable that Green—in his Guide to the Lakes (a volume which the poet possessed)—makes use of the same expression as that which Wordsworth adopts regarding these two crags, Raven and Fisher.
"The margin of the lake on the Dalehead side has its charms of wood and water; and Fischer Crag, twin brother to Raven Crag, is no bad object, when taken near the island called Buck's Holm"
(A Description of Sixty Studies from Nature, by William Green of Ambleside, 1810, p. 57). I cannot find any topographical allusion to a Ghimmer-crag in contemporary local writers. Clarke, in his Survey of the Lakes, does not mention it. The Castle Rock, in the Vale of Legberthwaite, between High Fell and Great How, is the fairy castle of Sir Walter Scott's 'Bridal of Triermain'. "Nathdale Fell" is the ridge between Naddle Vale (Nathdale Vale) and that of St. John, now known as High Rigg. The old Hall of Threlkeld has long been in a state of ruinous dilapidation, the only habitable part of it having been for many years converted into a farmhouse. The remaining local allusions in The Waggoner are obvious enough: Castrigg is the shortened form of Castlerigg, the ridge between Naddle Valley and Keswick. In the "Reminiscences" of Wordsworth, which the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge wrote for the late Bishop of Lincoln, in 1850, there is the following reference to The Waggoner. (See Memoirs, vol. ii. p. 310.)
"The Waggoner seems a very favourite poem of his. He said his object in it had not been understood. It was a play of the fancy on a domestic incident, and lowly character. He wished by the opening descriptive lines to put his reader into the state of mind in which he wished it to be read. If he failed in doing that, he wished him to lay it down. He pointed out with the same view, the glowing lines on the state of exultation in which Ben and his companions are under the influence of liquor. Then he read the sickening languor of the morning walk, contrasted with the glorious uprising of Nature, and the songs of the birds. Here he has added about six most exquisite lines."
The lines referred to are doubtless the eight (p. 101), beginning
'Say more; for by that power a vein,'
which were added in the edition of 1836. The following is Sara Coleridge's criticism of The Waggoner. (See Biographia Literaria, vol. ii. pp. 183, 184, edition 1847.)
"Due honour is done to 'Peter Bell', at this time, by students of poetry in general; but some, even of Mr. Wordsworth's greatest admirers, do not quite satisfy me in their admiration of 'The Waggoner', a poem which my dear uncle, Mr. Southey, preferred even to the former. 'Ich will meine Denkungs Art hierin niemandem aufdringen', as Lessing says: I will force my way of thinking on nobody, but take the liberty, for my own gratification, to express it. The sketches of hill and valley in this poem have a lightness, and spirit—an Allegro touch—distinguishing them from the grave and elevated splendour which characterises Mr. Wordsworth's representations of Nature in general, and from the passive tenderness of those in 'The White Doe', while it harmonises well with the human interest of the piece; indeed it is the harmonious sweetness of the composition which is most dwelt upon by its special admirers. In its course it describes, with bold brief touches, the striking mountain tract from Grasmere to Keswick; it commences with an evening storm among the mountains, presents a lively interior of a country inn during midnight, and concludes after bringing us in sight of St. John's Vale and the Vale of Keswick seen by day-break—'Skiddaw touched with rosy light,' and the prospect from Nathdale Fell 'hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn:' thus giving a beautiful and well-contrasted Panorama, produced by the most delicate and masterly strokes of the pencil. Well may Mr. Ruskin, a fine observer and eloquent describer of various classes of natural appearances, speak of Mr. Wordsworth as the great poetic landscape painter of the age. But Mr. Ruskin has found how seldom the great landscape painters are powerful in expressing human passions and affections on canvas, or even successful in the introduction of human figures into their foregrounds; whereas in the poetic paintings of Mr. Wordsworth the landscape is always subordinate to a higher interest; certainly, in 'The Waggoner', the little sketch of human nature which occupies, as it were, the front of that encircling background, the picture of Benjamin and his temptations, his humble friends and the mute companions of his way, has a character of its own, combining with sportiveness a homely pathos, which must ever be delightful to some of those who are thoroughly conversant with the spirit of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry. It may be compared with the ale-house scene in 'Tam o'Shanter', parts of Voss's Luise, or Ovid's Baucis and Philemon; though it differs from each of them as much as they differ from each other. The Epilogue carries on the feeling of the piece very beautifully."
The editor of Southey's Life and Correspondence—his son, the Rev. Charles Cuthbert Southey—tells us, in a note to a letter from S.T. Coleridge to his father, that the Waggoner's name was Jackson; and that "all the circumstances of the poem are accurately correct." This Jackson, after retiring from active work as waggoner, became the tenant of Greta Hall, where first Coleridge, and afterwards Southey lived. The Hall was divided into two houses, one of which Jackson occupied, and the other of which he let to Coleridge, who speaks thus of him in the letter to Southey, dated Greta Hall, Keswick, April 13, 1801:
"My landlord, who dwells next door, has a very respectable library, which he has put with mine; histories, encyclopedias, and all the modern poetry, etc. etc. etc. A more truly disinterested man I never met with; severely frugal, yet almost carelessly generous; and yet he got all his money as a common carrier, by hard labour, and by pennies and pennies. He is one instance among many in this country of the salutary effect of the love of knowledge—he was from a boy a lover of learning."
(See 'Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, vol. ii. pp. 147, 148.) Charles Lamb—to whom The Waggoner was dedicated—wrote thus to Wordsworth on 7th June 1819:
"My dear Wordsworth,—You cannot imagine how proud we are here of the dedication. We read it twice for once that we do the poem. I mean all through; yet Benjamin is no common favourite; there is a spirit of beautiful tolerance in it. It is as good as it was in 1806; and it will be as good in 1829, if our dim eyes shall be awake to peruse it. Methinks there is a kind of shadowing affinity between the subject of the narrative and the subject of the dedication. ... "I do not know which I like best,—the prologue (the latter part especially) to P. Bell, or the epilogue to Benjamin. Yes, I tell stories; I do know I like the last best; and the Waggoner altogether is a pleasanter remembrance to me than the Itinerant. ... "C. Lamb."
(See The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. pp. 24-26.) To this may be added what Southey wrote to Mr. Wade Browne on 15th June 1819:
"I think you will be pleased with Wordsworth's Waggoner, if it were only for the line of road which it describes. The master of the waggon was my poor landlord Jackson, and the cause of his exchanging it for the one-horse cart was just as is represented in the poem; nobody but Benjamin could manage it upon these hills, and Benjamin could not resist the temptations by the wayside."
(See The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, vol. iv. p. 318.)—Ed.