precise localization is impossible. Probably Wordsworth did not know either that the pillar "rock" was bare on the summit, or that it was deemed inaccessible in 1800; and he idealized it to suit his imaginative purpose. In connection with this poem, his remark to the Hon. Mr Justice Coleridge may be recalled.* "He said there was some foundation in fact, however slight, for every poem he had written of a narrative kind; . . . ‘The Brothers' was founded on a young shepherd, in his sleep, having fallen down a crag, his staff remaining suspended midway." It may be added that the character of Leonard Ewbank was drawn in large part from that of the poet's brother John.-Ed.
[Written at the Town-end, Grasmere, about the same time as "The Brothers." The sheepfold, on which so much of the poem turns, remains, or rather the ruins of it. The character and circumstances of Luke were taken from a family to whom had belonged, many years before, the house we lived in at Town-end, along with some fields and woodlands on the eastern shore of Grasmere. The name of the Evening Star was not in fact given to this house, but to another on the same side of the valley, more to the north.]
IF from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But, courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen; but they Who journey thither find themselves alone 2
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones:1 And to that simple object appertains
A story-unenriched with strange events, Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me 3 Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved :-not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects, led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these hills Will be my second self when I am gone.
And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnished with events, Is not unfit, I deem
The earliest of those tales that spake to me
Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name ; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, When others heeded not, he heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, "The winds are now devising work for me!" And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives The traveller to a shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains: he had been alone. Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him, and left him, on the heights. So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed The common air; hills, which with vigorous step He had so often climbed ; which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; Which, like a book, preserved the memory
the hills, which he so oft
Had climbed with vigorous steps
Of the dumb animals whom he had saved,
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
The certainty of honourable gain;
Those fields, those hills-what could they less ?-had laid 1 Strong hold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there is in life itself.
His days had not been passed in singleness. His Helpmate was a comely matron, old-2 Though younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life,
Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool; That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest
It was because the other was at work.
The Pair had but one inmate in their house, An only Child, who had been born to them When Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old,-in shepherd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only Son,
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, The one of an inestimable worth,
Made all their household.
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
So grateful in themselves, the certainty
Of honourable gains; these fields, these hills Which were his living Being, even more
Than his own Blood-what could they less? had laid
He had a wife, a comely matron, old,
And from their occupations out of doors
The Son and Father were come home, even then, Their labour did not cease; unless when all Turned to the 1 cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the 2 meal Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) And his old Father both betook themselves To such convenient work as might employ Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field.
Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, That in our ancient uncouth country style With huge and black projection overbrowed 3 Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; An aged utensil, which had performed Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn-and late, Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
Which, going by from year to year, had found, And left the couple neither gay perhaps
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, Living a life of eager industry.
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