Part 8

So, to a steep and difficult descent Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag, Where passage could be won;[CB] and, as the last 405 Of the mute train, behind[154] the heathy top Of that off-sloping outlet,[CC] disappeared, I, more impatient in my downward course,[155] Had landed upon easy ground; and there Stood waiting for my Comrade. When behold 410 An object that enticed my steps aside! A narrow, winding, entry opened out[156] Into a platform--that lay, sheepfold-wise, Enclosed between an upright[157] mass of rock And one old moss-grown wall;--a cool recess, 415 And fanciful! For where the rock and wall Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed By thrusting two rude staves into the wall[158] And overlaying them with mountain sods; To weather-fend a little turf-built seat 420 Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread The burning sunshine, or a transient shower; But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands![CD] Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud show[159] Of baby-houses, curiously arranged; 425 Nor wanting ornament of walks between, With mimic trees inserted in the turf, And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 429 Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance, Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed,[160] "Lo! what is here?" and, stooping down, drew forth A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss And wreck of party-coloured earthen-ware,[CE] Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 435 One of those petty structures. "His it must be!" Exclaimed the Wanderer, "cannot but be his,[161] And he is gone!"[162] The book, which in my hand Had opened of itself (for it was swoln With searching damp, and seemingly had lain 440 To the injurious elements exposed From week to week,) I found to be a work In the French tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, His famous Optimist. "Unhappy Man!" 444 Exclaimed my Friend: "here then has been to him Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place Within how deep a shelter! He had fits, Even to the last, of genuine tenderness, And loved the haunts of children: here, no doubt, Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports, Or sate companionless; and here the book, 451 Left and forgotten in his careless way, Must by the cottage-children have been found:[163] Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work! To what odd purpose have the darlings turned 455 This sad memorial of their hapless friend!"

"Me," said I, "most doth it surprise, to find Such book in such a place!"--" A book it is," He answered,"to the Person suited well, Though little suited to surrounding things: 460 'Tis strange, I grant; and stranger still had been To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here,[164] With one poor shepherd, far from all the world!-- Now, if our errand hath been thrown away, As from these intimations I forebode, 465 Grieved shall I be--less for my sake than yours, And least of all for him who is no more."

By this, the book was in the old Man's hand; And he continued, glancing on the leaves 469 An eye of scorn:--"The lover," said he, "doomed To love when hope hath failed him--whom no depth Of privacy is deep enough to hide, Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair, And that is joy to him. When change of times Hath summoned kings to scaffolds, do but give 475 The faithful servant, who must hide his head Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood, And he too hath his comforter. How poor, Beyond all poverty how destitute, 480 Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven, Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him No dearer relique, and no better stay, Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen,[CF] Impure conceits discharging from a heart 485 Hardened by impious pride!--I did not fear To tax you with this journey;"--mildly said My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped Into the presence of the cheerful light-- "For I have knowledge that you do not shrink 490 From moving spectacles;--but let us on."

So speaking, on he went, and at the word I followed, till he made a sudden stand: For full in view, approaching through a[165] gate That opened from the enclosure of green fields 495 Into the rough uncultivated ground,[CG] Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead! I knew from his deportment, mien, and dress,[166] That it could be no other; a pale face, A meagre person, tall, and in a garb[167] 500 Not rustic--dull and faded like himself! He saw us not, though distant but few steps; For he was busy, dealing, from a store Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings Of red ripe currants;[168] gift by which he strove, 505 With intermixture of endearing words, To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping As if disconsolate.--"They to the grave Are bearing him, my Little-one," he said, "To the dark pit; but he will feel no pain; 510 His body is at rest, his soul in heaven."

More might have followed--but my honoured Friend Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank And cordial greeting.--Vivid was the light 514 That flashed and sparkled from the other's eyes;[169][CH] He was all fire: no shadow on his brow Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face.[170] Hands joined he with his Visitant,--a grasp, An eager grasp; and many moments' space-- When the first glow of pleasure was no more, 520 And, of the sad appearance which at once Had vanished, much was come and coming back--[171] An amicable smile retained the life Which it had unexpectedly received, Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said, 525 "Nor could your coming have been better timed; For this, you see, is in our narrow[172] world A day of sorrow. I have here a charge"-- And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping child-- 530 "A little mourner, whom it is my task To comfort;--but how came ye?--if yon track (Which doth at once befriend us and betray) Conducted hither your most welcome feet, Ye could not miss the funeral train--they yet 535 Have scarcely disappeared." "This blooming Child," Said the old Man, "is of an age to weep At any grave or solemn spectacle, Inly distressed or overpowered with awe, He knows not wherefore;--but the boy to-day, 540 Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears; you also[173] Must have sustained a loss."--"The hand of Death," He answered, "has been here; but could not well Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen Upon myself."--The other left these words 545 Unnoticed, thus continuing-- "From yon crag, Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale, We heard the hymn they sang--a solemn sound Heard any where; but in a place like this 'Tis more than human! Many precious rites 550 And customs of our rural ancestry Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope, Will last for ever.[CI] Oft on my way have I Stood still, though but a casual passenger, So much I felt the awfulness of life,[174] 555 In that one moment when the corse is lifted In silence, with a hush of decency; Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, And confidential yearnings, tow'rds its home, Its final home on earth.[175] What traveller--who-- 560 (How far soe'er a stranger) does not own The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, A mute procession on the houseless road; Or passing by some single tenement Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise 565 The monitory voice? But most of all It touches, it confirms, and elevates, Then, when the body, soon to be consigned Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust, Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne 570 Upon the shoulders of the next in love, The nearest in affection or in blood; Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt Beside the coffin, resting on its lid In silent grief their unuplifted heads,[CJ] 575 And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint, And that most awful scripture which declares We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed! --Have I not seen--ye likewise may have seen-- Son, husband, brothers--brothers side by side, 580 And son and father also side by side, Rise from that posture:--and in concert move, On the green turf following the vested Priest, Four dear supporters of one senseless weight, From which they do not shrink, and under which 585 They faint not, but advance towards the open grave[176] Step after step--together, with their firm Unhidden faces: he that suffers most, He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps, The most serene, with most undaunted eye!-- 590 Oh! blest are they who live and die like these, Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned!"

"That poor Man taken hence to-day," replied The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile Which did not please me, "must be deemed, I fear, Of the unblest; for he will surely sink 596 Into his mother earth without such pomp Of grief, depart without occasion given By him for such array of fortitude. Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark! 600 This simple Child will mourn his one short hour, And I shall miss him; scanty tribute! yet, This wanting, he would leave the sight of men, If love were his sole claim upon their care, Like a ripe date which in the desert falls 605 Without a hand to gather it." At this I interposed, though loth to speak, and said, "Can it be thus among so small a band As ye must needs be here? in such a place I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight 610 Of a departing cloud."--"'Twas not for love" Answered the sick Man with a careless voice-- "That I came hither; neither have I found Among associates who have power of speech, Nor in such other converse as is here, 615 Temptation so prevailing as to change That mood, or undermine my first resolve." Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said To my benign Companion,--"Pity 'tis That fortune did not guide you to this house 620 A few days earlier; then would you have seen What stuff the Dwellers in a solitude, That seems by Nature hollowed out to be The seat and bosom of pure innocence,[177] Are made of, an ungracious matter this! 625 Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too Of past discussions with this zealous friend And advocate of humble life, I now Will force upon his notice; undeterred By the example of his own pure course, 630 And that respect and deference which a soul May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched In what she most doth value, love of God[178] And his frail creature Man;--but ye shall hear. I talk--and ye are standing in the sun 635 Without refreshment!" Quickly had he spoken, And, with light steps still quicker than his words, Led toward the Cottage. Homely was the spot;[179] And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door, Had almost a forbidding nakedness; 640 Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair, Than it appeared when from the beetling rock[180] We had looked down upon it. All within, As left by the[181] departed company, Was silent; save the solitary clock 645 That on mine ear ticked with a mournful sound.--[182] 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, 650 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."[CK]

So, with more ardour than an unripe girl Left one day mistress of her mother's stores, 655 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 660 Had we about us![183] 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[184] 665 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. 670 But speedily the promise was fulfilled; A feast before us, and a[185] 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[186] 676 Of dainties,--oaten bread, curd,[187] cheese, and cream; And cakes of butter curiously embossed, Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers A golden hue, delicate as their own 680 Faintly reflected in a lingering stream."[188] 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, 685 Was now[189] 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, 690 I could not, ever and anon, forbear To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, That from some other vale peered into this.[CL] "Those lusty twins," exclaimed our host, "if here It were your lot to dwell, would soon become[190] 695 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 700 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; 705 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;[191] a harmony, 710 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 715 A language not unwelcome to sick hearts And idle spirits:--there the sun himself, At the calm close of summer's longest day,[CM] Rests his substantial orb;--between those heights And on the top of either pinnacle, 720 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."--[CN] A fall of voice, 725 Regretted like the nightingale's last note, Had scarcely closed this high-wrought strain of rapture Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said:[192] "Now for the tale with which you threatened us!" "In truth the threat escaped me unawares: 730 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[193] When ye looked down upon us from the crag, Islanders mid[194] a stormy mountain sea, 735 We are not so;--perpetually we touch Upon the vulgar ordinances[195] of the world; And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day Relinquished, lived[196] dependent for his bread Upon the laws of public charity. 740 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 745 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. 750 Calm did he sit under[197] 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, 755 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; 760 Mild, inoffensive, ready in _his_ way, And helpful[198] 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; 765 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 770 Too young for any profitable task. So moved he like a shadow that performed Substantial service.[CO] Mark me now, and learn For what reward!--The moon her monthly round Hath not completed since our dame, the queen 775 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! 780 It is most serious: persevering rain[199] 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-- 785 Who at her bidding, early and alone, Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland[200] turf For winter fuel--to his noontide meal Returned not, and now, haply, on the heights[201] Lay at the mercy of this raging storm. 790 '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 795 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. 800