THE EXCURSION
BOOK EIGHTH
THE EXCURSION
THE pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale To those acknowledgments subscribed his own, With a sedate compliance, which the Priest Failed not to notice, inly pleased, and said:– “If ye, by whom invited I began These narratives of calm and humble life, Be satisfied, ’tis well,–the end is gained; And, in return for sympathy bestowed And patient listening, thanks accept from me. –Life, death, eternity! momentous themes 10 Are they–and might demand a seraph’s tongue, Were they not equal to their own support; And therefore no incompetence of mine Could do them wrong. The universal forms Of human nature, in a spot like this, Present themselves at once to all men’s view: Ye wished for act and circumstance, that make The individual known and understood; And such as my best judgment could select From what the place afforded, have been given; 20 Though apprehensions crossed me that my zeal To his might well be likened, who unlocks A cabinet stored with gems and pictures–draws His treasures forth, soliciting regard To this, and this, as worthier than the last, Till the spectator, who awhile was pleased More than the exhibitor himself, becomes Weary and faint, and longs to be released. –But let us hence! my dwelling is in sight, And there–” At this the Solitary shrunk 30 With backward will; but, wanting not address That inward motion to disguise, he said To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake; –“The peaceable remains of this good Knight Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful scorn, If consciousness could reach him where he lies That one, albeit of these degenerate times, Deploring changes past, or dreading change Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought, The fine vocation of the sword and lance 40 With the gross aims and body-bending toil Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth Pitied, and, where they are not known, despised. Yet, by the good Knight’s leave, the two estates Are graced with some resemblance. Errant those, Exiles and wanderers–and the like are these; Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale, Carrying relief for nature’s simple wants. –What though no higher recompense be sought Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil 50 Full oft procured, yet may they claim respect, Among the intelligent, for what this course Enables them to be and to perform. Their tardy steps give leisure to observe, While solitude permits the mind to feel; Instructs, and prompts her to supply defects By the division of her inward self For grateful converse: and to these poor men Nature (I but repeat your favourite boast) Is bountiful–go wheresoe’er they may; 60 Kind nature’s various wealth is all their own. Versed in the characters of men; and bound, By ties of daily interest, to maintain Conciliatory manners and smooth speech; Such have been, and still are in their degree, Examples efficacious to refine Rude intercourse; apt agents to expel, By importation of unlooked-for arts, Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice; Raising, through just gradation, savage life 70 To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. –Within their moving magazines is lodged Power that comes forth to quicken and exalt Affections seated in the mother’s breast, And in the lover’s fancy; and to feed The sober sympathies of long-tried friends. –By these Itinerants, as experienced men, Counsel is given; contention they appease With gentle language, in remotest wilds, Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring; 80 Could the proud quest of chivalry do more?” “Happy,” rejoined the Wanderer, “they who gain A panegyric from your generous tongue! But, if to these Wayfarers once pertained Aught of romantic interest, it is gone. Their purer service, in this realm at least, Is past for ever.–An inventive Age Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet To most strange issues. I have lived to mark A new and unforeseen creation rise 90 From out the labours of a peaceful Land Wielding her potent enginery to frame And to produce, with appetite as keen As that of war, which rests not night or day, Industrious to destroy! With fruitless pains Might one like me ‘now’ visit many a tract Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again, A lone pedestrian with a scanty freight, Wished-for, or welcome, wheresoe’er he came– Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill; 100 Or straggling burgh, of ancient charter proud, And dignified by battlements and towers Of some stern castle, mouldering on the brow Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream. The foot-path faintly marked, the horse-track wild, And formidable length of plashy lane, (Prized avenues ere others had been shaped Or easier links connecting place with place) Have vanished–swallowed up by stately roads Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom 110 Of Britain’s farthest glens. The Earth has lent Her waters, Air her breezes; and the sail Of traffic glides with ceaseless intercourse, Glistening along the low and woody dale; Or, in its progress, on the lofty side, Of some bare hill, with wonder kenned from far. Meanwhile, at social Industry’s command, How quick, how vast an increase! From the germ Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced Here a huge town, continuous and compact, 120 Hiding the face of earth for leagues–and there, Where not a habitation stood before, Abodes of men irregularly massed Like trees in forests,–spread through spacious tracts, O’er which the smoke of unremitting fires Hangs permanent, and plentiful as wreaths Of vapour glittering in the morning sun. And, wheresoe’er the traveller turns his steps, He sees the barren wilderness erased, Or disappearing; triumph that proclaims 130 How much the mild Directress of the plough Owes to alliance with these new-born arts! –Hence is the wide sea peopled,–hence the shores Of Britain are resorted to by ships Freighted from every climate of the world With the world’s choicest produce. Hence that sum Of keels that rest within her crowded ports, Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays; That animating spectacle of sails That, through her inland regions, to and fro 140 Pass with the respirations of the tide, Perpetual, multitudinous! Finally, Hence a dread arm of floating power, a voice Of thunder daunting those who would approach With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, Truth’s consecrated residence, the seat Impregnable of Liberty and Peace. And yet, O happy Pastor of a flock Faithfully watched, and, by that loving care And Heaven’s good providence, preserved from taint! 150 With you I grieve, when on the darker side Of this great change I look; and there behold Such outrage done to nature as compels The indignant power to justify herself; Yea, to avenge her violated rights, For England’s bane.–When soothing darkness spreads O’er hill and vale,” the Wanderer thus expressed His recollections, “and the punctual stars, While all things else are gathering to their homes, Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 160 Glitter–but undisturbing, undisturbed; As if their silent company were charged With peaceful admonitions for the heart Of all-beholding Man, earth’s thoughtful lord; Then, in full many a region, once like this The assured domain of calm simplicity And pensive quiet, an unnatural light Prepared for never-resting Labour’s eyes Breaks from a many-windowed fabric huge; And at the appointed hour a bell is heard– 170 Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll That spake the Norman Conqueror’s stern behest– A local summons to unceasing toil! Disgorged are now the ministers of day; And, as they issue from the illumined pile, A fresh band meets them, at the crowded door– And in the courts–and where the rumbling stream, That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, youths, 180 Mother and little children, boys and girls, Enter, and each the wonted task resumes Within this temple, where is offered up To Gain, the master idol of the realm, Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old Our ancestors, within the still domain Of vast cathedral or conventual church, Their vigils kept; where tapers day and might On the dim altar burned continually, In token that the House was evermore 190 Watching to God. Religious men were they; Nor would their reason, tutored to aspire Above this transitory world, allow That there should pass a moment of the year, When in their land the Almighty’s service ceased. Triumph who will in these profaner rites Which we, a generation self-extolled, As zealously perform! I cannot share His proud complacency:–yet do I exult, Casting reserve away, exult to see 200 An intellectual mastery exercised O’er the blind elements; a purpose given, A perseverance fed; almost a soul Imparted–to brute matter. I rejoice, Measuring the force of those gigantic powers That, by the thinking mind, have been compelled To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man. For with the sense of admiration blends The animating hope that time may come When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by the might 210 Of this dominion over nature gained, Men of all lands shall exercise the same In due proportion to their country’s need; Learning, though late, that all true glory rests, All praise, all safety, and all happiness, Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes, Tyre, by the margin of the sounding waves, Palmyra, central in the desert, fell; And the Arts died by which they had been raised. –Call Archimedes from his buried tomb 220 Upon the grave of vanished Syracuse, And feelingly the Sage shall make report How insecure, how baseless in itself, Is the Philosophy whose sway depends On mere material instruments;–how weak Those arts, and high inventions, if unpropped By virtue.–He, sighing with pensive grief, Amid his calm abstractions, would admit That not the slender privilege is theirs To save themselves from blank forgetfulness!” 230 When from the Wanderer’s lips these words had fallen, I said, “And, did in truth those vaunted Arts Possess such privilege, how could we escape Sadness and keen regret, we who revere, And would preserve as things above all price, The old domestic morals of the land, Her simple manners, and the stable worth That dignified and cheered a low estate? Oh! where is now the character of peace, Sobriety, and order, and chaste love, 240 And honest dealing, and untainted speech, And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer; That made the very thought of country-life A thought of refuge, for a mind detained Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd? Where now the beauty of the sabbath kept With conscientious reverence, as a day By the almighty Lawgiver pronounced Holy and blest? and where the winning grace Of all the lighter ornaments attached 250 To time and season, as the year rolled round?” “Fled!” was the Wanderer’s passionate response, “Fled utterly! or only to be traced In a few fortunate retreats like this; Which I behold with trembling, when I think What lamentable change, a year–a month– May bring; that brook converting as it runs Into an instrument of deadly bane For those, who, yet untempted to forsake The simple occupations of their sires, 260 Drink the pure water of its innocent stream With lip almost as pure.–Domestic bliss (Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) How art thou blighted for the poor Man’s heart! Lo! in such neighbourhood, from morn to eve, The habitations empty! or perchance The Mother left alone,–no helping hand To rock the cradle of her peevish babe; No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, Or in dispatch of each day’s little growth 270 Of household occupation; no nice arts Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire, Where once the dinner was prepared with pride; Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind; Nothing to praise to teach, or to command! The Father, if perchance he still retain His old employments, goes to field or wood, No longer led or followed by the Sons; Idlers perchance they were,–but in ‘his’ sight; Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth: 280 ‘Till their short holiday of childhood ceased, Ne’er to return! That birthright now is lost. Economists will tell you that the State Thrives by the forfeiture–unfeeling thought, And false as monstrous! Can the mother thrive By the destruction of her innocent sons In whom a premature necessity Blocks out the forms of nature, preconsumes The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up The infant Being in itself, and makes 290 Its very spring a season of decay! The lot is wretched, the condition sad, Whether a pining discontent survive, And thirst for change; or habit hath subdued The soul deprest, dejected–even to love Of her close tasks, and long captivity. Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns A native Briton to these inward chains, Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep; Without his own consent, or knowledge, fixed! 300 He is a slave to whom release comes not, And cannot come. The boy, where’er he turns, Is still a prisoner; when the wind is up Among the clouds, and roars through the ancient woods; Or when the sun is shining in the east, Quiet and calm. Behold him–in the school Of his attainments? no; but with the air Fanning his temples under heaven’s blue arch. His raiment, whitened o’er with cotton-flakes Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes. 310 Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip pale, His respiration quick and audible; And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam Could break from out those languid eyes, or a blush Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form, Is that the countenance, and such the port, Of no mean Being? One who should be clothed With dignity befitting his proud hope; Who, in his very childhood, should appear Sublime from present purity and joy! 320 The limbs increase; but liberty of mind Is gone for ever; and this organic frame, So joyful in its motions, is become Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead; And even the touch, so exquisitely poured Through the whole body, with a languid will Performs its functions; rarely competent To impress a vivid feeling on the mind Of what there is delightful in the breeze, The gentle visitations of the sun, 330 Or lapse of liquid element–by hand, Or foot, or lip, in summer’s warmth–perceived. –Can hope look forward to a manhood raised On such foundations?” “Hope is none for him!” The pale Recluse indignantly exclaimed, “And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep. Yet be it asked, in justice to our age, If there were not, before those arts appeared, These structures rose, commingling old and young, And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint; 340 If there were not, ‘then’, in our far-famed Isle, Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large; Yet walked beneath the sun, in human shape, As abject, as degraded? At this day, Who shall enumerate the crazy huts And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth A ragged Offspring, with their upright hair Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear; Or wearing, (shall we say?) in that white growth 350 An ill-adjusted turban, for defence Or fierceness, wreathed around their sunburnt brows, By savage Nature? Shrivelled are their lips, Naked, and coloured like the soil, the feet On which they stand; as if thereby they drew Some nourishment, as trees do by their roots, From earth, the common mother of us all. Figure and mien, complexion and attire, Are leagued to strike dismay; but outstretched hand And whining voice denote them supplicants 360 For the least boon that pity can bestow. Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found; And with their parents occupy the skirts Of furze-clad commons; such are born and reared At the mine’s mouth under impending rocks; Or dwell in chambers of some natural cave; Or where their ancestors erected huts, For the convenience of unlawful gain, In forest purlieus; and the like are bred, All England through, where nooks and slips of ground 370 Purloined, in times less jealous than our own, From the green margin of the public way, A residence afford them, ‘mid the bloom And gaiety of cultivated fields. Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale) Do I remember oft-times to have seen ‘Mid Buxton’s dreary heights. In earnest watch, Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand; Then, following closely with the cloud of dust, An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone 380 Heels over head, like tumblers on a stage. –Up from the ground they snatch the copper coin, And, on the freight of merry passengers Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed; And spin–and pant–and overhead again, Wild pursuivants! until their breath is lost, Or bounty tires–and every face, that smiled Encouragement, hath ceased to look that way. –But, like the vagrants of the gipsy tribe, These, bred to little pleasure in themselves, 390 Are profitless to others. Turn we then To Britons born and bred within the pale Of civil polity, and early trained To earn, by wholesome labour in the field, The bread they eat. A sample should I give Of what this stock hath long produced to enrich The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, ‘Is this the whistling plough-boy whose shrill notes Impart new gladness to the morning air!’ Forgive me if I venture to suspect 400 That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse, Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints; Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear, Fellows to those that lustily upheld The wooden stools for everlasting use, Whereon our fathers sate. And mark his brow Under whose shaggy canopy are set Two eyes–not dim, but of a healthy stare– Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange– 410 Proclaiming boldly that they never drew A look or motion of intelligence From infant-conning of the Christ-crossrow, Or puzzling through a primer, line by line, Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last. –What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand, What penetrating power of sun or breeze, Shall e’er dissolve the crust wherein his soul Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice? This torpor is no pitiable work 420 Of modern ingenuity; no town Nor crowded city can be taxed with aught Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law, To which (and who can tell where or how soon?) He may be roused. This Boy the fields produce: His spade and hoe, mattock and glittering scythe, The carter’s whip that on his shoulder rests In air high-towering with a boorish pomp, The sceptre of his sway; his country’s name, Her equal rights, her churches and her schools– 430 What have they done for him? And, let me ask, For tens of thousands uninformed as he? In brief, what liberty of ‘mind’ is here?” This ardent sally pleased the mild good Man, To whom the appeal couched in its closing words Was pointedly addressed; and to the thoughts That, in assent or opposition, rose Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give Prompt utterance; but the Vicar interposed With invitation urgently renewed. 440 –We followed, taking as he led, a path Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall, Whose flexile boughs low bending with a weight Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and roots That gave them nourishment. When frosty winds Howl from the north, what kindly warmth, methought, Is here–how grateful this impervious screen! –Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot On rural business passing to and fro Was the commodious walk: a careful hand 450 Had marked the line, and strewn its surface o’er With pure cerulean gravel, from the heights Fetched by a neighbouring brook.–Across the vale The stately fence accompanied our steps; And thus the pathway, by perennial green Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite, As by a beautiful yet solemn chain, The Pastor’s mansion with the house of prayer. Like image of solemnity, conjoined With feminine allurement soft and fair, 460 The mansion’s self displayed;–a reverend pile With bold projections and recesses deep; Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood Fronting the noontide sun. We paused to admire The pillared porch, elaborately embossed; The low wide windows with their mullions old; The cornice, richly fretted, of grey stone; And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose, By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned: 470 Profusion bright! and every flower assuming A more than natural vividness of hue, From unaffected contrast with the gloom Of sober cypress, and the darker foil Of yew, in which survived some traces, here Not unbecoming, of grotesque device And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore, Blending their diverse foliage with the green Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped 480 The huge round chimneys, harbour of delight For wren and redbreast,–where they sit and sing Their slender ditties when the trees are bare. Nor must I leave untouched (the picture else Were incomplete) a relique of old times Happily spared, a little Gothic niche Of nicest workmanship; that once had held The sculptured image of some patron-saint, Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down On all who entered those religious doors. 490 But lo! where from the rocky garden-mount Crowned by its antique summer-house–descends, Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl; For she hath recognised her honoured friend, The Wanderer ever welcome! A prompt kiss The gladsome Child bestows at his request; And, up the flowery lawn as we advance, Hangs on the old Man with a happy look, And with a pretty restless hand of love. –We enter–by the Lady of the place 500 Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port: A lofty stature undepressed by time, Whose visitation had not wholly spared The finer lineaments of form and face; To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in And wisdom loves.–But when a stately ship Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast On homeward voyage, what–if wind and wave, And hardship undergone in various climes, Have caused her to abate the virgin pride, 510 And that full trim of inexperienced hope With which she left her haven–not for this, Should the sun strike her, and the impartial breeze Play on her streamers, fails she to assume Brightness and touching beauty of her own, That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appeared This goodly Matron, shining in the beams Of unexpected pleasure.–Soon the board Was spread, and we partook a plain repast. Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled 520 The mid-day hours with desultory talk; From trivial themes to general argument Passing, as accident or fancy led, Or courtesy prescribed. While question rose And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve Dropping from every mind, the Solitary Resumed the manners of his happier days; And in the various conversation bore A willing, nay, at times, a forward part; Yet with the grace of one who in the world 530 Had learned the art of pleasing, and had now Occasion given him to display his skill, Upon the stedfast ‘vantage-ground of truth. He gazed, with admiration unsuppressed, Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale, Seen, from the shady room in which we sate, In softened perspective; and more than once Praised the consummate harmony serene Of gravity and elegance, diffused Around the mansion and its whole domain; 540 Not, doubtless, without help of female taste And female care.–“A blessed lot is yours!” The words escaped his lip, with a tender sigh Breathed over them: but suddenly the door Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys Appeared, confusion checking their delight. –Not brothers they in feature or attire, But fond companions, so I guessed, in field, And by the river’s margin–whence they come, Keen anglers with unusual spoil elated. 550 One bears a willow-pannier on his back, The boy of plainer garb, whose blush survives More deeply tinged. Twin might the other be To that fair girl who from the garden-mount Bounded:–triumphant entry this for him! Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone, On whose capacious surface see outspread Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted trouts; Ranged side by side, and lessening by degrees Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle. 560 Upon the board he lays the sky-blue stone With its rich freight; their number he proclaims; Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragged; And where the very monarch of the brook, After long struggle, had escaped at last– Stealing alternately at them and us (As doth his comrade too) a look of pride: And, verily, the silent creatures made A splendid sight, together thus exposed; Dead–but not sullied or deformed by death, 570 That seemed to pity what he could not spare. But oh, the animation in the mien Of those two boys! yea in the very words With which the young narrator was inspired, When, as our questions led, he told at large Of that day’s prowess! Him might I compare, His looks, tones, gestures, eager eloquence, To a bold brook that splits for better speed, And at the self-same moment, works its way Through many channels, ever and anon 580 Parted and re-united: his compeer To the still lake, whose stillness is to sight As beautiful–as grateful to the mind. –But to what object shall the lovely Girl Be likened? She whose countenance and air Unite the graceful qualities of both, Even as she shares the pride and joy of both. My grey-haired Friend was moved; his vivid eye Glistened with tenderness; his mind, I knew, Was full; and had, I doubted not, returned, 590 Upon this impulse, to the theme–erewhile Abruptly broken off. The ruddy boys Withdrew, on summons to their well-earned meal; And He–to whom all tongues resigned their rights With willingness, to whom the general ear Listened with readier patience than to strain Of music, lute or harp, a long delight That ceased not when his voice had ceased–as One Who from truth’s central point serenely views The compass of his argument–began 600 Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone.