Charles Lamb - The Collected Works of Charles Lamb and Mary Lamb

"Life's autumn past," says the grey-haired Wanderer,

——I stand on Winter's verge,

And daily lose what I desire to keep:

Yet rather would I instantly decline

To the traditionary sympathies

Of a most rustic ignorance, and take

A fearful apprehension from the owl

Or death-watch—and as readily rejoice,

If two auspicious magpies crossed my way;

This rather would I do than see and hear

The repetitions wearisome of sense,

Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place;—p. 168.

In the same spirit, those illusions of the imaginative faculty to which the peasantry in solitary districts are peculiarly subject, are represented as the kindly ministers of conscience :

——with whose service charged

They come and go, appear and disappear;

Diverting evil purposes, remorse

Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief,

Or pride of heart abating:

Reverting to more distant ages of the world, the operation of that same faculty in producing the several fictions of Chaldean, Persian, and Grecian idolatry, is described with such seductive power, that the Solitary, in good earnest, seems alarmed at the tendency of his own argument.—Notwithstanding his fears, however, there is one thought so uncommonly fine, relative to the spirituality which lay hid beneath the gross material forms of Greek worship, in metal or stone, that we cannot resist the allurement of transcribing it—

——triumphant o'er this pompous show

Of Art, this palpable array of Sense,

On every side encountered; in despite

Of the gross fictions, chaunted in the streets

By wandering Rhapsodists; and in contempt

Of doubt and bold denials hourly urged

Amid the wrangling Schools—a SPIRIT hung,

Beautiful Region! o'er thy Towns and Farms,

Statues and Temples, and memorial Tombs;

And emanations were perceived; and acts

Of immortality, in Nature's course,

Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt

As bonds, on grave Philosopher imposed

And armed Warrior; and in every grove

A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed

When piety more awful had relaxed.

"Take, running River, take these Locks of mine"—

Thus would the Votary say—"this severed hair,

My Vow fulfilling, do I here present,

Thankful for my beloved Child's return.

Thy banks, Cephissus, he again hath trod,

Thy murmurs heard; and drunk the chrystal lymph

With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip,

And moisten all day long these flowery fields."

And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed

Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose

Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired;

That hath been, is, and where it was and is

There shall be—seen, and heard, and felt, and known,

And recognized—existence unexposed

To the blind walk of mortal accident;

From diminution safe and weakening age;

While Man grows old, and dwindles, and decays;

And countless generations of Mankind

Depart; and leave no vestige where they trod.—p. 173.

In discourse like this the first day passes away.—The second (for this almost dramatic poem takes up the action of two summer days) is varied by the introduction of the village priest; to whom the Wanderer resigns the office of chief speaker, which had been yielded to his age and experience on the first. The conference is begun at the gate of the church-yard; and after some natural speculations concerning death and immortality—and the custom of funereal and sepulchral observances, as deduced from a feeling of immortality—certain doubts are proposed respecting the quantity of moral worth existing in the world, and in that mountainous district in particular. In the resolution of these doubts, the priest enters upon a most affecting and singular strain of narration, derived from the graves around him. Pointing to hillock after hillock, he gives short histories of their tenants, disclosing their humble virtues, and touching with tender hand upon their frailties.

Nothing can be conceived finer than the manner of introducing these tales. With heaven above his head, and the mouldering turf at his feet—standing betwixt life and death—he seems to maintain that spiritual relation which he bore to his living flock, in its undiminished strength, even with their ashes; and to be in his proper cure, or diocese, among the dead.

We might extract powerful instances of pathos from these tales—the story of Ellen in particular—but their force is in combination, and in the circumstances under which they are introduced. The traditionary anecdote of the Jacobite and Hanoverian, as less liable to suffer by transplanting, and as affording an instance of that finer species of humour, that thoughtful playfulness in which the author more nearly perhaps than in any other quality resembles Cowper, we shall lay (at least a part of it) before our readers. It is the story of a whig who, having wasted a large estate in election contests, retired "beneath a borrowed name" to a small town among these northern mountains, where a Caledonian laird, a follower of the house of Stuart, who had fled his country after the overthrow at Culloden, returning with the return of lenient times, had also fixed his residence.

——Here, then, they met,

Two doughty Champions; flaming Jacobite

And sullen Hanoverian! you might think

That losses and vexations, less severe

Than those which they had severally sustained,

Would have inclined each to abate his zeal

For his ungrateful cause; no—I have heard

My reverend Father tell that, mid the calm

Of that small Town encountering thus, they filled

Daily its Bowling-green with harmless strife;

Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the Church;

And vexed the Market-place. But in the breasts

Of these Opponents gradually was wrought,

With little change of general sentiment,

Such change towards each other, that their days

By choice were spent in constant fellowship;

And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke,

Those very bickerings made them love it more.

A favourite boundary to their lengthened walks

This Church-yard was. And, whether they had come

Treading their path in sympathy and linked

In social converse, or by some short space

Discreetly parted to preserve the peace,

One Spirit seldom failed to extend its sway

Over both minds, when they awhile had marked

The visible quiet of this holy ground

And breathed its soothing air;——

[ Seven lines omitted ].

—There live who yet remember to have seen

Their courtly Figures—seated on a stump

Of an old Yew, their favourite resting-place.

But, as the Remnant of the long-lived Tree

Was disappearing by a swift decay,

They, with joint care, determined to erect,

Upon its site, a Dial, which should stand

For public use; and also might survive

As their own private monument; for this

Was the particular spot, in which they wished

(And Heaven was pleased to accomplish their desire)

That, undivided their Remains should lie.

So, where the mouldered Tree had stood, was raised

Yon Structure, framing, with the ascent of steps

That to the decorated Pillar lead,

A work of art, more sumptuous, as might seem,

Than suits this Place; yet built in no proud scorn

Of rustic homeliness; they only aimed

To ensure for it respectful guardianship.

Around the margin of the Plate, whereon

The Shadow falls, to note the stealthy hours,

Winds an inscriptive Legend——At these words

Thither we turned; and gathered, as we read,

The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched.