The Excursion Read Online

Homely was the spot;

And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door,

Had almost a forbidding nakedness;

Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair,

Than it appeared when from the beetling rock

We had looked down upon it. All within,

As left by the departed company,

Was silent; save the solitary clock

That on mine ear ticked with a mournful sound. –

Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage-stairs

And reached a small apartment dark and low,

Which was no sooner entered than our Host

Said gaily, »This is my domain, my cell,

My hermitage, my cabin, what you will –

I love it better than a snail his house.

But now ye shall be feasted with our best.«

So, with more ardour than an unripe girl

Left one day mistress of her mother's stores,

He went about his hospitable task.

My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less,

And pleased I looked upon my grey-haired Friend,

As if to thank him; he returned that look,

Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck

Had we about us! scattered was the floor,

And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf,

With books, maps, fossils, withered plants and flowers,

And tufts of mountain moss. Mechanic tools

Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, some

Scribbled with verse: a broken angling-rod

And shattered telescope, together linked

By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook;

And instruments of music, some half-made,

Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls.

But speedily the promise was fulfilled;

A feast before us, and a courteous Host

Inviting us in glee to sit and eat.

A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook

By which it had been bleached, o'erspread the board;

And was itself half-covered with a store

Of dainties, – oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream;

And cakes of butter curiously embossed,

Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers

A golden hue, delicate as their own

Faintly reflected in a lingering stream.

Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm day,

Our table, small parade of garden fruits,

And whortle-berries from the mountain side.

The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs,

Was now a help to his late comforter,

And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid,

Ministering to our need.

In genial mood,

While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate

Fronting the window of that little cell,

I could not, ever and anon, forbear

To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks,

That from some other vale peered into this.

»Those lusty twins,« exclaimed our host, »if here

It were your lot to dwell, would soon become

Your prized companions. – Many are the notes

Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth

From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores;

And well those lofty brethren bear their part

In the wild concert – chiefly when the storm

Rides high; then all the upper air they fill

With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow,

Like smoke, along the level of the blast,

In mighty current; theirs, too, is the song

Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails;

And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon,

Methinks that I have heard them echo back

The thunder's greeting. Nor have nature's laws

Left them ungifted with a power to yield

Music of finer tone; a harmony,

So do I call it, though it be the hand

Of silence, though there be no voice; – the clouds,

The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns,

Motions of moonlight, all come thither – touch,

And have an answer – thither come, and shape

A language not unwelcome to sick hearts

And idle spirits: – there the sun himself,

At the calm close of summer's longest day,

Rests his substantial orb; – between those heights

And on the top of either pinnacle,

More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault,

Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud.

Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man

Than the mute agents stirring there: – alone

Here do I sit and watch. –«

A fall of voice,

Regretted like the nightingale's last note,

Had scarcely closed this high-wrought strain of rapture

Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said:

»Now for the tale with which you threatened us!«

»In truth the threat escaped me unawares:

Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand

For my excuse. Dissevered from mankind,

As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seemed

When ye looked down upon us from the crag,

Islanders mid a stormy mountain sea,

We are not so; – perpetually we touch

Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world;

And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day

Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread

Upon the laws of public charity.

The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains

As might from that occasion be distilled,

Opened, as she before had done for me,

Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner;

The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare

Which appetite required – a blind dull nook,

Such as she had, the kennel of his rest!

This, in itself not ill, would yet have been

Ill borne in earlier life; but his was now

The still contentedness of seventy years.

Calm did he sit under the wide-spread tree

Of his old age; and yet less calm and meek,

Winningly meek or venerably calm,

Than slow and torpid; paying in this wise

A penalty, if penalty it were,

For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime.

I loved the old Man, for I pitied him!

A task it was, I own, to hold discourse

With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts,

But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes;

Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way,

And helpful to his utmost power: and there

Our housewife knew full well what she possessed!

He was her vassal of all labour, tilled

Her garden, from the pasture fetched her kine;

And, one among the orderly array

Of hay-makers, beneath the burning sun

Maintained his place; or heedfully pursued

His course, on errands bound, to other vales,

Leading sometimes an inexperienced child

Too young for any profitable task.

So moved he like a shadow that performed

Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn

For what reward! – The moon her monthly round

Hath not completed since our dame, the queen

Of this one cottage and this lonely dale,

Into my little sanctuary rushed –

Voice to a rueful treble humanised,

And features in deplorable dismay.

I treat the matter lightly, but, alas!

It is most serious: persevering rain

Had fallen in torrents; all the mountain-tops

Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides;

This had I seen, and saw; but, till she spake,

Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend –

Who at her bidding early and alone,

Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf

For winter fuel – to his noontide meal

Returned not, and now, haply, on the heights

Lay at the mercy of this raging storm.

›Inhuman!‹ – said I, ›was an old Man's life

Not worth the trouble of a thought? – alas!

This notice comes too late.‹ With joy I saw

Her husband enter – from a distant vale.

We sallied forth together; found the tools

Which the neglected veteran had dropped,

But through all quarters looked for him in vain.

We shouted – but no answer! Darkness fell

Without remission of the blast or shower,

And fears for our own safety drove us home.

I, who weep little, did, I will confess,

The moment I was seated here alone,

Honour my little cell with some few tears

Which anger and resentment could not dry.

All night the storm endured: and, soon as help

Had been collected from the neighbouring vale,

With morning we renewed our quest: the wind

Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills

Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist;

And long and hopelessly we sought in vain:

Till, chancing on that lofty ridge to pass

A heap of ruin – almost without walls

And wholly without roof (the bleached remains

Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time,

The peasants of these lonely valleys used

To meet for worship on that central height) –

We there espied the object of our search,

Lying full three parts buried among tufts

Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn,

To baffle, as he might, the watery storm:

And there we found him breathing peaceably,

Snug as a child that hides itself in sport

'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field.

We spake – he made reply, but would not stir

At our entreaty; less from want of power

Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts.

So was he lifted gently from the ground,

And with their freight homeward the shepherds moved

Through the dull mist, I following – when a step,

A single step, that freed me from the skirts

Of the blind vapour, opened to my view

Glory beyond all glory ever seen

By waking sense or by the dreaming soul!

The appearance, instantaneously disclosed,

Was of a mighty city – boldly say

A wilderness of building, sinking far

And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth,

Far sinking into splendour – without end!

Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold,

With alabaster domes, and silver spires,

And blazing terrace upon terrace, high

Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright,

In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt

With battlements that on their restless fronts

Bore stars-illumination of all gems!

By earthly nature had the effect been wrought

Upon the dark materials of the storm

Now pacified; on them, and on the coves

And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto

The vapours had receded, taking there

Their station under a cerulean sky.

Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight!

Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf,

Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky,

Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed,

Molten together, and composing thus,

Each lost in each, that marvellous array

Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge

Fantastic pomp of structure without name,

In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped.

Right in the midst, where interspace appeared

Of open court, an object like a throne

Under a shining canopy of state

Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen

To implements of ordinary use,

But vast in size, in substance glorified;

Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld

In vision – forms uncouth of mightiest power

For admiration and mysterious awe.

This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man,

Lay low beneath my feet; 'twas visible –

I saw not, but I felt that it was there.

That which I saw was the revealed abode

Of Spirits in beatitude: my heart

Swelled in my breast. – ›I have been dead,‹ I cried,

›And now I live! Oh! wherefore do I live?‹

And with that pang I prayed to be no more! –

– But I forget our Charge, as utterly

I then forgot him: – there I stood and gazed:

The apparition faded not away,

And I descended.

Having reached the house,

I found its rescued inmate safely lodged,

And in serene possession of himself,

Beside a fire whose genial warmth seemed met

By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam

Of comfort, spread over his pallid face.

Great show of joy the housewife made, and truly

Was glad to find her conscience set at ease;

And not less glad, for sake of her good name,

That the poor Sufferer had escaped with life.

But, though he seemed at first to have received

No harm, and uncomplaining as before

Went through his usual tasks, a silent change

Soon showed itself: he lingered three short weeks;

And from the cottage hath been borne to-day.

So ends my dolorous tale, and glad I am

That it is ended.« At these words he turned –

And, with blithe air of open fellowship,

Brought from the cupboard wine and stouter cheer,

Like one who would be merry. Seeing this,

My grey-haired Friend said courteously – »Nay, nay,

You have regaled us as a hermit ought;

Now let us forth into the sun!« – Our Host

Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we went.

Book Third

Despondency

Argument

Images in the Valley. – Another Recess in it entered and described. – Wanderer's sensations. – Solitary's excited by the same objects. – Contrast between these. – Despondency of the Solitary gently reproved. – Conversation exhibiting the Solitary's past and present opinions and feelings, till he enters upon his own History at length. – His domestic felicity. – Afflictions. – Dejection. – Roused by the French Revolution. – Disappointment and disgust. – Voyage to America. – Disappointment and disgust pursue him. – His return. – His languor and depression of mind, from want of faith in the great truths of Religion, and want of confidence in the virtue of Mankind.

A humming bee – a little tinkling rill –

A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing,

In clamorous agitation, round the crest

Of a tall rock, their airy citadel –

By each and all of these the pensive ear

Was greeted, in the silence that ensued,

When through the cottage-threshold we had passed,

And, deep within that lonesome valley, stood

Once more beneath the concave of a blue

And cloudless sky. – Anon exclaimed our Host,

Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt

The shade of discontent which on his brow

Had gathered, – »Ye have left my cell, – but see

How Nature hems you in with friendly arms!

And by her help ye are my prisoners still.

But which way shall I lead you? – how contrive,

In spot so parsimoniously endowed,

That the brief hours, which yet remain, may reap

Some recompense of knowledge or delight?«

So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed;

And, to remove those doubts, my grey-haired Friend

Said – »Shall we take this pathway for our guide? –

Upward it winds, as if, in summer heats,

Its line had first been fashioned by the flock

Seeking a place of refuge at the root

Of yon black Yew-tree, whose protruded boughs

Darken the silver bosom of the crag,

From which she draws her meagre sustenance.

There in commodious shelter may we rest.

Or let us trace this streamlet to its source;

Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound,

And a few steps may bring us to the spot

Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green herbs,

The mountain infant to the sun comes forth,

Like human life from darkness.« – A quick turn

Through a strait passage of encumbered ground,

Proved that such hope was vain: – for now we stood

Shut out from prospect of the open vale,

And saw the water, that composed this rill,

Descending, disembodied, and diffused

O'er the smooth surface of an ample crag,

Lofty, and steep, and naked as a tower.

All further progress here was barred; – And who,

Thought I, if master of a vacant hour,

Here would not linger, willingly detained?

Whether to such wild objects he were led

When copious rains have magnified the stream

Into a loud and white-robed waterfall,

Or introduced at this more quiet time.

Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground,

The hidden nook discovered to our view

A mass of rock, resembling, as it lay

Right at the foot of that moist precipice,

A stranded ship, with keel upturned, that rests

Fearless of winds and waves.