DAYLIGHT VERSUS MOONLIGHT—POSSIBLE RESULTS OF MOONLIGHT LAKING OR
LOVE-MAKING—CONISTONE HALL—“THE HALL CLIPPING”—VALE OF YEWDALE—YEWDALE
CRAGS—OLD YEW TREE—RAVEN CRAG—HUNTING INCIDENT.
[Sidenote: MONITION.]
Some harmless individuals who desiderate the reputation of a taste
for the romantic, and fancy that such reputation is to be attained by
affecting to think differently from the ordinary race of observers,
maintain that this lake and the circumjacent landscape, like the ruins
of Melrose, as described (unseen, except by daylight) by Sir Walter
Scott, are seen to most advantage by moonlight. I don't agree with
them! The beauties around you are so numerous, so diversified, such
perfect realities, and the deformities or defects in the scenery are
so few and so minute, that no softening or shadowing is required to
enhance a reasonable man’s enjoyment of the loveliness of Conistone.
The more extensively, and the more distinctly its features are
developed, the more must it be admired. As with some rare specimens
of human nature, “the more you see of it, the better you like it.”
Therefore, be it mine to gaze upon, to exhibit and to dilate upon the
attractions of this “our own fair vale,” just when the “sun of the
morning” has mopped up the mists of the night,—when mountains and mere,
crags and cottages, woods and waterfalls, fields and fell-sides, are
fairly lighted up, and fully brought into view in all their proud
proportions, and in all their contrasted colours. And, moreover, as
Conistone is best seen under
“One unclouded blaze of living light,”
so will any susceptible young gentleman like yourself best consult
his well-being by forswearing all loitering by moonlight, whether for
laking or love-making purposes. I myself, in those days “when hope was
high and life was young,” grievously deteriorated my mental quiet,
as well as my physical comfort, by indulging in these too natural
propensities, as may be evidenced by the following rhymes which, under
the retrospect of wounded feelings and aching bones, I felt constrained
to indite, and now offer to you by way of caution against yielding to
the promptings of an excitable imagination; and, first, what say you to
this?
MATTER OF MOONSHINE.
Where the hazels droop o'er a lake-laved slope,
Sat a sweet little maid and I,
And a chastened light lay softly bright
On water, wood, and sky;
For the lovely moon, in the “lift aboon,”
Was 'shrined on her azure throne,
And bright and clear in the slumbering mere
Her mirrored semblance shone.
We were silent both, and the evening moth
Was the only life that stirred,
And the far, faint roll of the waterfall
The only sound we heard;
Till soft and slow did a murmur low
Come on through the quivering trees,
And the boughs of the brake and the reeds of the lake
Were bent by a passing breeze.
And still did we lean on our couch so green—
That sweet little maid and I—
And we marked its course as, with lessening force,
The breeze swept ruffling by.
Whilst the lake rippled o'er from shore to shore,
And shattered the moonbeams bright,
Till that mirror broad o'er its surface showed
One shivering sheet of light.
But it passed away, and the waters lay
Once more in their holy sleep,
With the orb so fair still glittering there
In their bosom dark and deep;
When that sweet little maid glanced up and said,
With her smile so fond and free,
“I can tell you how what we've witnessed now
May apply to you and me:
If yon radiant light that adorns the night,
Seem the light of my love for you,
And her form beneath your answering faith
So perfect, deep, and true;
If that breeze appear any transient care
That may ruffle your bosom’s rest,
Then they shew that my love will the brighter prove,
When peace forsakes your breast.”
Long years have fled since that sweet little maid
Thus sweetly said to me,
And as seasons change, will the fancies range
Of maidens young as she.
And from hopes of bliss, in a life like this,
Will dreamers all awake—
And all that was said by that sweet little maid,
Was as moonshine on the lake.
So much for mental quiet; the next, as the show people say, will be for
physical comfort, viz.:—
'Twas eve, and over Walna Scar the sun had sought the west,
And shades of night were settling thick o'er Thurston’s glassy breast,
But yet I lingered on the lake as loath to leave a scene
So lovely as, ere day’s decline, fair Conistone had been.
When over Hawkshead’s heights arose a mild and mellow light,
Announcing, with its silver sheen, the coming Queen of Night;
And now I lingered on the lake her advent high to see,
When stealing through the breezeless night came sounds of melody.
And from the mantling mist emerged a slowly gliding boat,
Which seemed in that imperfect light upon the mist to float;
And now I lingered on the lake a wild, sad song to hear,
And deemed it all too sweet for sound of this terrestrial sphere.
That seraph song to silence sank, the boat swept slowly past,
But soon another strain was heard as sweet as was the last;
And still I lingered on the lake in strange entrancement held,
Whilst through the calm mist-laden air the plaintive cadence swelled.
The moon rose fair above the fell, and fast her radiance cleared
The gloom away, and by her light another boat appeared;
And now I lingered on the lake to watch that lonely pair
Of tiny barks, propelled by hands of maidens young and fair.
Then soon as ceased the second song, the first-seen boat drew nigh,
And promptly did the first-heard voice in harmony reply;
And still I lingered on the lake unseen from either boat,
While Brantwood’s echoes multiplied each bosom-thrilling note.
As boat crossed boat—song after song did their fair crews repeat
Across the cool and glancing mere, in alternation sweet;
And still I lingered on the lake, and prayed they might prolong
Till day their strife of melody, alternate song and song.
And when they ceased, all nature seemed involved in sudden shade,
The lake its placid brightness lost, the moonlight seemed to fade;
No more I lingered on the lake—I felt the charm was fled,
And feeling, too, I’d caught a cold, went sneezing home to bed.
[Sidenote: FARTHER WEST.]
When I commenced this tedious, but, in your case, requisite
digression, you were seated in a boat upon the lake, and staring with
all your might at the turret-like, ivy-clad chimneys of Conistone
Hall; concerning which hall West, the precise and industrious
Furnesian Antiquary, who published his great work in 1774, says
therein—“Conistone Hall appears upon the bank of the lake; it was for
many ages the seat of the Flemings, and though now abandoned and in
ruins, it has the air of grandeur and magnificence.” And again, in
his history of the family who possess it, he says—“Sir Richard le
Fleming, in the reign of Henry III., married Elizabeth, daughter and
heir of Adam de Urswick, by which marriage he acquired the manor of
Conistone, and other considerable possessions in Furness;” and—“Upon
the acquisition of the manor of Conistone, the family returned to
Furness, the first seat of the Flemings. The Castle of Caernarvon
was abandoned, then erased, and Conistone Hall was the family seat
for seven generations. After the union of Lancaster with Le Fleming
(temp. Hen. 4th), Rydal and Conistone vied with each other for seven
generations more to fix the family in Westmorland or Lancashire. Sir
Daniel le Fleming came and gave it against the latter; since that event
(about 1650-60), the Hall of Conistone, pleasantly situated upon the
banks of the lake of that name, has been deserted.”
[Sidenote: MORE OF “THE HALL.”]
If the Hall were in ruins seventy-four years ago, you may perceive
that, though sufficiently venerable and time-shaken, there is nothing
exactly like ruins about it _now_; but, as I said before, a great part
of it has been removed, as is shewn by certain jambs and chimney-pieces
which remain in the outer surface of what is now the outer wall, and
have formed the fire-places of an extensive range of apartments which
formerly occupied the space along the northern side of the present
edifice. What remains of the Old Hall, I have also said, is converted
into a farm-house and appurtenances, both of which are of a most
commodious and substantial description; and, should your sojourn at
Conistone happen to fall in the early part of July, let me exhort you
to attend the Conistone Hall clipping, or sheep-shearing, where you
will witness some “scenes of life and shades of character” not to be
seen every day, nor in every locality; and, moreover, you will find
the viands to accord in character with the building,—_i. e._ to be
plentiful, substantial, and old-fashioned.
[Sidenote: SHEEP-SHEARING.]
I say that the scene, or rather the series of scenes, presented by a
sheep-shearing in the lake country, are of a description not to be
passed by in these artificial days, when “touches of nature,” which
“make the whole world kin,” are rare as they are rich;—therefore,
supposing you to be at Conistone in the proper season, I shall, with
your approval, of which I have little doubt, and with Mr Irving’s
hospitable permission, of which I have still less, introduce you to
that of Conistone Hall.
The sheep, which are of the black-faced breed, are all gathered in from
the fells on the previous day, or early in the morning, and are penned
up in lots in a large detached barn through which you pass, and, in a
yard behind which you are startled by a scene of animated and noisy
bustle wonderfully at variance with the surrounding quiet. In two rows
along the inner side of the semicircular yard wall, are seated the
clippers, numbering from 25 to 30, each astride upon a stool, busily
plying his shears upon a sheep laid bound on the stool before him; and
you cannot help being surprised at the rapidity with which the animals
are divested of their superabundant coverings; that tall man there
in the blue linen jacket is one of the most expert, and can take the
fleece from a mountain sheep in three minutes. I am told his father,
a respectable yeoman in an adjacent vale, was still more dexterous,
and that, for a wager, he, in one day, clipped—a number which, as I am
anxious to maintain my character for veracity, I shall not here state.
The average rate of clipping is, of course, lower than what I have
mentioned; but, allowing it to be so, this number of shears incessantly
at work for seven or eight hours, may give some idea of the number of
sheep denuded each year on this and similar farms.
[Sidenote: DRAMATIS PERSONÆ AND DINNER.]
In attendance upon the clippers are a much greater number of men and
lads supplying them with unclipped sheep and removing those operated
upon to another part of the yard, where, beside a turf-fire and a
kettle of melted tar an active youth is stationed ready to stamp them
with their owner’s initial, with another near at hand ycleped “the
doctor,” carrying in his hand a pot of ointment to anoint the wounds,
which, in such a hurried operation, many of his ovine patients receive.
Multitudes of boys are skipping about on every side, collecting the
cords as they are removed from the limbs of the clipped sheep, and
carrying them to be applied to the feet of their successors upon the
clipping stools. In a remote corner of the yard, a small party of
sedate, business-like individuals are rolling up the fleeces upon a
couple of small sloping platforms, and handing them over the wall
to others who are building them upon carts, to be carried to the
storing-house. One jolly-looking personage, with an aspect worthy of
his office, is moving about and dispensing “clipping drink” to all and
sundry. And “Woo' Geordie,” known elsewhere as “_Mop_ George” (after
his chief article of merchandise,) is poking about gathering up stray
fragments of wool. These, with one or two groups of idle on-lookers
waiting for, and wondering when it will be, dinner-time, and perhaps an
artist sketching the various and ever-changing groups, constitute the
_dramatis personæ_ of the sheep-shearing, whilst nothing but work is
going forward; but, now the last sheep shorn, the last fleece rolled
up, and “Woo’ Geordie,” liberally informed that he may convert to his
own proper use and emolument all the fragments of wool that remain
on the ground (no inconsiderable prize to him,) adjourn we to the
Hall where a banquet waits our attack, which is perfectly worthy of
Conistone Hall in its best days, for gigantic rounds of beef, and legs
of veal, ditto of mutton, and quarters of lamb, with every tempting and
appropriate accompaniment, are arranged upon a table which accommodates
thirty hungry people at once, and the first detachment, having stuffed
to repletion with the above enumerated solids, topped off with sweets,
“_quæ nunc perscribere_ (or _describere_ either) _longum est_,” are
succeeded by a second troop equally sharp set, and those who were
idlers before, are by no means the least industrious now. “Another
and another (_set_) yet succeeds,” until the whole party, amounting
to something above six score, are fed and satisfied. You may observe
that the whole company does not partake of its generally pastoral and
agricultural character, for the duties of one end of the table are
probably discharged, to all the successive troops of eaters, by a
practitioner of the law, and those of the other by a ditto of medicine,
both of whom are glad to relieve, by a few hours’ mirth, untutored
though it be, their daily routine of attention to the multifarious
derangements to which the business and the bodies of “God’s humanity”
are liable.
[Sidenote: FUDDLING AND FUN.]
Dinner being at last fairly finished, “now comes the sweetest morsel of
the night,” and strong ale and tobacco, as their legitimate successors,
supersede beef and pudding, and all the guests being settled down in
the capacious Hall, as many as can, round the long table, others on
forms or benches arranged in rows, and others, more favoured, apart
from the crowd, around a small table placed under a chimney large
enough to be a dwelling-house for a family of moderate pretensions;
pipes are filled and lighted, glasses are filled and tasted, and
singing is commenced by John Kendal giving, in characteristic and
peculiarly comic style, a quaint old ballad of the “down, derry down”
genus, concerning a parson who “had a remarkable foible of loving
good liquor much more than the Bible,” and of whom it was said “he
was much less perplext in handling a tankard than handling a text,”
and, once set a going, a stream of songs interspersed with “quips and
cranks,” and no! not “wreathed smiles,” but wide grins and roars of
laughter, with noisy joke and noisier repartee, carries rapidly away
the remaining hours of the evening. The majority of the songs are of a
stamp now to be met with only amongst the mountains, or in such other
districts where primitive pastoral habits yet prevail, and are to be
appreciated and enjoyed only by those who hold broad humour and natural
spirit and freedom to be a sufficient compensation for rudeness of
phraseology, and the absence of polish, refinement, and high sentiment;
and you may notice, that, as might be expected, their subjects and
sentiments become less and less refined, and their humour less and less
restrained, in due proportion with the sinking of the potent clipping
drink in the tilted barrels, till at length the _very_ orderly part of
the company think it time to depart.
[Sidenote: CLOSE OF THE CLIPPING.]
I may be censured for introducing you to scenes like these, and the
only excuse I have to offer is that I wish to give you a correct idea
of life and manners amongst the primitive inhabitants of these our
dales, and it is only by mixing freely amongst the people upon such
occasions, that any true knowledge of their habits and customs is to be
gained.
I was lately deluded into reading a book entitled, “Conistone Hall,
or the Jacobites,” written by a dignitary of the English Church,
“in order,” as he says, “to exhibit the tone of feeling and the
disorders of Church and State, to which the ill-advised revolution
of 1688 gave rise.” I was simple enough to hope to find matter of
local interest in a book called “Conistone Hall,” but was grievously
disappointed,—it might as well have been called “Lancaster Castle,”—and
the subject-matter is quite worthy of the author’s object.
And now, having bored you, probably _ad nauseam_, about the Old Hall,
it were well to return to your Inn; and, having allowed you what is
requisite of rest and refreshment, I shall carry you off upon your
longest excursion first; “and,” to quote The Professor thereanent,
“if murmuring streams and dashing torrents, and silent pools, and
shadow-haunted grass-fields, and star-studded meadows, and glimmering
groves, and cliff-girdling coppice woods, and a hundred charcoal
shellings, huts and cottages, and one Old Hall, and several hall-like
barns, and a solitary chapel among its green graves, and glades, and
dells, and glens without number, knolls, eminences, hillocks, hills,
and mountains,—if these, and many other such sights as these, all so
disposed that beauty breathes, whispers, moves, or hangs motionless
over all, have power to charm your spirit,——away with the cavalcade
into the heart of the expecting mountains.”
[Sidenote: HORSE AND AWAY.]
If, like myself, you prefer enjoying a long excursion upon four legs
to enduring it upon two, your host can supply, at a satisfactory rate,
ponies well accustomed to the roughest roads in the country. You
declare for the equestrian mode of progression: well, say the word, and
behold your steed at the door. Being safely and pleasantly mounted,
you turn your pony’s tail to the lake, and canter up the road till you
come to a group of ancient and picturesque cottages and farm-buildings,
called High Waterhead (Conistone Water being bicipital), and then take
the road to your left, which passes through amongst these houses, and
by another old homestead called 'Boon (_vulgo_ above) Crag, holding on
along an occupation road which winds through a considerable portion
of Mr Marshall's wooded parks; and, as you jog along, keep a sharp
eye to the left,—“ride, as the Spaniard hath it, with your beard on
your shoulder,”—and your vigilance will be rewarded with occasional
glimpses of the lake and its shores, broken up into a series of lovely
fragmentary pictures by the irregular intervention of the scattered or
“clumped” timber. You soon begin to descend into the middle of the vale
of Yewdale, which Mr Parkinson, the accomplished canon of Manchester
and Principal of St. Bees, maintains to be the most beautiful in the
lake district, and which is described by Green, the artist, as being
“a grand valley lying at the feet of the high mountains on the north of
Conistone Water.” As you approach it, you must, if you have eyes and
soul, be struck with “the steep, frowning glories” of the mile-long
range of lofty cliffs which bound Yewdale on the whole extent of its
western side, the otherwise barren aspect of which is finely relieved
by thick groves, comprising oak, larch, birch, holly, &c., stretching
along the foot of the crags, and also by numerous and various trees
flourishing here and there along the face of the steep, in situations
“the most inaccessible by shepherds trod,” even up to the highest verge
of the precipice, where it makes one giddy to imagine how they have
been planted, for they ore not of spontaneous growth, but were all
planted by the late Mr Knott.
[Sidenote: REMARKABLE IN YEWDALE.]
You cross the pellucid Beck of Yewdale by a ricketty wooden bridge,
pass through the farm-yard of Low Yewdale, and immediately after gain
the high road, which runs along the west side of the valley close under
the crags. As you near the head of the vale, be pleased to observe,
as you will doubtless be pleased in observing, the sweetly situated
farm of High Yewdale, with its long rows of unmercifully clipt yews,
looking like magnified chessmen, one of which was recently recommended
to my notice by an observant fair friend, as presenting a ludicrous
resemblance to a starched puritan of the time of the Commonwealth,
attired in round beaver and “cloak of formal cut.” You must here
diverge a little from your line of ramble to examine the aged tree
which gives its name to the vale, and which some unscrupulous local
chronologists stoutly maintain to have been coeval with the deluge.
Without feeling myself called upon to establish that fact, I may
safely enough assert that it must be of vast antiquity, and it is the
largest yew that I have yet fallen in with, those immortalized by
Wordsworth as “the pride of Lorton vale,” and the “fraternal four of
Borrowdale,” not excepted. I, and two friends, girthed it one summer
with three riding-whips knotted together, and found it, at five feet
from the ground, to measure 29 feet in circumference. You see that it
has an aperture in the northern side of its huge trunk, which, like
Mercutio's wound, though “not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a
church door, 'twill serve” to let you go in and creep round between
that centre pillar formed of the most internal layers of its wood and
the surrounding wall formed of its external layers and bark, a large
portion of the intermediate timber having, like the halls of Lord
Byron’s fathers, “gone to decay.”
[Sidenote: FUTILE FOX-CRAFT.]
This wondrous feat being duly accomplished, for your future exaltation,
retrace your steps as far as the Shepherds' Bridge, and then, holding
to the right, you soon pass through a gate, and come out upon a
somewhat stony road winding along between the beck and the foot of
Raven Crag, which rises on your right, steep and rugged, to form its
multi-peaked crown. That precipitous peak (or pike) immediately above
you, was the scene of an event remarkable in the annals of mountain
fox-hunting. A poor fox, after an unusually long chase, reached the
summit of Raven Crag, closely pursued by only three hounds, the rest
of the pack being distanced long before; as a last chance for life, he
made directly for the edge of that precipice, purposing, doubtless,
to swerve when close to the verge, and thus rid himself of his
pursuers by throwing them over: this sagacious expedient was, however,
unsuccessful, for, when he reached the edge, his three foes were too
near to admit of his effecting the saving turn, and all four were
projected from the brow of the cliff, and dashed, out of all semblance
of _caninity_ and _vulpinity_, on the stones not far above your present
position.