Part 14 (1/2)
One summer evening (led by her) I found A little boat, tied to a willow tree, Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in, Pushed from the sh.o.r.e. It was an act of stealth, And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice Of mountain echoes did my boat move on, Leaving behind her still, on either side, Small circles glittering idly in the moon, Until they melted all into one track Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point With an unswerving line, I fixed my view Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, The horizon's utmost boundary; far above Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace; l.u.s.tily I dipped my oars into the silent lake, And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat Went heaving through the water like a swan; When, from behind that craggy steep, till then The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge, As if with voluntary power instinct, Upreared its head. I struck and struck again, And, growing still in stature, the grim shape Towered up between me and the stars, and still For so it seemed, with purpose of its own, And measured motion like a living thing, Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned, And through the silent water stole my way Back to the covert of the willow tree; There in her mooring place I left my bark, And through the meadows homeward went, in grave And serious mood; but after I had seen That spectacle, for many days, my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude, Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes Remained, no pleasant images of trees, Of sea, or sky, no colours of green fields; But huge and mighty forms, that do not live Like living men, moved slowly through the mind By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.
Here we see that a fresh impulse was given to his life even in boyhood, by the influence of nature. If we have had any similar experience, we shall be able to enter into this feeling of Wordsworth's; if not, the tale will be almost incredible.
One pa.s.sage more I would refer to, as showing what Wordsworth felt with regard to nature, in his youth; and the growth that took place in him in consequence. Nature laid up in the storehouse of his mind and heart her most beautiful and grand forms, whence they might be brought, afterwards, to be put to the highest human service. I quote only a few lines from that poem, deservedly a favourite with all the lovers of Wordsworth, ”Lines written above Tintern Abbey:”--
I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a pa.s.sion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appet.i.te; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
In this little pa.s.sage you see the growth of the influence of nature on the mind of the poet. You observe, too, that nature pa.s.ses into poetry; that form is sublimed into speech. You see the result of the conjunction of the mind of man, and the mind of G.o.d manifested in His works; spirit coming to know the speech of spirit. The outflowing of spirit in nature is received by the poet, and he utters again, in his form, what G.o.d has already uttered in His. Wordsworth wished to give to man what he found in nature. It was to him a power of good, a world of teaching, a strength of life. He knew that nature was not his, and that his enjoyment of nature was given to him that he might give it to man. It was the birthright of man.
But what did Wordsworth find in nature? To begin with the lowest; he found amus.e.m.e.nt in nature. Right amus.e.m.e.nt is a part of teaching; it is the childish form of teaching, and if we can get this in nature, we get something that lies near the root of good. In proof that Wordsworth found this, I refer to a poem which you probably know well, ”The Daisy.”
The poet sits playing with the flower, and listening to the suggestions that come to him of odd resemblances that this flower bears to other things. He likens the daisy to--
A little cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy, That thought comes next--and instantly The freak is over, The shape will vanish--and behold A silver s.h.i.+eld with boss of gold, That spreads itself, some faery bold In fight to cover!
Look at the last stanza, too, and you will see how close amus.e.m.e.nt may lie to deep and earnest thought:--
Bright _Flower_! for by that name at last When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent creature!
That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature!
But Wordsworth found also joy in nature, which is a better thing than amus.e.m.e.nt, and consequently easier to be found. We can often have joy where we can have no amus.e.m.e.nt,--
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What Health the show to me had brought.
”For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.”
This is the joy of the eye, as far as that can be separated from the joy of the whole nature; for his whole nature rejoiced in the joy of the eye; but it was simply joy; there was no further teaching, no attempt to go through this beauty and find the truth below it. We are not always to be in that hungry, restless condition, even after truth itself. If we keep our minds quiet and ready to receive truth, and _sometimes_ are hungry for it, that is enough.
Going a step higher, you will find that he sometimes _draws_ a lesson from nature, seeming almost to force a meaning from her. I do not object to this, if he does not make too much of it as _existing_ in nature. It is rather finding a meaning in nature that he brought to it. The meaning exists, if not _there_. For ill.u.s.tration I refer to another poem.
Observe that Wordsworth found the lesson because he looked for it, and _would_ find it.
This Lawn, a carpet all alive With shadows flung from leaves--to strive In dance, amid a press Of suns.h.i.+ne, an apt emblem yields Of Worldlings revelling in the fields Of strenuous idleness.
Yet, spite of all this eager strife, This ceaseless play, the genuine life That serves the steadfast hours, Is in the gra.s.s beneath, that grows Unheeded, and the mute repose Of sweetly-breathing flowers.
Whether he forced this lesson from nature, or not, it is a good lesson, teaching a great many things with regard to life and work.
Again, nature sometimes flashes a lesson on his mind; _gives_ it to him--and when nature gives, we cannot but receive. As in this sonnet composed during a storm,--
One who was suffering tumult in his soul Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, Went forth; his course surrendering to the care Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl Insiduously, untimely thunders growl; While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers tear The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, And s.h.i.+vering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl As if the sun were not. He raised his eye Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear Large s.p.a.ce (mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky, An azure disc--s.h.i.+eld of Tranquillity; Invisible, unlooked-for, minister Of providential goodness ever nigh!
Observe that he was not looking for this; he had not thought of praying; he was in such distress that it had benumbed the out-goings of his spirit towards the source whence alone sure comfort comes. He went out into the storm; and the uproar in the outer world was in harmony with the tumult within his soul. Suddenly a clear s.p.a.ce in the sky makes him feel--he has no time to think about it--that there is a s.h.i.+eld of tranquillity spread over him. For was it not as it were an opening up into that region where there are no storms; the regions of peace, because the regions of love, and truth, and purity,--the home of G.o.d himself?
There is yet a higher and more sustained influence exercised by nature, and that takes effect when she puts a man into that mood or condition in which thoughts come of themselves. That is perhaps the best thing that can be done for us, the best at least that nature can do. It is certainly higher than mere intellectual teaching. That nature did this for Wordsworth is very clear; and it is easily intelligible. If the world proceeded from the imagination of G.o.d, and man proceeded from the love of G.o.d, it is easy to believe that that which proceeded from the imagination of G.o.d should rouse the best thoughts in the mind of a being who proceeded from the love of G.o.d. This I think is the relation between man and the world. As an instance of what I mean, I refer to one of Wordsworth's finest poems, which he cla.s.ses under the head of ”Evening Voluntaries.” It was composed upon an evening of extraordinary splendour and beauty:--