ULPHA—COCKLEY BECK—THE SUNKEN GRAVES—DALE-HEAD—“THE STEPPING
STONES”—HINGING HOUSE—THE CLAN TYSON—ANECDOTES—T’ BIRKS BRIG—REMARKS
ON SCENERY, AND QUOTATIONS—SEATHWAITE BECK—MISS MARTINEAU ON
THE CHURCH AND PARSONAGE—NEWFIELD—ENTERTAINMENT FOR MAN AND
BEAST—DAN BIRKETT—WALLA-BARROW CRAG—STONEYTHWAITE—MR WORDSWORTH’S
ANECDOTE—CHARACTER OF SCENERY.
As you pursue your rugged way down the vale, you at length come in
sight of a group of buildings, which offers to you, as the gibbet
did to the castaway mariner, the comforting assurance that you are
still a sojourner in a civilised country—a matter on which you were
beginning to feel uneasily dubious. It is the onstead of a large
sheep farm, well known by the designation of Black Hall, which forms
the most northerly portion of the Chapelry of Ulpha—a wild tract of
country extending for many lonely miles along the Cumberland side of
the Duddon, deriving its outlandish looking appellation from the same
royal personage who is said to have accorded the honour of bearing his
name, as part of theirs, to the town of Ulverstone and the Lake of
Ullswater, the old Saxon Monarch Ulfo or Ulphus (some call him one and
some the other), who, for anything that I know to the contrary, was
one of the Kings of the Heptarchy. Probably, when I mention this, you
will remember that Scott, in the Bridal of Triermain, tells of the
Baron’s Page, when sent by his lord to enquire at the Sage of Lyulph’s
Tower whether the fair apparition in his dream was “an airy thing” or
of the earth earthy—
“He traced the Eamont’s winding way,
Till Ulfo’s lake beneath him lay.”
[Illustration: COCKLEY BRIG.]
[Sidenote: ETYMOLOGY AND ZOOLOGY.]
Push on, and, as you round the elbow of the hill, you are farther
cheered by the nearer prospect of another domicile on the Lancashire
side of the brook; that is the residence of Mr Daniel Tyson, the worthy
proprietor and occupant of Cockley Beck, the name of the house and
farm being derived from the stream that rushes along its north-western
boundary, and said to signify “a winding or rugged stream;” others
say its name is derived from the former condition or character of the
bridge here which used to be “Cocklety,” a term implying “a daring
contempt of danger and accommodation” on the part of its architect;
others, again, say that the name of the brook ought to be Cockling or
Cackling Beck, because the noise it occasionally makes in its stoney
bed may, by the aid of a _leetle_ imagination, be likened to that by
which a hen announces to all concerned that she has just got safely
quit of an egg.
[Sidenote: CONJECTURES.]
The vale of Seathwaite now assumes a more attractive aspect; your
pleasantest road lies through the farm-yard of Cockley Beck, and that
hearty-looking elderly man, the uniform cherry-colour of whose honest
phiz bespeaks exposure to many a biting mountain blast, is Daniel
Tyson himself. If you are disposed to rest and chat awhile, you may
lead him, nothing loath, into conversation, and if you do so, I fancy
that some of his communications will surprise, if they don’t interest
you; for instance, in allusion to some skins you may notice hung up
to dry, he will inform you that the weasels about Cockley Beck have a
fashion, on the advent of winter, of changing their colour from brown
to white, resuming their more sombre coloured coats on the return of
spring; a fact in local zoology of which I incline to imagine you have
not hitherto been cognisant. He will also tell you, should anything
suggest the subject, that, in one of his pastures, a little up the
beck, there existed, till within the last few years, a number of graves
arranged in rows, but which now, either from the sinking of the soil,
or the growth of the surrounding moss, &c., have become level with
the adjacent surface, and all distinct traces of them obliterated.
What rather adds to the interest excited by these mysterious tombs is,
that there is no history, authentic, traditional, or legendary, to
account for their existence—thus affording a capital field for those
imaginative geniuses who love to speculate upon such mysteries or to
frame what maybe awanting for their satisfactory development. With
me the favourite probability in this instance is, that a skirmish,
tolerably fatal, has been fought in this sequestered nook during the
progress of some of the horrible wars that, from time to time, have
saddened our merry land, and that the slain have been buried here
where they fell; but, whether the supposed skirmish was fought between
the factions of York and Lancaster about the time poor King Henry
sought and found, for a season, a house of refuge in this vicinity; or
between the Cavaliers and Roundheads, when the Flemings of Conistone
stood out for Church and King; or between the Dalesmen themselves and
a stray party of Moss-trooping Scots, who, “in the old riding times,”
occasionally pushed their predatory incursions even into these poor
valleys, neither Mr Tyson nor I will inform you, for, as I said before,
history, authentic and apocryphal, is silent on the subject, Daniel is
a man of verity, and I am but a lame hand at invention; therefore you
need not hope for even a fabricated story (which, after all, would be
better than none), in connection with this now effaced souvenir of
the good old times.
[Illustration: THE STEPPING STONES.]
[Sidenote: A SUBJECT OF SONNETS.]
But it is time you were taking leave of Cockley Beck, and as you are
doing so, you may perceive at the foot of the heights to your left a
number of rubbish heaps, the result of a mining speculation set a going
and kept up by some spirited and very persevering gentlemen chiefly
resident in Ulverstone. You now canter along a decent road through flat
meadows where, if it be the season, the lads and lasses of the dale are
busily engaged in securing the hay-crop and carrying it home, probably
on horseback, for the old farmers here have not as yet begun to use
carts for that purpose. On this road, too, there are “oceans of gates”
to open, the frequent recurrence of which becomes rather troublesome,
should your pony not be all the steadier. You very soon arrive at
another farm, called Dalehead; but, by the bye, just before you reach
that, you had better turn off to the right by a track that soon brings
you to the river side, and take a look at the stepping stones by which
the Duddon is crossed at this point. When you have looked at them, you
seem to wonder what it may be that should entitle them to be noticed
more than any other stepping stones in the country. I'll tell you. Mr
Wordsworth says they are—
“What might seem a zone
Chosen for ornament—stone matched with stone
In studied symmetry, with interspace
For the clear waters to pursue their race
Without restraint,”
and so on. It certainly does require a poet’s eye to discover the
title of these stones to be made the subject of two whole sonnets of
fourteen lines apiece; and apropos to that, I once, at an evening party
near Hawkshead, overheard a gentleman ask another, “Have you read
Wordsworth’s sonnets on the Duddon?” “No.” “O then,” said the first,
“if you ever do read them, don’t believe them! We were there last week,
and we didn’t find anything as he has described it.” Now though this
advice is entitled to some respect, inasmuch as the giver is an amateur
painter and musician of high excellence and also a very keen angler,
which last a respected friend of mine would call the most intellectual
and poetical pursuit of the three, I cannot _quite_ coincide with it,
and I shall soon make _you_ admit that, although the vale of Seathwaite
may not be all that the Laureate, in the customary exercise of poetic
licence, may seem to make it, yet is it well worthy a visit from any
one with the smallest pretensions to a taste for the picturesque.
[Sidenote: PHYSIQUE OF THE DALESMEN.]
Leaving Dalehead, you soon come to another farm-house, noticeable as
presenting, in strong contrast to its dingy-looking, though prettily
placed neighbours, a clean and cheerful, because whitewashed, exterior,
a veracious index of the comfort, tidiness, and hospitality that
characterise its interior. It is called Hinging House, and is the
residence of another of the clan Tyson, the members of which are
so numerous in this, and the sister vales Eskdale, Wastdale, The
Langdales, &c., that in case of need, their chief, if they’d had one,
might levy a regiment of his own name, as was done, if I remember
aright, by one of the Highland Chieftains, and a regiment, too, that
would be scarcely surpassable even by the Queen’s household troops
as regards the strength, stature, figures and features of the rank
and file. In this dale alone there are, zoologically speaking, some
magnificent specimens, both male and female, of the genus _homo_
amongst the Tysons: and, indeed, the same may be said truly enough of
the Walkers, Dawsons, Birketts, and the bearers of other Seathwaite
surnames.
[Illustration: BIRKS BRIDGE, RIVER DUDDON.]
The great number of families bearing the name of Tyson renders it
necessary for their neighbours and themselves to adopt the custom of
distinguishing individuals by the names of their residences, as
Daniel of Cockley Beck, George of Black Hall, Harry o’ t’ Hinging
House, and so on _ad infinitum_.
[Sidenote: TWO STORIES.]
Not long ago, I had occasion to call at a house in Little Langdale,
and the friend who accompanied me was joined, whilst waiting in the
fold, by a fine ruddy and lively little fellow who had not then
attained the dignity of his first breeches. He was, by way of starting
a conversation, accosted with the question most common under such
circumstances, “What is your name?” The answer was ready, “Jimmy o’ t’
Fell-foot!” “What other name have you?” “I have _nin_!” and neither
his questioner nor his grown-up brother, who came up during the
conversation, could prevail upon the youngster to assert his right to
any other designation than “Jimmy o’ t’ Fell-foot.”
Another anecdote illustrating the power of this custom and then we'll
march on. Mr Tyson, the much respected incumbent of Seathwaite, had,
and perhaps still has a son settled in London, and a worthy statesman,
one of his parishioners, having business requiring his presence in
town, was furnished with Mr Thomas Tyson’s address, which, with some
difficulty, he contrived to make out, and greatly astonished the
servant who opened the door to his knock by asking, in a dialect
very distinctly not that of a Cockney, “If ye pleese, does Tom o’ t’
Priest’s leeve here?”
[Sidenote: A SLIGHTED BEAUTY.]
Continue your course down the vale, again passing through the farm-yard
and holding on along the foot of the fell by a road which has become
somewhat more rugged, you, by and bye, re-approach the river and arrive
at the Birks Bridge—the which I may guarantee to be much better worth
an examination than those paltry stepping stones that disappointed
you so grievously. The Duddon, for some distance above and below
this bridge, considerably narrows and deepens, and loses the general
rapidity of its current, passing through a chasm, the jagged rocky
walls of which rise perpendicularly to a considerable height above the
surface, and sink to a depth a good deal below the level of the river’s
bed above and below the chasm (whether this be “the Faëry Chasm” which
Mr Wordsworth has pressed into his service as a subject for one of
his sonnets, not knowing, can’t say, but it may perhaps do as well for
it as any other). At a point where opposite portions of these rocky
walls jut out so as to render the space between extremely narrow, the
little arch of the bridge springs boldly across the void, the jutting
portions of rock forming piers more substantial and durable, barring
earthquakes, than any artificial structure for the same purpose in the
kingdom. The water on the lower side of the bridge is still and very
deep, I should say nearly two fathoms, and bears a beautiful tinge
of faint blue, but is so clear that, if you happened to wear blue
spectacles, you might very well fancy that you were staring down into
a river course destitute of water. The best view of this little bridge
and its picturesque natural adjuncts is to be gained by fastening
your steed to the gate at its further end, and descending to a little
platform of rock nearly on a level with the surface of the water about
twenty yards below the bridge, and, when there, I think you will agree
with me that this neglected atom of scenery is a full compensation for
the fatigue of even a longer and rougher ride than you have undertaken
on this joyful occasion, as Saunders Mucklebackit’s mother called her
grandson’s funeral.
Remount your Bucephalus and canter away down the dale past the farms of
Troutwell and Browside, through scenery which suggests a couplet from
“The Lady of the Lake,” for assuredly
“Crags, knolls, and mounds confusedly hurled,
The fragments of an earlier world,”
applies with equal propriety to Seathwaite as to the glorious scenery
around Loch Katrine. As you approach the farm of Nettleslack, you must
make up your mind to quit either the river or your poney, for the road
diverges from the Duddon, which now assumes a course where
“It seems some mountain, rent and riven,
A channel to the stream hath given.
Where he who winds 'twixt rock and wave,
May hear the headlong torrent rave,
And like a steed in frantic fit,
That flings the froth from curb and bit,
May view her—chafe her waves to spray,
O'er every rock that bars her way,
Till foam-globes on her eddies ride
Thick as the schemes of human pride,
That down life’s current drive amain
As frail, as frothy, and as vain!”
[Sidenote: THE “CHERISHED” OF DUDDON.]
But you must take my word for all this, for you cannot “wind 'twixt
rock and wave” on horseback, therefore keep the good road, whilst you
have it. Cross Seathwaite Beck by Nettleslack Bridge, and push on for
the little Inn at Newfield, to reach which you must pass between the
Chapel and the Parsonage. Behind the latter, you may notice Seathwaite
Beck, a tributary of the Duddon nearly as large as itself, which rushes
impetuously and noisily along—
“Hurrying with lordly Duddon to unite;
Who, 'mid a world of images imprest
On the calm depth of his transparent breast,
Appears to cherish most that torrent white,
The fairest, softest, liveliest of them all!”
The “torrent white” looks exceedingly black and gloomy under the shadow
of these dense overhanging branches, causing the numerous patches of
snow-like foam to look “than snow more white” by the contrast.
[Sidenote: CHAPEL, PARSONAGE, AND PUBLIC.]
Of Seathwaite Chapel Miss Martineau says, “when the traveller reaches
the Church, he finds it little loftier or larger than the houses near.
But for the bell, he would hardly have noticed it for a Church in
approaching: but when he has reached it, there is the porch, and the
little grave-yard, and the spreading yews encircled by the seat of
stones and turf, where the early comers sit and rest, till the bell
calls them in. A little dial on a whitened post in the middle of the
enclosure, tells the time to the neighbours who have no clocks.” Miss
Martineau may undertake to supply all “the neighbours who have no
clock” with that essential article of domestic respectability, for I
can answer for it, there is no house in Seathwaite without one. “Just
outside the wall,” Miss M. says, “is a white cottage, so humble that
the stranger thinks it cannot be the parsonage: yet the climbing roses
and glittering evergreens, and clear lattices, and pure uncracked
walls, look as if it might be.”
I have a good deal to say in connection with this same Church and
Parsonage, but I suppose it must be deferred, for after your long ride
you must be somewhat athirst, and an unromantic feeling of emptiness
most likely renders you insensible to the charms of scenery as well
as sentiment. Your pony, who has been here before, has for sometime
shewn an impatient consciousness of the proximity of Edward Stables’
corn-chest, and, in fair time of day, here you are at the door of
his public, which, though of rather unpromising exterior, has the
wherewithal inside to furnish forth a plain, but plentiful, savoury,
and to a man, in your circumstances, satisfactory feed—
“And here the ale is foaming up,
And genuine is the gin,
And you may take a liberal sup
To cheer your soul within.”
I am not sure that I quote correctly, but you will find that the facts
are correctly given. If it be about the end of the week, you will
probably fall in with my friend Dan Birkett, “t’ heead Captain of
Seeathwaite Tarn-heead Mines,” who will not require much pressing to
take a glass of grog, and whose varied conversation may amuse you,
whilst your ham and eggs are being cooked. Amongst other matters, he
will tell you that, in the Longhouse Close, on the side of Walna Scar,
with which you shall be made acquainted by and bye, are to be seen the
remains of an ancient British town, consisting of the ruins of several
stone-built huts, and a large enclosure, where Dan says they secured
their flocks from the wolves: he also says that they wore no clothes
except a coat, but painted their legs blue, and lived out upon the
bare hill-sides, that they might preserve the bottoms, which were then
covered with wood, for hunting in.
[Sidenote: ANTIQUITIES AND ANECDOTE.]
Whilst you are taking your ease at your Inn, you may note from the yard
thereof a very fine, precipitous and rocky height upon the farther side
of the stream, which it is impossible to pass by unnoticed. It bears
the fine rolling name of Walla-barrow Crag, and, upon its further side,
the remains of a Roman castrum are said to exist, and, though I, when I
made the attempt, was unable to trace them, they may be there for all
that. Looking along the heights to the south of Walla-barrow Crag, you
will be struck with the appearance of trees and
“A field or two of brighter green, or plot
Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot
Of stationary sunshine!”
indicating the situation of a farm called Stoneythwaite, perched like
an eagle’s nest on the summit of the precipice, with some of its fields
upon ledges half-way down.
“The laurel-honouring Laureate” says, respecting this portion of
Duddon vale,—“The _chaotic_ aspect of the scene is well marked by the
expression of a stranger, who strolled out while dinner was preparing,
and, at his return, being asked by his host, “What way he had been
wandering?” replied, “As far as it is _finished_!”
[Sidenote: A SINGLE WORD ON SCENERY.]
The wild is the prevailing characteristic of Seathwaite scenery; and,
at the same time, it is invested with an air of quietness and repose
which prevents its wildness approaching the savage or terrible, though
many distinct parts of it, as well as its general aspect, are fully
entitled to the epithet of sublime.
[Illustration: SEATHWAITE CHAPEL.]