Jonathan Wordsworth, M. H. Abrams and Stephen Gill's
Transcription of MS JJ.
(Norton Critical Edition, 1979)
The Norton Critical Edition does not in fact create a single text called "MS JJ". Instead it presents the material as a series of "MS Drafts and Fragments 1798-1804" (487).
a. A connected sequence of 150 lines corresponding to 1799, I, 1-26 (with 4 extra lines), 50-66, 130-41, 186-98 (4 extra lines), 28-49, a twenty-five-line version of 375-90, 391-412 (5 extra lines). (487). |
was it for this |
That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved |
To blend his murmurs with my nurse’s song, |
And from his alder shades and rocky falls, |
And from his fords and shallows sent a voice |
To intertwine my dreams? For this didst thou |
O Derwent, travelling over the green plains |
Near my sweet birth-place, didst thou, beauteous stream, |
Give ceaseless music to the night and day, |
Which with its steady cadence tempering |
Our human waywardness, compose[d] my thoughts |
To more than infant softness, giving me |
Amid the fretful tenements of man |
A knowledge, a dim earnest, of the calm |
That Nature breathes among her woodland h[aunts]? |
Was it for this – and now I speak of things |
That have been, and that are, no gentle dreams |
Complacent fashioned fondly to adorn |
The time of unrememberable being – |
Was it for this that I, a four years' child, |
Beneath thy scars & in thy silent pools |
Made one long bathing of a summers day, |
Basked in the sun, or plunged into thy streams, |
Alternate, all a summers day, or coursed |
Over thy sandy plains, and dashed the flowers |
Of yellow grundsel; or, when the hill-tops, |
The woods, and all the distant mountains, |
Were bronzed with a deep radiance, stood alone |
A naked savage in the thunder shower? |
For this in springtime, when on southern banks |
The shining sun had from his knot of leaves |
Decoyed the primrose flower, and when the vales |
And woods were warm, was I a rover then |
In the high places, on the lonely peaks, |
Among the mountains and the winds. Though mean |
And though inglorious were my views, the end |
Was not ignoble. Oh, when I have hung |
Above the ravens nest, have hung alone |
By half-inch fissures in the slippery rock |
But ill sustained, and almost, as it seemed, |
Suspended by the wind which blew amain |
Against the naked cragg, ah, then, |
While on the perilous edge I hung alone, |
With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind |
Blow through my ears; the sky seemed not a sky |
Of earth, and with what motion moved the clouds! |
Ah, not in vain ye beings of the hills, |
And ye that walk the woods and open heaths |
By moon or starlight, thus from my first day |
Of childhood, did ye love to interweave |
The passions [ ] |
Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, |
But with high objects, with eternal things, |
With life and Nature, purifying thus |
The elements of feeling and of thought, |
And sanctifying by such discipline |
Both pain and fear, untill we recognize |
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. |
Ah, not in vain ye spirits of the springs, |
And ye that have your voices in the clouds, |
And ye that are familiars of the lakes |
And standing pools, ah, not for trivial ends |
Through snow and sunshine and the sparkling plains |
Of moonlight frost, and through the stormy day, |
Did ye with such assiduous love pursue |
Your favourite and your joy. I may not think |
A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed |
Such ministry, when ye through many a year |
Thus by the agency of boyish sports, |
Impressed upon the streams, the woods, the hills – |
Impressed upon all forms – the characters |
Of danger and desire, and thus did make |
The surface of the universal earth |
With meanings of delight, of hope and fear, |
Work like a sea. |
For this, when on the withered mountain slope |
The frost and breath of frosty wind had nipped |
The last autumnal crocus, did I love |
To range through half the night among the cliffs |
And the smooth hollows where the woodcocks ran |
Along the moonlight turf? In thought and wish |
That time my shoulder all with springes hung, |
I was a fell destroyer. Gentle powers, |
Who give us happiness & call it peace, |
When scudding on from snare to snare I plied |
My anxious visitation, hurrying on, |
Still hurrying, hurrying onward, how my heart |
Panted: among the lonely eugh-trees and the crags |
That looked upon me, how my bosom beat |
With hope and fear! Sometimes strong desire |
Resistless over came me and the bird |
Th[at] was the captive of another’s toils |
Became my prey, and when the deed [was done] I heard among the solitary hills |
Low breathings coming after me and sounds |
Of indistinguishable motion, steps |
Almost as silent as the turf they trod. |
Nor while, thou[gh] doubting yet not lost, I tread |
The mazes of this argument, and paint |
How Nature by collateral interest |
And by extrinsic passion peopled first |
My mind with beauteous objects, may I well |
Forget what might demand a loftier song, |
How oft the eternal spirit – he that has |
His life in unimaginable things, |
And he who painting what he is in all |
The visible imagery of all the worlds |
Is yet apparent chiefly as the soul |
Of our first sympathies – oh bounteous power, |
In childhood, in rememberable days, |
How often did thy love renew for me |
Those naked feelings which when thou wouldst form |
A living thing thou sendest like a breeze |
Into its infant being. Soul of things, |
How often did thy love renew for me |
Those hallowed and pure motions of the sense |
Which seem in their simplicity to own |
An intellectual charm – that calm delight |
Which if I err not surely must belong |
To those first-born affinities which fit |
Our new existence to existing things, |
And in our dawn of being constitute |
The bond of union betwixt life & joy. |
Yes, I remember when the changeful earth |
And twice five seasons on my mind had stamped |
The faces of the changeful year, even then, |
A child, I held unconscious intercourse |
With the eternal beauty, drinking in |
A pure organic pleasure from the lines |
Of curling mist, or from the smooth expanse |
Of waters coloured by the cloudless moon. |
The sands of Westmoorland, the creeks and bays |
Of Cumbria’s rocky limits, they can tell How when the sea threw off his evening shade |
And to the shepherd's hut beneath the craggs |
Did send sweet notice of the rising moon, |
How I have stood to images like this |
A stranger, linking with the spectacle |
No body of associated forms, |
And bearing with [me] no peculiar sense |
Of quietness or peace – yet I have stood |
Even while my eye has moved o'er three long leagues |
Of shining water, gathering, as it seemed, |
[ ] |
New pleasure like a bee among the flowers. |
Nor unsubservient even to noblest ends |
Are these primordial feelings. How serene |
How calm those seem amid the swell |
Of human passion – even yet I feel |
Their tranquillizing power. |
b. Revisions of (a), 102-15 towards 1799, I, 375-82, resulting en route in a version of I, 68-80. (490). |
i |
How while I ran where'er the working heat |
Of passion drove me at that thoughtless time |
A power unknown would open out the clouds |
As with the touch of lightning, seeking me |
With gentle visitation then unknown |
ii |
Nor in that thoughtless season [?may I well] |
Forget that other pleasures have been mine |
And joys of purer origin, for oft |
While thus I wandered doubting |
iii |
for often-times |
In that tempestuous season I have felt |
iv |
Yes, there are genii which when they would form |
A favoured spirit open out the clouds |
As with the touch of lightning, seeking him |
With gentle visitation. Others use, |
Though haply aiming at the self-same end, |
[?Severer] interference, ministry |
Of grosser kind, and of their school was [I]. |
(c) Lines that became 1799, I, 82-129; presumably written for insertion in the consecutive text of (a), and perhaps – as finally in 1799 – to be introduced by (b), iv, above (however, see [e], below). Lines 26-46 below are presented in Wordsworth's second draft, since the first draft in the MS. breaks down before the sequence is established. (491). |
I went alone into a shepherd’s boat, |
A skiff, which to a willow-tree was tied |
With [in] [ ], its usual home |
The moon was up, the lake was shining clear |
Among the hoary mountains; from the shore |
I pushed, and struck the oars, and struck again |
In cadence, and my little boat moved on |
Just like a man who walks with stately step |
Though bent on speed. It was an act of stealth |
And troubled pleasure. Not 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. A rocky steep uprose |
Above the cavern of the willow-tree, |
And as beseemed a man who proudly rowed |
With his best speed, I fixed a steady view |
Upon the top of that same shaggy ridge, |
The bound of the horizon – for behind |
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky. |
She was an elfin pinnace; twenty times |
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 rocky steep, till then |
The bound of the horizon, a huge cliff |
As if with voluntary power instinct, |
Upreared its head. I struck, and struck again, |
And growing still in stature, the huge cliff |
Rose up between me and the stars, and still, |
With measured motion, like a living thing |
Strode after me. With trembling hands I turned, |
And through the silent water stole my way |
Back to the willow tree, the mooring-place |
Of my small bark. |
Unusual was the power |
Of that strange sight: for many days my brain |
Worked with a dim & undetermined sense |
Of unknown modes of being. In my thoughts |
There was a darkness – call it solitude, |
Or [?strange] desertion – no familiar shapes |
Of hourly objects, 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 my mind |
By day, and were the trouble of my dreams. |
(d) Lines that finally became 1805, V, 389-413; probably written for 1799, but excluded on grounds no longer obvious. (492). |
There was a boy – ye knew him well, ye rocks |
And islands of Winander, and ye green |
Peninsulas of Esthwaite – many a time |
[ ] when the stars began |
To move along the edges of the hills, |
Rising or setting, would he stand alone |
Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lakes, |
And through his fingers woven in one close knot |
Blow mimic hootings to the silent owls, |
And bid them answer him. And they would shout |
Across the wat'ry vale, and shout again, |
Responsive to my call, with tremulous sobs |
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud, |
Redoubled and redoubled – a wild scene |
Of mirth and jocund din. And when it chanced |
That pauses of deep silence mocked my skill, |
Then often in that silence, while I hung |
Listening, a sudden shock of mild surprize |
Would carry far into my heart the voice |
Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene |
Would enter unawares into my mind |
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, |
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received |
Into the bosom of the steady lake. |
(e) Version of 1799, I, 67-80, copied by Dorothy from dictation in state intermediate between (b), iv, above and the final text, and leading at this stage into I, 28ff. (492). |
The soul of man is fashioned and built up |
Just like a strain of music. I believe |
That there are spirits which, when they would form |
A favored being, open out the clouds |
As at the touch of lightning, seeking him |
With gentle visitation; and with such, |
Though rarely, in my wanderings I have held |
Communion. Others too there are who use, |
Yet haply aiming at the self-same end, |
Severer interventions, ministry |
Of grosser kind – and of their school was I. |
And oft when on the withered mountain slope |
The frost and breath |
(f) Eight-line version of 1799, I, 460-64 (conclusion of Part I). (493) |
i |
Those beauteous colours of my early years |
Which make the starting-place of being fair |
And worthy of the goal to which the[y] tend – |
Those recollected hours that have the charm |
Of visionary things, and lovely forms |
And sweet sensations, which throw back our life |
And make our infancy a visible scene |
On which the sun is shining. |
ii |
islands in the unnavigable depth |
Of our departed time |
(g) "I would not strike a flower" (Oxford "Prelude," pp. 612-14), lines 1-12, with five additional lines, plus two separate drafts, the second contributing to "I would not strike," 14-15. A connection between these passages and 1799 is not to be ruled out. |
i |
I would not strike a flower |
As many a man would strike his horse; at least |
If from the wantonness in which we play |
With things we love, or from a freak of power, |
Or from involuntary act of hand, |
Or foot unruly with excess of life, |
It e'er should chance that I ungently used |
A tuft of [ ], or snapped the stem |
Of foxglove bending o'er his native rill, |
I should be loth to pass along my road |
With unreproved indifference – I would stop |
Self-questioned, asking wherefore that was done. |
For, seeing little worthy or sublime |
In what we blazon with the names of power |
And action, I was early taught to love |
Those unassuming things, that occupy |
A silent station in this beauteous world. |
ii |
Let each thing have |
Its little lot of life, but more than all, |
The things that live in peace |
iii |
Then dearest maiden on whose lap I rest |
My head [ ], do not deem that these |
Are idle sympathies |
(h) Six separate jottings made probably during the composition of (a), above, numbers i-iii providing finally lines 20 and 43-47 of the Glad Preamble (1805, I, 1-54), v contributing, less certainly, to 1805, III, 546-49, and vi becoming (a) lines 61-62, above. |
i |
a mild creative breeze, |
A vital breeze which passes gently on |
O'er things which it has made, and soon becomes |
A tempest, a redundant energy, |
Creating not but as it may [ ], |
Disturbing things created |
ii |
a storm not terrible but strong, |
With lights and shades, and with a rushing power |
iii |
trances of thought |
And mountings of the mind, compared to which |
The wind that drives along th'autumnal leaf |
Is meekness |
iv |
what there is |
Of subtler feeling, of remembered joy, |
Of soul and spirit, in departed sound |
That cannot be remembered |
v |
a plain of leaves |
Whose matted surface spreads for many leagues, |
A level prospect such as shepherds view |
From some high promontory when the sea |
Flames, and the sun is setting |
vi |
familiars of the standing pools |