IF from
the public way you turn your steps
Up the
tumultuous brook of Greenhead 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
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 struggling heap of unhewn stones!
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
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.
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
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
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—
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. I may truly say,
That
they were as a proverb in the vale
For
endless industry. When day was gone,
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 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 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 fireside; 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
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.
And now,
when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,
There by
the light of this old lamp they sate,
Father
and Son, while far into the night
The
Housewife plied her own peculiar work,
Making
the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur
as with the sound of summer flies.
This
light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was
a public symbol of the life
That
thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their
cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood
single, with large prospect, north and south,
High
into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,
And
westward to the village near the lake;
And from
this constant light, so regular
And so
far seen, the House itself, by all
Who
dwelt within the limits of the vale,
Both old
and young, was named THE EVENING STAR.
Thus living on through such a length of years,
The
Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have
loved his Helpmate; but to Michael’s heart
This son
of his old age was yet more dear—
Less
from instinctive tenderness, the same
Fond
spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—
Than
that a child, more than all other gifts
That
earth can offer to declining man,
Brings
hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And
stirrings of inquietude, when they
By
tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding
was the love he bare to him,
His
heart and his heart’s joy! For oftentimes
Old
Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done
him female service, not alone
For
pastime and delight, as is the use
Of
fathers, but with patient mind enforced
To acts
of tenderness; and he had rocked
His
cradle, as with a woman’s gentle hand.
And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy
Had put
on boy’s attire, did Michael love,
Albeit
of a stern unbending mind,
To have
the young-one in his sight, when he
Wrought
in the field, or on his shepherd’s stool
Sate
with a fettered sheep before him stretched
Under
the large old oak, that near his door
Stood
single, and, from matchless depth of shade,
Chosen
for the Shearer’s covert from the sun,
Thence
in our rustic dialect was called
The
CLIPPING TREE, a name which yet it bears.
There,
while they two were sitting in the shade,
With
others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would
Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond
correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the
Child, if he disturbed the sheep
By
catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scared
them, while they lay still beneath the shears.
And when by Heaven’s good grace the boy grew
up
A
healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady
roses that were five years old;
Then
Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his
own hand a sapling, which he hooped
With
iron, making it throughout in all
Due
requisites a perfect shepherd’s staff,
And gave
it to the Boy; wherewith equipt
He as a watchman
oftentimes was placed
At gate
or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
And, to
his office prematurely called,
There
stood the urchin, as you will divine,
Something
between a hindrance and a help;
And for
this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving
from his Father hire of praise;
Though
nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
Or
looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.
But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could
stand
Against
the mountain blasts; and to the heights,
Not
fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,
He with
his Father daily went, and they
Were as
companions, why should I relate
That
objects which the Shepherd loved before
Were
dearer now? that from the Boy there came
Feelings
and emanations—things which were
Light to
the sun and music to the wind;
And that
the old Man’s heart seemed born again?
Thus in his Father’s sight the Boy grew up:
And now,
when he had reached his eighteenth year,
He was
his comfort and his daily hope.
While in this sort the simple household lived
From day
to day, to Michael’s ear there came
Distressful
tidings. Long before the time
Of which
I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In
surety for his brother’s son, a man
Of an
industrious life, and ample means;
But
unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had
prest upon him; and old Michael now
Was
summoned to discharge the forfeiture,
A
grievous penalty, but little less
Than
half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,
At the
first hearing, for a moment took
More
hope out of his life than he supposed
That any
old man ever could have lost.
As soon
as he had armed himself with strength
To look
his troubles in the face, it seemed
The
Shepherd’s sole resource to sell at once
A
portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was
his first resolve; he thought again,
And his
heart failed him. ‘Isabel,’ said he,
Two
evenings after he had heard the news,
‘I have
been toiling more than seventy years,
And in
the open sunshine of God’s love
Have we
all lived; yet if these fields of ours
Should
pass into a stranger’s hand, I think
That I
could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot
is a hard lot; the sun himself
Has
scarcely been more diligent than I;
And I
have lived to be a fool at last
To my
own family. An evil man
That
was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were
false to us; and if he were not false,
There
are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been
no sorrow. I forgive him;—but
’Twere
better to be dumb than to talk thus.
When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of
remedies and of a cheerful hope.
Our Luke
shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall
not go from us, and it shall be free;
He shall
possess it, free as is the wind
That
passes over it. We have, thou know’st,
Another
kinsman—he will be our friend
In this
distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving
in trade—and Luke to him shall go,
And with
his kinsman’s help and his own thrift
He
quickly will repair this loss, and then
He may
return to us. If here he stay,
What can
be done? Where every one is poor,
What can
be gained?
At this the old Man paused,
And
Isabel sat silent, for her mind
Was
busy, looking back into past times.
There’s
Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
He was a
parish boy—at the church-door
They
made a gathering for him, shillings, pence
And
halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
A
basket, which they filled with pedlar’s wares;
And,
with this basket on his arm, the lad
Went up
to London, found a master there,
Who, out
of many, chose the trusty boy
To go
and overlook his merchandise
Beyond
the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,
And left
estates and monies to the poor,
And, at
his birthplace, built a chapel floored
With
marble which he sent from foreign lands.
These
thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Passed
quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her
face brightened. The old Man was glad,
And thus
resumed:—‘Well, Isabel! this scheme
These
two days, has been meat and drink to me.
Far more
than we have lost is left us yet.
—We have
enough—I wish indeed that I
Were
younger;—but this hope is a good hope.
—Make
ready Luke’s best garments, of the best
Buy for
him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow,
or the next day, or to-night:
—If he
could go, the Boy should go to-night.’
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went
forth
With a
light heart. The Housewife for five days
Was
restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought
on with her best fingers to prepare
Things
needful for the journey of her son.
But
Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop
her in her work: for, when she lay
By
Michael’s side, she through the last two nights
Heard
him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when
they rose at morning she could see
That all
his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said
to Luke, while they two by themselves
Were
sitting at the door, ‘Thou must not go:
We have
no other Child but thee to lose,
None to
remember—do not go away,
For if
thou leave thy Father he will die.’
The
Youth made answer with a jocund voice;
And
Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recovered
heart. That evening her best fare
Did she
bring forth, and all together sat
Like
happy people round a Christmas fire.
With daylight Isabel resumed her work;
And all
the ensuing week the house appeared
As
cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
The
expected letter from their kinsman came,
With
kind assurances that he would do
His
utmost for the welfare of the Boy;
To
which, requests were added, that forthwith
He might
be sent to him. Ten times or more
The
letter was read over; Isabel
Went
forth to show it to the neighbours round;
Nor was
there at that time on English land
A
prouder heart than Luke’s. When Isabel
Had to
her house returned, the old Man said,
‘He
shall depart to-morrow.’ To this word
The
Housewife answered, talking much of things
Which,
if at such short notice he should go,
Would
surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave
consent, and Michael was at ease.
Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,
In that
deep valley, Michael had designed
To build
a Sheepfold; and, before he heard
The
tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this
same purpose he had gathered up
A heap
of stones, which by the streamlet’s edge
Lay
thrown together, ready for the work.
With
Luke that evening thitherward he walked;
And soon
as they had reached the place he stopped.
And thus
the old Man spake to him:—‘My Son,To
-morrow
thou wilt leave me: with full heart
I look
upon thee, for thou art the same
That
wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all
thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will
relate to thee some little part
Of our
two histories; ’twill do thee good
When
thou art from me, even if I should touch
On
things thou canst not know of.—After thou
First
cam’st into the world—as oft befalls
To new-born
infants—thou didst sleep away
Two
days, and blessings from thy Father’s tongue
Then
fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,
And
still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to
living ear came sweeter sounds
Than
when I heard thee by our own fireside
First
uttering, without words, a natural tune:
While
thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at
thy Mother’s breast. Month followed month,
And in
the open fields my life was passed
And on
the mountains; else I think that thou
Hadst
been brought up upon thy Father’s knees.
But we
were playmates, Luke: among these hills,
As well
thou knowest, in us the old and young
Have
played together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any
pleasure which a boy can know.’
Luke had
a manly heart; but at these words
He
sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,
And
said, ‘Nay, do not take it so—I see
That
these are things of which I need not speak.
—Even to
the utmost I have been to thee
A kind
and a good Father: and herein
I but
repay a gift which I myself
Received
at others’ hand; for, though now old
Beyond
the common life of man, I still
Remember
them who loved me in my youth.
Both of
them sleep together; here they lived,
As all
their Forefathers had done; and when
At
length their time was come, they were not loth
To give
their bodies to the family mould.
I wished
that thou shouldst live the life they lived:
But,
’tis a long time to look back, my Son
And see
so little gained from threescore years.
These
fields were burthened when they came to me;
Till I
was forty years of age, not more
Than
half of my inheritance was mine.
I toiled
and toiled; God blessed me in my work,
And till
these three weeks past the land was free.
—It
looks as if it never could endure
Another
Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,
If I
judge ill for thee, but it seems good
That
thou shouldst go.’
At this the old Man paused;
Then,
pointing to the stones near which they stood,
Thus,
after a short silence, he resumed:
‘This
was a work for us; and now, my Son,
It is a
work for me. But, lay one stone—
Here,
lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.
Nay,
Boy, be of good hope;—we both may live
To see a
better day. At eighty-four
I still
am strong and hale;—do thou thy part;
I will
do mine.—I will begin again
With
many tasks that were resigned to thee:
Up to
the heights, and in among the storms,
Will I
without thee go again, and do
All
works which I was wont to do alone,
Before I
knew thy face. —Heaven bless thee, Boy!
Thy
heart these two weeks has been beating fast
With
many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes—
I knew
that thou couldst never have a wish
To leave
me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me
Only by
links of love: when thou art gone,
What
will be left to us!—But, I forget
My
purposes: Lay now the corner-stone,
As I
requested; and hereafter, Luke,
When
thou art gone away, should evil men
Be thy
companions, think of me, my Son,
And of
this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,
And God
will strengthen thee: amid all fear
And all
temptations, Luke, I pray that thou
May’st
bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,
Who,
being innocent, did for that cause
Bestir
them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—
When
thou return’st, thou in this place wilt see
A work
which is not here: a covenant
’Twill
be between us; but, whatever fate
Befall
thee, I shall love thee to the last,
And bear
thy memory with me to the grave.’
The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped
down,
And, as
his Father had requested, laid
The
first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight
The old
Man’s grief broke from him; to his heart
He
pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept;
And to the
house together they returned.
—Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming
peace,
Ere the
Night fell:—with morrow’s dawn the Boy
Began
his journey, and when he had reached
The
public way, he put on a bold face;
And all
the neighbours, as he passed their doors,
Came
forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That
followed him till he was out of sight.
A good report did from their kinsman come,
Of Luke
and his well-doing: and the Boy
Wrote
loving letters, full of wondrous news,
Which,
as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout
‘The
prettiest letters that were ever seen.’
Both
parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
So, many
months passed on: and once again
The
Shepherd went about his daily work
With
confident and cheerful thoughts; and now
Sometimes
when he could find a leisure hour
He to
that valley took his way, and there
Wrought
at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began
To
slacken in his duty; and, at length,
He in
the dissolute city gave himself
To evil
courses: ignominy and shame
Fell on
him, so that he was driven at last
To seek
a hiding-place beyond the seas.
There is a comfort in the strength of love;
’Twill
make a thing endurable, which else
Would
overset the brain, or break the heart:
I have
conversed with more than one who well
Remember
the old Man, and what he was
Years
after he had heard this heavy news.
His
bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an
unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went,
and still looked up to sun and cloud,
And
listened to the wind; and, as before,
Performed
all kinds of labour for his sheep,
And for
the land, his small inheritance.
And to
that hollow dell from time to time
Did he
repair, to build the Fold of which
His
flock had need. ’Tis not forgotten yet
The pity
which was then in every heart
For the
old Man—and ’tis believed by all
That
many and many a day he thither went,
And
never lifted up a single stone.
There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen
Sitting
alone, or with his faithful Dog,
Then
old, beside him, lying at his feet.
The
length of full seven years, from time to time,
He at
the building of this Sheepfold wrought,
And left
the work unfinished when he died.
Three
years, or little more, did Isabel
Survive
her Husband: at her death the estate
Was
sold, and went into a stranger’s hand.
The
Cottage which was named THE EVENING STAR
Is
gone—the ploughshare has been through the ground
On which
it stood; great changes have been wrought
In all
the neighbourhood:—yet the oak is left
That
grew beside their door; and the remains
Of the
unfinished Sheepfold may be seen
Beside
the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.
