All Things Wordsworth (Lake District–Days 2 and 3)

I love William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

I didn’t think I would be devoting an entire blog post to him. In my undergraduate days as an English major I encountered him only in passing, in a British Literature survey course that I have little memory of. In those days my attention was on 20th century American writers, particularly southern writers like Faulkner and Styron. I wasn’t drawn to the British Romantic poets; Wordsworth and Coleridge were but passing acquaintances.

Over the last two days my students and I have been immersed in Wordsworth lore. After a morning jaunt to a local waterfall with Tara and a few students, on Monday we spent the afternoon at Dove Cottage in Grassmere, the home that Wordsworth shared with his sister, Dorothy, from 1799 to 1808. With his sister’s aid Wordsworth composed some of his best known poems at this site, including “My Heart Leaps Up” and “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud“. Wordsworth worked on portions of his magnum opus, “The Prelude” here as well. In addition to touring the small home, we spent time in the attached museum and participated in a manuscript workshop that gave students the opportunity to handle some old Wordsworth first editions and manuscripts of letters written by him and his sister. You can tell that a museum is doing well when you leave it wanting to learn more about the subject. Dove Cottage did this to me. I left with a much deeper appreciation of the British Romantics in general, and Wordsworth in particular.

Tuesday (today) began with the students and I traveling with their English literature professor from Grassmere to the foot of Helm Crag, a small fell that sits above the town. While my calves and knees were already aching from my arduous hike up Scafell Pike on Sunday, I was eager for another hiking adventure, this one with nearly all of our students. The hike was great, just 3.5 miles round trip. There were some moments where the path was steep, but there were only a few moments of rain, the climbing was less dodgy than our Sunday hike, and we made it to the top of Helm Crag in good order.

Descending around noon, we spent some time at a nearby hotel cafe, sharing tea, coffee, and hot chocolate before heading back into Grassmere to meet our charter bus. We spent the remainder of the afternoon at Rydal Mount, Wordsworth’s home from 1813 until his death in 1850. The curator of the home offered a fabulous introduction to the home, describing Wordsworth’s method for composing poetry, which involved frequent walks through the gardens of Rydal Mount followed by trips to the home to recount verses for his sister to write down for him.

Surrounded by the fells, the trees, the flowing water, and the pastoral scenes of sheep grazing in fields rimmed by stony walls that have stood for generations, I can see why Wordsworth connection to this region provided such inspiration for the poetry he wrote. I love how Wordsworth’s work is so accessible to everyday readers. The highlight of the last two days by far was the conclusion of our time at Rydal Mount. It just so happened that our group was at the home at the same time as Christopher Wordsworth Andrews, one of William’s living descendants. As we ended our time inside the home, we gathered in the living room, and there Christopher read for all of us three of his favorite Wordsworth poems. It was magical, as if a thread was connecting the past to the present, drawing us closer to this iconic English poet who for a moment seemed to step out of the pages of history. I bought a collection of Wordsworth’s poetry in the gift shop. Christopher was gracious enough to sign it for me. It will become a treasured possession from this semester.

I can’t help but close by sharing one of the poems we listened to at Rydal Mount. I hope that blog readers will take heed. Read it slowly. Read it aloud. I hope the words may move you as much as they do me, even now.

"There was a Boy"--William Wordsworth

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander! many a time,
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls
That they might answer him.—And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause
Of silence such as baffled his best skill:
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This boy was taken from his mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale
Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs
Upon a slope above the village-school;
And through that churchyard when my way has led
On summer-evenings, I believe that there
A long half-hour together I have stood
Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies!