Having grown up in the neighbourhood of Alfred Tennyson’s old home at Lincolnshire, I had been struck with the swiftness with which,

            As year by year the labourer tills
            His wonted glebe, or lops the glades,

the memories of the poet of the Somersby Wold had faded ‘from off the circle of the hills.’ I had been astonished to note how little interest was taken in him or his fame, and how seldom his works were met with in the houses of the rich or poor in the very neighbourhood. (p. 10)

It was natural that, coming to reside in the Lake country, I should endeavour to find out what of Wordsworth’s memory among the men of the Dales still lingered on,—how far he was still a moving presence among them,—how far his works had made their way into the cottages and farm-houses of the valleys. (p. 10)….

The testimony of the witnesses I have been fortunate enough to bring before you seems to agree in depicting Wordsworth as he painted himself, a plain man, continually murmuring his undersong as he passed along by brook and woodland, pacing the ground with unuplifted eye, but so retired, that even the North country peasant, who does even yet recognise the social differences of class and caste that separate and divide ‘the unknown little from the unknowing great,’ was unable to feel at home with him.  ‘Not a very companionable man at the best of times’ was their verdict.  But I think all the while these dalesmen seem to have felt that if the poet was not of much count as a worldly-wise farm or shepherd authority, nor very convivial and free and easy as li’le Hartley was, nor very athletic and hearty as Professor Wilson, there was a something in the severe-faced, simply habited man ‘as said nowt to neabody’ that made him head and shoulders above the people, and bade them listen and remember when he spoke, if it was only on the lopping of a tree or the building of a chimney-stack.  ‘He was a man of a very practical eye, and seemed to see everything,’ was the feeling. (p. 40)

And turning from the poet to his wife, whilst one can see how the household need of economy in early Town End days have her to the last the practical power of household management that had almost passed into a proverb, one can see also how true was that picture of the

            Being breathing thoughtful breath,
            .           .           .           .           .          
            A perfect woman, nobly planned,
            To warn, to comfort, and command.

‘He never knawed, they say, what he was wuth, nor what he hed i’ t’ house.’  She did it all.  Then, too, it is touching to notice how deep and true the constant love between man and wife was seen to be, how truly companions for life they were, and that, too, in the eyes of a class of people who never saw that

            Beauty born of murmuring sound
            Had passed into her face,

and half marvelled that the spirit wed with spirit was so marvellously close than fleshly bond to flesh. (pp. 40-41)

Upright, the soul of honour, and for that reason standing high with all; just to their servants; well meaning and quiet in their public life; full of affection in their simple home life; so it seems the poet and his wife lived and died.  Thought a deal of for the fact that accounts were strictly met at the tradesmen’s shops, they were thought more of because they were ever ready to hear the cry of the suffering, and to enter the doors of those ready to perish. (p. 41)

I do not think I have been able to tell the world anything new about the poet or his surroundings.  But the man ‘who hedn’t a bit of fish in him, and was no mountaineer,’ seems to have been in the eyes of the people always at his studies; ‘and that because he couldn’t help it, because it was his hobby,’ for sheer love, and not for money.  This astonished the industrious money-loving folk, who could not understand the doing work for ‘nowt,’ and perhaps held the poet’s occupation in somewhat lighter esteem, just because it did not bring in ‘a deal o’ brass to the pocket.’  I think it is very interesting, however, to notice how the woman part of the Rydal Mount family seemed to the simple neighbourhood to have the talent and mental ability; and there must have been, both about Dorothy Wordsworth and the poet’s daughter Dora, a quite remarkable power of inspiring the minds of the poor with whom they came in contact, with a belief in their intellectual faculties and brightness and cleverness.  If Hartley Coleridge was held by some to be Wordsworth’s helper, it was to Dorothy he was supposed by all to turn if ‘ivver he was puzzelt.’ The women had ‘the wits, or best part of ’em.’—this was proverbial among the peasantry, and, as having been an article of rural faith, it has been established out of the mouths of all the witnesses it has been my lot to call. (pp. 41-2)

(Reminiscences of Wordsworth among the Peasantry of Westmoreland)

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The time to see the Rigi is the end of May.  Then the patchiness of the snow sheet has faded into the light brown or vivid green of the alpine pasturage.  Then everywhere on the lower slopes the fresh bright emerald of the beech is seen against the green waterflood.  And then, while here the crocus myriads are seen whitening the ground, there the soldanella purples the pathside, and the greater and lesser gentians jewel the grass; while always in wet places by the upland springs the marsh marigold shines like fire right to the mountain summit.  And then, too, the visitors are not in such numbers as to take away the sense of mountain solitude.  The day is right for the expedition, a light wind blows from the east, and a cloud-pack shines like fleecy silver upon the head of Pilatus.  There will be shadows on the hills and shadows on the lake; we shall find our Maytime sunshine tempered for us. (pp. 114-115)

It is 10.15 A.M., and the steamers from Lucerne and Flüelen hoot to us that they are bringing their contribution to the Rigi muster; the sound of their voice rises up the rosy Rossenwand, and echoes, echoes, echoes far and near.  We take our seats on the left-hand side of the railway car, and are soon being pushed by a strong hand, with a little tremolo in it, away up above the red roofs and the village church, and the pleasant gardens filled with the scent of laburnum and lilac, and jocund with the voice of the blackbird.  The lake grows to a deeper green beneath the pear trees as we ascend; the Bürgenstock appears more beautiful.  Still as we go up the pinnacles of Pilatus, hidden before, seem to shoot into the heaven, and whilst the white Wallenstock shines out between the Stanserhorn and the Buochserhorn, its beauty seems soon to be eclipsed by the Wetterhorn mass and the Brienzer-Rothhorn range, far away beyond the lake of Sarnen, far away above the Brünig Pass.  It is worthwhile looking upward from time to time on the right-hand side of the carriage, if only to see how grandly the rose-red cliffs of the Dossenwand rise up above the pine trees and the pastures to heaven’s blue. (pp. 115-116)

We cross the deep ravine of the Grubisbach, people flushed in face, and in their shirt sleeves are walking up through the orchards on our left by the path we traversed in the old days before the Rigibahn.  We are at Freibergen, and already have passed the land of columbine, and reached the zone of cherry-blossom, which has disappeared for weeks from the lakeside.  Magnificent meadows of silver and gold are awaiting the mower’s scythe.  Can anything more lovely be imagined than that filmy cloud of feathery flower which the fragrant wild parsley has laid in unfading beauty upon the Maytide slope.  My delight in the vision is a little marred by the voice of an American lady.  ‘Say, pa, what’s this flower?’  ‘’Taint no flower at all, it’s jest a weed.’  But all the while that orchard slope of fragrant parsley cloud, though it was ‘jest a weed,’ haunted one for utter loveliness as it lay cream-white against the emerald lake and the deep blue Bürgenstock beyond. (p. 116)

Suddenly flowers and lake and distant scene were veiled by clouds that seemed to be space like lawn out of blue air and came floating up from beneath.  Then a great meteor flashed into being out Alpnach way.  Another daystar seemed to have broken from underground in the East.  It was in reality a rift in the cloud-veil that gave us sight of Sarnen shining in the sun.  The clouds dispersed as swiftly as they gathered.  Lucerne blue and beautiful as ever lay below and Pilatus lifted grey and cloudless to a clear heaven. (pp. 116-117)

Between Freibergen and Felsenthor we enter the woody belt where the beech trees gradually give way to the darker spruces, and after Felsenthor we are on the true Alp, and only want the presence of the feeding kine to fulfil with their cattle-bells the chord of mountain harmony.  Kaltbad is reached, such a mighty cluster of building as would make one believe that a city of the plain had suddenly, by some enchanter’s wand, been wafted hither.  It is a deserted city to-day, the 28th of May, except so far as sundry painters are concerned.  The leaves on the plane trees are not out, the flowers have not yet been placed in their beds, and remembering as one does the throng in mid-August one is grateful for the silences, and so we pass on towards the rosy-red ‘dependance’ that has been lately built, to gain the famous terrace walk to Kanzeli.  One feels a little like a prisoner on exercise as one passes along the walk now, for one is hedged in by a fence all the way, with little doors right and left of one, opening on to shady walks with pleasant seats, on which are notices to the effect that only those who are guests at the Kaltbad may pass to these charmed paradises.  But at any rate one’s eyes have free wanderground, and those who wish to see Pilatus in its beauty, and the way in which Lucerne lies upon its tower-girdled slope, or again, who care to gaze down upon the Küssnacht waters, and the great plain towards the north, with Sempach and the lakes of Hallwyl and Baldegg shining like jewels in the mist, will know no better point of vantage on the Rigi at this level than the Känzeli.  Of course one has to suffer the inevitable bore of refusing to use a telescope, or to drink fresh milk, or buy postcards; but having run the gauntlet, the old man of the mountain leaves one in peace, and one can fill one’s soul with luxury of light, and colour, and mountain shape, and beauty of cloud-birth on far shining hills. (pp. 117-118)

(Flower-Time at the Oberland, pp.112-126)

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Sir,—To avoid error and for the information of many kind friends who have subscribed to this undertaking, I write to say that through the kind offices of Colonel Fitzgerald we have been able to obtain from the Ministry of Munitions a suitable hut on loan from Gretna to be under his superintendence, on the condition that we pay for its removal and re-erection and return it when it is no longer needed.  The hut is 30ft. long and 40ft. wide, and is divided into three parts, giving accommodation for tea arrangements, for a recreation room, and a billiard room.  The cost of re-erection and re-decoration and repair, with the necessary laying on of water, electric light, etc., is costly owing to scarcity of labour, and we shall not have in hand more funds than are necessary for running the hut.  This obliges me to appeal to the kindness of my fellow-townsmen to help by gifts of furniture, strong chairs, tables, curtains, covering for the floor, door mats, games, books, etc.  I have been unable thus far to obtain either on loan or hire a second-hand piano, which is badly needed.  With regard to the billiard table I have approached Sir Edgar Sanders….  I am co-operating with the chaplain at Fusehill, the Rev. B. Hayland, who is warmly interested, and will organise a Committee to manage the hut.

(Carlisle Journal, 8 November 1918, p. 5)

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“To His compassionate Excellency,
One Ram Buksh who is ready to die—
He in the light, and I in the dark,
He full sun and I but a spark—
Prayeth.  I once like a wild goat ran,
Tigers right to their lair would trace,
Met the elephant face to face,
Smote the leopard, and slew the buck,
Strangled the cobra before he struck;
Pride of the village, beloved of my wife,
Now am I stricken and weary of life;
Under the whole community’s ban,
A lonely, loathsome, leprous man.

“I, the hunter, so strong, so fleet,
Now the hunted, scarce crawl on my feet,
No whole part of my body sound,
One huge festering, fearful wound.
Though my soul weep sore, no tear on my cheek,
Lidless eyes that shrink from the glare,
Ears decayed, where was hair, no hair,
Nose shrunk inwards so none can trace
The look of a man in my knotted face.
Toes! they have withered off one by one,
There falls my last forefinger’s bone!
So wizened my windpipe, lungs so weak,
Though my heart cry loud my lips scarce speak.

“Weary of being: Hear my cry!
I, Ram Buksh, for I fain would die.
My life is a plague-spot here on earth,
I am loathed by the mother that gave me birth:
The Pariah dogs when they scent me near
Growl and slink to their offal heap,
I am weary of waking, I fain would sleep
It is known to all, if a leper consent
To be buried alive, the gods are content:
And never afflict his village again
With the leper’s curse and the leper’s pain.
I am willing to die: yea, I have no fear;
Cherisher of the afflicted, hear!

“The sun is sweet in the heaven still,
May it shine for you! but the high gods’ will,
And the wish of the village I full well know,
Is that I, the leper, to death should go;
Dust in my mouth till my mouth cease breath,
For so the gods will alone give ease,
And save the village from sore disease:
So will this plague of my body’s rot
Pass from the people and be forgot;
So never more will the leper crawl
A carrion corpse in the shade of the wall!
Oh compassionate! hear what he saith,
Ram Buksh, the leper, and grant him death.

“Hear the prayer of a leper! Forgive
The wish of the living not to live;
For the will of my heart that still must beat
Is to lie beneath the dust of the street,
Out of sight of mine own wife’s eyes,
Out of sound of the hunter’s rout
When they bring the tiger home with a shout,
Where the heavy curse I shall no more hear,
The earth is a lighter load to bear!
But the law is good—you are law to the land—
Wherefore I beg this boon of your hand,
To lie beneath where no torment lies,
For the people’s sake and for Paradise.”

…………

Thus, that his brothers escape the ban,
Prayed Ram Buksh, the leper man.

……………

On Monday, January 13th, 1890, H.R.H. the Prince of Wales presided at a subscription dinner at the Hôtel Métropole, in aid of the National Leprosy Fund.  Father Damien’s brother was of the company.  Speaking of the lepers in India, the Prince stated that there were considerably over 200,000 of them, and that not more than one per cent. were in hospitals or asylums in 1887.

The vast majority of these roamed over the country as beggars—shunned, friendless, and uncared for, until they dropped down and died, or perhaps drowned themselves in some public well.  Let me—continued the Prince—read to you one of the saddest and most pathetic petitions I have ever heard of, which was presented by a leper to the late Lord Lawrence when he was Viceroy.—

“Hail, Cherisher of the Afflicted,—Be it known to your enlightened mind that your devoted servant has been a leper for many years.  My limbs have fallen off piece by piece; my whole body has become a mass of corruption.  I am weary of life.  I wish to die.  My life is a plague and a disgust to the whole village, and my death is earnestly longed for.  It is well known to all that for a leper to consent to die, to permit himself to be buried alive, is approved of by the gods, who will never afflict another individual of the same village with a similar malady.  Therefore, I solicit your permission to be buried alive.  The whole village wishes it, and I am happy and content to die.  You are the ruler of the land, and without your leave it would be criminal.  I hope that I may obtain my prayer.  I pray that the sun of prosperity may shine on you.—(Signed) RAM BUKSH, Leper.”

This petition, it is hardly necessary to say, Lord Lawrence did not grant, but the unfortunate leper was nevertheless buried alive a day or two afterwards.

(Poems, Ballads, and Bucolics, p. 168)

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