_The Lakes and the Lakers._
As I am now detailing my “Impressions of England,” I must leave out my
Scottish chapters, for Scotland is far too rich in material to be
smuggled into the world under any cover except its own. After a most
interesting visit to this romantic land, I again saw England as I
approached the Cumberland mountains, at Ecclefechan, and in spite of my
delight in Caledonia, I somehow felt that it was home. I reached “Gretna
Green” from a direction the opposite of that which is the fashion for
runaways, and hence saw nothing of “the blacksmith;” but I was informed
that he duly posts himself at the station when the train approaches from
the other direction, and very frequently finds customers. It is not now
as in the days of posting; and if a brace of lovers can make sure of a
train in advance of pursuers, they are quite safe. The next train may
bring the frantic friends and parents; but the wedding is already
performed, according to the barbarous law of North Britain. It has been
remarked as something singular, if not disgraceful, that several who
have risen to be Lord-Chancellors of the southern kingdom, were, in
early life, married in this way. After a moment’s pause at the Gretna
station, we were whirled across the Sark, with a glimpse of the Solway,
and soon I was in “merrie Carlisle.” I entered it, thanks be to Bishop
Percy, with special thoughts of “Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and
William of Cloudeslee.” The poetry of the town is, in fact, concentrated
in that ballad of ballads. As a border town, it has always been subject
to those fearful scenes and tragedies, which only war creates: and its
history is a romance, from the days of the Conquest to those of the
Pretender, whose flag once waved on its walls. It is charmingly
situated, and well watered by its three rivers; but its castle and its
cathedral are its chief objects of interest, and offer little that can
be described with effect, after a review of more striking specimens of
their kind. Among the tombs in the latter, is that of Archdeacon Paley,
the _moralist_, who “could not afford to keep a conscience.” I did not
regard it with any great emotion. The adjacent Deanery, at one time
inhabited by Bishop Percy, was more interesting to me, for whatever he
may have been as a bishop, I cannot doubt that his taste and industry in
literature have produced a vast result in the poetry and letters of his
native tongue. I have often amused myself, not only with his “ballads”
themselves, but with an effort to trace their immediate and remote
effects on the taste, and even upon the genius of England. They are very
striking, and prove what may be the lasting results of a very humble
sort of literary enterprise, when it is founded on “truths that wake to
perish never.”
I was in the region of the Lakes, and felt upon me already the powerful
influences which its great poets have left it for an heritage forever.
The noble range of the Cumberlands seemed to lift their monumental
heads, in memory of Southey and Wordsworth. I went to Kendal, and
sighted the castle where Katherine Parr was born, but was glad to take
the earliest train to Bowness. Welcome was the sight of Windermere,
brightly reflecting the evening sky, and encircled by an army of
mountains, lifting their bristling pikes as if to defend it, like a
virgin sister in her loveliness. Who can forget Dr. Arnold’s
enthusiastic return to this dear spot, from the Continent: his just
comparison of its charms with those of foreign scenes, and his close
noting of the very minutes that lingered as he hasted to his home at Fox
How? To me, there is all the heart of poetry in his honest effusion of
genuine English feeling. “I see the Old Man and the Langdale Pikes,
rising behind the nearer hills so beautifully! We open on Windermere,
and vain it is to talk of any earthly beauty ever equalling this
country, in my eyes. No Mola di Gaeta, no Valley of the Velino, no
Salerno or Vietri can rival, to me, this Vale of Windermere, and of the
Rotha. Here it lies in the perfection of its beauty, the deep shadows on
the unruffled water; and mingling with every form, and sound, and
fragrance, comes the full thought of domestic affections, and of
national and of Christian: here is our own house and home: here are our
own country’s laws and language: and here is our English Church!” Good!
glorious! every word. I can feel it all, and the last words more than he
did. It is to the Church that England owes all the rest, and yet that
_palladium_ (I hate the word) of England’s holiest, and dearest, and
best peculiarities, he would fain have Germanized! I believe, in my
heart, he was better than his theories, and would have been the first to
shrink from his own dreams of reform, had he lived to see them coming
into shape as realities. I cannot but follow his speaking
memoranda:—“Arrived at Bowness, 8.20; left at 8.31; passing Ragrigg
Gate, 8.37; over Troutbeck Bridge, 8.51; here is Ecclerigg, 8.58; and
here Lowood Inn, 9.04 and 30 seconds!” No fast man, at the Derby, ever
held his watch more breathlessly; he was speeding home, and there he was
in twenty minutes more, at his own “mended gate,” wife and darlings all
round papa, and so ends his journal! Oh, what so enviable as a home,
just here? My own is far away—and I stop at Lowood Inn, grateful for
such inns as England only affords, and proposing to spend such a Sunday
as England only hallows. I am not forgetful of my own dear land; I love
her Hudson, as I can never love even an English lake; but the janglings
of a Sunday in America, the unutterable wretchedness of perpetuated
quarrels among Christians, and all the sadness of religious disunion, in
its last stage of social disorganization, take away my sense of repose,
when I survey an American landscape, and the spires of our villages; and
who can measure the indifference, the atheism, and the godless contempt
for truth which all this breeds? Good Lord! when shall this plague of
locusts disappear from our sky? When shall all Christians who love
Christ in truth and soberness, agree to love one another?
At Lowood Inn I spent such a Sunday, as I had promised myself, at St.
Asaph. A morning and evening walk, by the lake, was its morning and
evening charm, and calm, sweet enjoyment of the service was its
substantial blessing. Here, Southey’s words came forcibly to mind, as I
recalled the common worship, in which my beloved friends, at home, were
uniting with me; the Prayer-book its blessed telegraph!
“Oh, hold it holy! it will be a bond
Of love and brotherhood, when all beside
Hath been dissolved; and though wide ocean roll
Between the children of _one_ fatherland,
This shall be their communion: they shall send,
Linked in one sacred feeling, at one hour,
In the same language, the same prayer to heaven,
And each remembering each in piety,
Pray for the other’s welfare.”
Early on Monday morning, in a fairy-like little steamer, I made a
circuit of the lake, enjoying fine weather, and delightful views. The
clouds took the shape of everything beautiful during the day, now
hanging over the “Pikes,” like legions of angels, and now building
themselves up into domes and cathedrals, upon the summits of the
everlasting hills. As for the lake itself, it is something between Lake
George and Cayuga Lake: its scenery in some parts, even finer than the
finest of the one, and its tamer parts, almost always equal to the best
of the other. Lake George, however, in its exceeding wildness, has its
own special charm for me; and Windermere is too artificially beautiful,
on the whole, to rival it. Towards noon, I went, by coach, to Grassmere,
passing through Ambleside, and by the late residence of Wordsworth, and
enjoying the views of Rydalmere, and Knab Scaur, and then of Grassmere
itself, with its sweet church, deep in the vale. The inn at Grassmere is
well placed, on a slight ascent from the valley, and provides a
toothsome repast for the tourist. I went on horse-back, over hill and
dale, to “Dungeon Ghyll,” a cataract well known to readers of
Wordsworth, but less interesting in itself, though curious as well as
pretty, than the scenery through which one passes to get there. The
mountain ranges, and peaks, as they come into sight, and seem to shift
their positions, are sufficient, I should think, to make the region ever
new in its peculiar attractions, especially when one takes into account
the endless variety imparted to such scenes by the different seasons,
hours of the day, states of the atmosphere, and conditions of sky and
clouds. Wise poets were these Lakers! And how “Kit North” must have
revelled in these palaces of nature! As I slowly returned, I caught my
last glimpse of Windermere, and then saw the vale of Grassmere, in its
evening beauty. Arrived at the churchyard, I sought the grave of
Wordsworth. A plain grave, and his name merely. The river rushing by
lulls his repose. A carriage drove up, and seeing a female mourner
approach, attended by a servant, or waiting-maid, I withdrew, and
pretended to be otherwise engaged. The lady scattered flowers on the
grave of the poet, and stood there awhile, musing. It was his widow; and
when she had left the sacred spot, I returned, and admired the fragrant
and beautiful tokens of her affection, which, as I learned, she every
day renews. I gathered some wild flowers, growing by the grave, and
resolved to bear them to Keswick, and leave them on the grave of
Southey. This pilgrimage I was determined to make, on foot; and having
arranged for my luggage to be sent to a convenient point, I started
accordingly, late in the afternoon, with a walk of twelve miles before
me; to do which, I gave myself three hours for the walking, and one for
resting and idling. I expected to reach Keswick by early moonlight, for
the moon was new, and the days long. Mine host thought it too late for a
start, after a fatiguing day; but I had practised in Scotland, and knew
my strength, and the inspiration of the spot was such that I felt no
weariness. On the contrary, it is impossible to describe the flow of
spirits with which I began and ended this walk. Passing Helm Crag, I
decided that the “old woman” on the top, is far more like a millenial
group, in colossal sculpture, for it greatly resembles a lion with a
lamb in its embrace. At every step, Wordsworth and Southey revive in
memory; every pebble seems to have attracted their love, and taken its
place in their poetry. After a long, but gradual ascent, we reach the
cairn that covers King Dunmail’s bones, and looking back at the charming
view, say farewell to Grassmere. In the distance, ahead, what looms up?
The guide-book says Skiddaw. There once lived Southey; there now he
sleeps. As I left this neighbourhood, I observed to my surprise, another
group on the mountain, in all respects like the “old woman,” only turned
the other way. Both are formed by loose rocks on the height of the
mountain; but I have seen no mention of this one. And now my way lay
along the base of the “mighty Helvellyn.” The road was easy to the foot,
and innumerable are its charms. I came to the lovely Thirlmere, or
Leatheswater: the views of the surrounding crags, and of the water
itself, wearing a more beautiful aspect, for the hour and the departing
daylight. Blue-bells were everywhere growing by the road, in handfulls.
I stopped to examine a stone which seems to record the death of a
Quaker’s favourite horse. A carriage came along, which proved to be full
of cockney tourists. One of them descended and read, as
follows:—“Thirtieth of ninth month, 1843;
“Fallen from ’is fellow’s side,
The steed beneath (h)is lying;
(H)in ’arness ’ere ’e died,
’Is (h)only fault was dying.”
The pathos with which these words were uttered was truly Pickwickian,
and the step from the sublime to the ridiculous was so effectually taken
by my feelings, that for a long way beyond, Helvellyn re-echoed to my
laughter. Passing Thirlmere, the sweet vale of St. John opened a
bewitching prospect, and I loved it for its name. Leaving it on my
right, I then turned toward Keswick, and as the last light of day
disappeared, there, before me, lay Derwentwater, the new moon shedding a
tremulous light on its bosom. This, then, was Southey’s own Keswick, and
Skiddaw rose over head! I slept soundly and sweetly at the “Royal Oak.”
In the morning, I took a barge, and was rowed round the lake, which did
not disappoint me. One of the men had been a servant of Southey’s, and
he told me many anecdotes of his master. “Yonder, it seems to me, I can
see him now,” said the fellow, “walking with a book in his hand.” He
described him as good to the poor, and said, “he often gave five
shillings, at a time, to my mother.” In wet weather he still took the
air, and walked well on clogs. I was much charmed with the islets of the
lake, and the singular traditions which invest them all with so much
interest. The romantic stories of the unfortunate family of
Derwentwater, whose earls were attainted for their share in the
Pretender’s rebellion, are partly connected with one of these islands,
and the lake itself seems made for a scene of romance. Windermere is not
to be compared with it. I was rowed to Lodore, and saw “how the water
comes down.” Sometimes ’tis a mere burlesque of the poem; but I saw it
in full force, and entirely justifying all the participles which the
genius of Southey has contrived to set going, like a cataract, out of
the fountain of his brain. After this, I swam in the lake, tempted to do
so by the double attraction of its pellucid waters, and its Castalian
associations.
I visited Southey’s grave, in Crosthwaite churchyard. ’Twas solemn to
see the grass growing, and its tall spears shaking in the breeze, over
the head of that fine genius, and the heart of that good and faithful
man. In the church, where he so often prayed, a superb statue of the
poet lies, at full length, on an altar-tomb. I placed in the marble hand
the flowers I had brought from the grave of Wordsworth, a tribute to
their friendship, and a token of my homage for both. Great and good men;
they were the “lucida sidera” of English literature, in a dark and evil
time and now that their sweet influence has triumphed over the clouds
and vapours which obscured their first rising, how calmly they shine, in
heaven, and brighten the scenes they have left behind!
Greta Hall, the poet’s late residence, stands a little back from the
road, in the shadow of Skiddaw. I paid a visit to a daughter of the
bard, who loves to linger near her father’s grave; and it was delightful
to observe the simplicity with which she entered into the enthusiasm of
a pilgrim to that shrine of her affections. The aged Mrs. Lovel, whose
name is familiar to the readers of Coleridge, and his contemporaries,
also allowed me to be presented to her. It was affecting to see a group
of Southey’s lovely little grand-children with her, in mourning for a
mother. They are richer in the heritage of his name and character than
if they were the heirs of the Derwentwaters, and restored to all their
honours and estates.
By coach to Penrith, by the vale of St. John, and Huttonmoor. On the
moor, I saw a cottage, with an inscription too deep for me, of which my
reader shall have the benefit. It was this:—
“I. W.
This building’s age, these letters show,
Though many gaze, yet few will know.
MD.CCXIX.”
A Waltonian puzzle in its quaintness, not to speak of the initials!
Driving by Graystoke, in which is an old town-cross, we had a sight of
its church and castle. But two odd-looking farm-houses, which we passed,
presenting at a distance the appearance of forts, surprised me more, by
their American names, “Mount Putnam,” and “Bunker-hill.” They were built
and named soon after the battle: and the whip laughed as he slyly
surmised, that the Duke of Norfolk, to whom they belong, “must have been
afraid the ’Mericans were coming over.” At Penrith, I visited the
extraordinary grave in the churchyard, called the _Giant’s_. Its history
is lost in the obscure of antiquity; but one _Owen_ is said to lie
there, at full length, the head and footstones being fifteen feet apart.
The stones are tall needles, of curious form, and covered with Runic
carvings and unintelligible words. Not far from Penrith, are some
ancient caverns, marked by traces of gigantic inhabitants, such as
iron-gratings, and other relics worthy of the habitation of Giant
Despair.
Next morning, we were favoured with a brilliant sky and cool breeze, and
I took the top of the coach for a drive across the country, through
Westmoreland, into Yorkshire. A sweet odour of hay-making filled the air
as we started; and soon we had fine views of Brougham-hall, and castle,
with a small adjoining park. A more interesting object to me was a small
column, by the roadside, celebrated by Wordsworth, called the Countess
of Pembroke’s Pillar. It was erected in the evil days of Cromwell, not
to celebrate a battle, or a crime, but as a monument of love. On that
spot, in her better days, the Lady Anne Clifford had parted, for the
last time, with her beloved mother, the Countess Dowager of Pembroke,
and she therefore caused this stone to be set as a memorial, and
inscribed accordingly. But she did yet more, for hard by is a stone
table, on which the anniversary of that parting is annually celebrated
by a dole of bread to the poor of the parish of Brougham, to pay for
which she left the annual sum of four pounds to the church forever. This
is giving a _stone_ to those who ask _bread_, in an orthodox way. The
inscription ends with _Laus Deo_; and my heart responded in the manner
which Wordsworth suggests. “Many a stranger,” he says, “though no clerk,
has responded Amen, as he passed by.” Our drive continued a pleasant one
till we came to Appleby, an interesting old town, through which runs the
river Eden. In its church are monuments of the Lady Anne Clifford and
her mother. At Brough, we came to an old castle, erected before the
Conquest. Its church has a pulpit, hewn of a single stone; and they tell
a good story of its bells. A worthy drover of the adjoining moors, once
brought a fine lot of cattle to market, promising to make them bellow
all together, and to be heard from Brough to Appleby. Accordingly with
the money they sold for, he gave the parish a peal of bells, which
constantly fulfils his vow. He deserves to be imitated by richer men. At
Brough the coach left me, and I took a post-chaise over the dreary
region of Stainmuir; dreary, just then, but not so in the
sporting-season, when the moor is alive with hunters and fowlers. At
Bowes, again, emerging from the moorlands, we came to the remains of a
castle, and to the less interesting relics of a school, which had
disappeared under the influence of a general conviction, that it was the
original “Dotheboys Hall.” A dull place is Bowes; but striking over a
rugged country, northward, I came soon into the charming valley of the
Tees, and so arrived at the secluded church and parsonage of Romaldkirk,
on a visit to a clergyman, who bearing my maternal name, and deriving
from the same lineage, in times long past, yet claimed me as a relative,
and welcomed me as a brother. I found a missionary from India,
addressing a few of his parishioners, in an adjoining school-house, and
there I first saw my hospitable friend, and joined with him in the
solemnities of a missionary meeting, among a few of the neighbouring
peasantry. With this estimable clergyman, and his family, I tarried till
the third day, enjoying greatly their attentive hospitalities, and
trying to catch trout in the Tees. The very sound of this rushing river
recalled the story of Rokeby, and amid its overhanging foliage, I almost
fancied I could see skulking the pirate-figure of Bertram Risingham.
I was not allowed to leave this happy roof unattended. The eldest son of
the family, a young Cantab, took me more than twenty miles, to Richmond,
through a most romantic country, allowing me to visit the ruins, near
Rokeby, and to stop at many interesting spots. We journeyed through
Barnard Castle, and by Egglestone Abbey, and met with several adventures
in our “search of the picturesque,” but at last emerged into the
surprising scenery of Richmond, which I found beautiful beyond all that
its name implies, and not unworthy of sharing it with its southern
namesake, on the Thames. It is the older of the two, and is remarkable
for something more than beauty. It has a touch of grandeur about it, and
the ruins of its old historic castle, on the banks of the Swale, full of
traditions of feudal sovereignty, and still massive and venerable in
appearance, give an imposing air of majesty to the town. The aspect of
the valley of the Swale is almost American, in its wildness, in many
parts, and I keenly relished even my railway journey through a region so
inviting to delay. I made my way to Leeds, where, amid smoke, and much
that is disagreeable, stands the interesting Church of St. Mary’s,
lately renewed and beautified by its faithful vicar, Dr. Hook. I had
barely time to visit this sacred place, and contenting myself with
having sighted Kirkstall Abbey, in the vale of Aire, I continued my
journey to my first English home, in Warwickshire. The glimpses of
Derbyshire scenery which I enjoyed, in my rapid journey, were full of
beauty: and the mishap of losing a trunk, gave me the opportunity of
putting to the test the fidelity of the English railway system. As soon
as I discovered that some blunder had been committed, I informed the
guard, and at the first station, telegraphic messages were despatched,
and in a short time my trunk followed me to the parsonage, where I
passed the Sunday with my friend.