Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey
Page 310
Two families there still remain which I am tempted to gather into my group of Lake society — notwithstanding it is true that the two most interesting members of the first had died a little before the period at which my sketch commences; and the second, though highly intellectual in the person of that particular member whom I have chiefly to commemorate, was not, properly speaking, literary, and, moreover, belongs to a later period of my own Westmoreland experience — being, at the time of my settlement in Grasmere, a girl at a boarding-school. The first was the family of the Sympsons, whom Mr. Wordsworth has spoken of, with deep interest, more than once. The eldest son, a clergyman, and, like Wordsworth, an alumnus of Hawkshead school, wrote, amongst other poems, “The Vision of Alfred.” Of these poems Wordsworth says that they “are little known; but they contain passages of splendid description; and the versification of his ‘Vision’ is harmonious and animated.” This is much for Wordsworth to say; and he does him even the honour of quoting the following illustrative simile from his description of the sylphs in motion (which sylphs constitute the machinery of his poem); and, probably, the reader will be of opinion that this passage justifies the praise of Wordsworth. It is founded, as he will see, on the splendid scenery of the heavens in Polar latitudes, as seen by reflection in polished ice at midnight.
“Less varying hues beneath the Pole adorn The streamy glories of the Boreal morn, That, waving to and fro, their radiance shed On Bothnia’s gulf, with glassy ice o’erspread; Where the lone native, as he homeward glides On polished sandals o’er the imprisoned tides, Sees, at a glance, above him and below, Two rival heavens with equal splendour glow: Stars, moons, and meteors ray oppose to ray; And solemn midnight pours the blaze of day.”
“He was a man,” says Wordsworth, in conclusion, “of ardent feeling; and his facilities of mind, particularly his memory, were extraordinary.” Brief notices of his life ought to find a place in the history of Westmoreland.
But it was the father of this Joseph Sympson who gave its chief interest to the family. Him Wordsworth has described, at the same time sketching his history, with a fulness and a circumstantiality beyond what he has conceded to any other of the real personages in “The Excursion.” “A priest he was by function”; but a priest of that class which is now annually growing nearer to extinction among us, not being supported by any sympathies in this age.
“His course, From his youth up, and high as manhood’s noon, Had been irregular — I might say wild; By books unsteadied, by his pastoral care Too little checked. An active, ardent mind; A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme To cheat the sadness of a rainy day; Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games; A generous spirit, and a body strong To cope with stoutest champions of the bowl; Had earned for him sure welcome, and the rights Of a priz’d visitant, in the jolly hall Of country squire; or at the statelier board Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly pomp Withdrawn, to while away the summer hours In condescension amongst rural guests. With these high comrades he had revelled long, By hopes of coming patronage beguiled, Till the heart sickened.”
Slowly, however, and indignantly his eyes opened fully to the windy treachery of all the promises held out to him; and, at length, for mere bread, he accepted, from an “unthought-of patron,” a most “secluded chapelry” in Cumberland. This was “the little, lowly house of prayer” of Wythburn, elsewhere celebrated by Wordsworth; and, for its own sake, interesting to all travellers, both for its deep privacy, and for the excessive humility of its external pretensions, whether as to size or ornament. Were it not for its twin sister at Buttermere, it would be the very smallest place of worship in all England; and it looks even smaller than it is, from its position; for it stands at the base of the mighty Helvellyn, close to the high-road between Ambleside and Keswick, and within speaking distance of the upper lake — (for Wythburn Water, though usually passed by the traveller under the impression of absolute unity in its waters, owing to the interposition of a rocky screen, is, in fact, composed of two separate lakes). To this miniature and most secluded congregation of shepherds did the once dazzling parson officiate as pastor; and it seems to amplify the impression already given of his versatility, that he became a diligent and most fatherly, though not peculiarly devout, teacher and friend. The temper, however, of the northern Dalesmen, is not constitutionally turned to religion; consequently that part of his defects did him no special injury, when compensated (as, in the judgment of these Dalesmen, it was compensated) by ready and active kindness, charity the most diffusive, and patriarchal hospitality. The living, as I have said, was in Wythburn; but there was no parsonage, and no house in this poor dale which was disposable for that purpose. So Mr. Sympson crossed the marches of the sister counties, which to him were about equidistant from his chapel and his house, into Grasmere, on the Westmoreland side. There he occupied a cottage by the roadside, — a situation which, doubtless, gratified at once his social and his hospitable propensities, — and, at length, from age, as well as from paternal character and station, came to be regarded as the patriarch of the vale. Before I mention the afflictions which fell upon his latter end, and by way of picturesque contrast to his closing scene, let me have permission to cite Wordsworth’s sketch (taken from his own boyish remembrance of the case) describing the first gipsy-like entrance of the brilliant parson and his household into Grasmere — so equally out of harmony with the decorums of his sacred character and the splendours of his past life: —
“Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads By which our northern wilds could then be crossed; And into most of these secluded vales Was no access for wain, heavy or light. So at his dwelling-place the priest arrived With store of household goods, in panniers slung On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells, And on the back of more ignoble beast, That, with like burthen of effects most prized Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. Young was I then, a schoolboy of eight years: But still methinks I see them as they passed In order, drawing toward their wished-for home. Rocked by the motion of a trusty ass Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised freight, Each in his basket nodding drowsily, Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers, Which told it was the pleasant month of June; And close behind the comely matron rode, A woman of soft speech and gracious smile, And with a lady’s mien. — From far they came, Even from Northumbrian hills: yet theirs had been A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheered By music, pranks, and laughter-stirring jest; And freak put on, and arch word dropped — to swell That cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise Which gathered round the slowly moving train. ‘Whence do they come? and with what errand charged? Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe Who pitch their tents under the greenwood tree? Or Strollers are they, furnished to enact Fair Rosamond and the Children of the Wood? When the next village hears the show announced By blast of trumpet?’ Plenteous was the growth Of such conjectures — overheard, or seen On many a staring countenance portrayed Of boor or burgher, as they marched along. And more than once their steadiness of face Was put to proof, and exercise supplied To their inventive humour, by stern looks, And questions in authoritative tone, By some staid guardian of the public peace, Checking the sober horse on which he rode, In his suspicious wisdom; oftener still By notice indirect or blunt demand From traveller halting in his own despite, A simple curiosity to ease: Of which adventures, that beguiled and cheered Their grave migration, the good pair would tell With undiminished glee in hoary age.”
Meantime the lady of the house embellished it with feminine skill; and the homely pastor — for such he had now become — not having any great weight of spiritual duties, busied himself in rural labours and rural sports. But was his mind, though bending submissively to his lot, changed in conformity to his task? No:
“For he still Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm, A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes. Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures lost; Generous and charitable, prompt to serve; And still his harsher passions kept their hold — Anger and indigna
tion. Still he loved The sound of titled names, and talked in glee Of long past banquetings with high-born friends: Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight Uproused by recollected injury, railed At their false ways disdainfully, — and oft In bitterness, and with a threatening eye Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow. Those transports, with staid looks of pure good-will, And with soft smile his consort would reprove. She, far behind him in the race of years, Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced Far nearer, in the habit of her soul, To that still region whither all are bound.”
Such was the tenor of their lives; such the separate character of their manners and dispositions; and, with unusual quietness of course, both were sailing placidly to their final haven. Death had not visited their happy mansion through a space of forty years—”sparing both old and young in that abode.” But calms so deep are ominous — immunities so profound are terrific. Suddenly the signal was given, and all lay desolate.
“Not twice had fallen On those high peaks the first autumnal snow, Before the greedy visiting was closed, And the long-privileged house left empty; swept As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague Had been among them; all was gentle death, One after one with intervals of peace.”
The aged pastor’s wife, his son, one of his daughters, and “a little smiling grandson,” all had gone within a brief series of days. These composed the entire household in Grasmere (the others having dispersed or married away); and all were gone but himself, by very many years the oldest of the whole: he still survived. And the whole valley, nay, all the valleys round about, speculated with a tender interest upon what course the desolate old man would take for his support.
“All gone, all vanished! he, deprived and bare, How will he face the remnant of his life? What will become of him? we said, and mused In sad conjectures. — Shall we meet him now, Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks? Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, Striving to entertain the lonely hours With music? (for he had not ceased to touch The harp or viol, which himself had framed For their sweet purposes, with perfect skill). What titles will he keep? Will he remain Musician, gardener, builder, mechanist, A planter, and a rearer from the seed?”
Yes; he persevered in all his pursuits; intermitted none of them; weathered a winter in solitude; once more beheld the glories of a spring, and the resurrection of the flowers upon the graves of his beloved; held out even through the depths of summer into the cheerful season of haymaking (a season much later in Westmoreland than in the south); took his rank, as heretofore, amongst the haymakers; sat down at noon for a little rest to his aged limbs, and found even a deeper rest than he was expecting; for, in a moment of time, without a warning, without a struggle, and without a groan, he did indeed rest from his labours for ever. He,
“With his cheerful throng Of open projects, and his inward hoard Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keen, Was overcome by unexpected sleep In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown, Softly and lightly, from a passing cloud, Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay For noontide solace on the summer grass — The warm lap of his mother earth; and so, Their lenient term of separation passed, That family, By yet a higher privilege, once more Were gathered to each other.”
Two surviving members of the family, a son and a daughter, I knew intimately. Both have been long dead; but the children of the daughter — grandsons, therefore, to the patriarch here recorded — are living prosperously, and do honour to the interesting family they represent.
The other family were, if less generally interesting by their characters or accomplishments, much more so by the circumstances of their position; and that member of the family with whom accident and neighbourhood had brought me especially connected was, in her intellectual capacity, probably superior to most of those whom I have had occasion to record. Had no misfortunes settled upon her life prematurely, and with the benefit of a little judicious guidance to her studies, I am of opinion that she would have been a most distinguished person. Her situation, when I came to know her, was one of touching interest. I will state the circumstances: — She was the sole and illegitimate daughter of a country gentleman, and was a favourite with her father, as she well deserved to be, in a degree so excessive — so nearly idolatrous — that I never heard illustrations of it mentioned but that secretly I trembled for the endurance of so perilous a love under the common accidents of life, and still more under the unusual difficulties and snares of her peculiar situation. Her father was, by birth, breeding, and property, a Leicestershire farmer; not, perhaps, what you would strictly call a gentleman, for he affected no refinements of manner, but rather courted the exterior of a bluff, careless yeoman. Still he was of that class whom all people, even then, on his letters, addressed as esquire: he had an ample income, and was surrounded with all the luxuries of modern life. In early life — and that was the sole palliation of his guilt — (and yet, again, in another view, aggravated it) — he had allowed himself to violate his own conscience in a way which, from the hour of his error, never ceased to pursue him with remorse, and which was, in fact, its own avenger. Mr. K —— was a favourite specimen of English yeomanly beauty: a fine athletic figure; and with features handsome, well moulded, frank and generous in their expression, and in a striking degree manly. In fact, he might have sat for Robin Hood. It happened that a young lady of his own neighbourhood, somewhere near Mount Soril I think, fell desperately in love with him. Oh! blindness of the human heart! how deeply did she come to rue the day when she first turned her thoughts to him! At first, however, her case seemed a hopeless one; for she herself was remarkably plain, and Mr. K —— was profoundly in love with the very handsome daughter of a neighbouring farmer. One advantage, however, there was on the side of this plain girl: she was rich; and part of her wealth, or of her expectations, lay in landed property that would effect a very tempting arrondissement of an estate belonging to Mr. K —— . Through what course the affair travelled, I never heard more particularly than that Mr. K —— was besieged and worried out of his steady mind by the solicitations of aunts and other relations, who had all adopted the cause of the heiress. But what finally availed to extort a reluctant consent from him was the representation made by the young lady’s family, and backed by medical men, that she was seriously in danger of dying unless Mr. K —— would make her his wife. He was no coxcomb; but, when he heard all his own female relations calling him a murderer, and taxing him with having, at times, given some encouragement to the unhappy lovesick girl, in an evil hour he agreed to give up his own sweetheart and marry her. He did so. But no sooner was this fatal step taken than it was repented. His love returned in bitter excess for the girl whom he had forsaken, and with frantic remorse. This girl, at length, by the mere force of his grief, he actually persuaded to live with him as his wife; and when, in spite of all concealments, the fact began to transpire, and the angry wife, in order to break off the connexion, obtained his consent to their quitting Leicestershire altogether and transferring their whole establishment to the Lakes, Mr. K —— evaded the whole object of this manœuvre by secretly contriving to bring her rival also into Westmoreland. Her, however, he placed in another vale; and, for some years, it is pretty certain that Mrs. K —— never suspected the fact. Some said that it was her pride which would not allow her to seem conscious of so great an affront to herself; others, better skilled in deciphering the meaning of manners, steadfastly affirmed that she was in happy ignorance of an arrangement known to all the country beside.
Years passed on; and the situation of the poor wife became more and more gloomy. During those years, she brought her husband no children; on the other hand, her hated rival had: Mr. K —— saw growing up about his table two children, a son, and then a daughter, who, in their childhood, must have been beautiful creatures; for the son, when I knew him in after life, though bloated and disfigured a good deal by intemperance, was still a very fine young man; more athletic even than his father; and presenting his father’s handsome English yeoman’s face, exalted by a Roman
dignity in some of the features. The daughter was of the same cast of person; tall, and Roman also in the style of her face. In fact, the brother and the sister would have offered a fine impersonation of Coriolanus and Valeria. This Roman bias of the features a little affected the feminine loveliness of the daughter’s appearance. But still, as the impression was not very decided, she would have been pronounced anywhere a very captivating young woman. These were the two crowns of Mr. K — —’s felicity, that for seventeen or eighteen years made the very glory of his life. But Nemesis was on his steps; and one of these very children she framed the scourge which made the day of his death a happy deliverance, for which he had long hungered and thirsted. But I anticipate.
About the time when I came to reside in Grasmere, some little affair of local business one night drew Wordsworth up to Mr. K — —’s house. It was called, and with great propriety, from the multitude of holly trees that still survived from ancient days, The Hollens; which pretty local name Mrs. K —— , in her general spirit of vulgar sentimentality, had changed to Holly Grove. The place, spite of its slipshod novelish name, which might have led one to expect a corresponding style of tinsel finery, and a display of childish purposes, about its furniture or its arrangements, was really simple and unpretending; whilst its situation was, in itself, a sufficient ground of interest; for it stood on a little terrace running like an artificial gallery or corridor along the final, and all but perpendicular, descent of the mighty Fairfield. It seemed as if it must require iron bolts to pin it to the rock which rose so high, and, apparently, so close behind. Not until you reached the little esplanade upon which the modest mansion stood, were you aware of a little area interposed between the rear of the house and the rock, just sufficient for ordinary domestic offices. The house was otherwise interesting to myself, from recalling one in which I had passed part of my infancy. As in that, you entered by a rustic hall, fitted up so as to make a beautiful little breakfasting-room: the distribution of the passages was pretty nearly the same; and there were other resemblances.