THE VILLAGE.
WALK TO THE VILLAGE—BANNOCKSTONE BRIDGE—A WILD LEGEND—THE CHURCH AND
SCHOOLS—INNS—THE ENGLISH OPIUM EATER—MRS. ROBINSON—JENKIN SYKE—HAUSE
BANK—PARKGATE—HIGHTHWAITE, &C.
As you will, most probably, be rather stiff, not to say saddle sick,
with your last long and rough ramble, I may calculate upon your being
disposed to make this a short and easy one; so what say you to a
saunter through the village of Church Conistone? You are possibly aware
that there are two Conistones, the designation of each possessing an
ecclesiastical character. The district around the uppermost part of
the lake, and for half a mile down the western shore, and two or three
miles down the eastern, is called Monk Conistone, and forms a part of
the parish of Hawkshead; whilst Church Conistone, lying on the west of
the lake and Yewdale beck, and extending to Torver in one direction and
Fell-foot in another, is a chapelry in the parish of Ulverstone.
The road leading from the Waterhead to the village runs for some
distance along the edge of the lake, and is delightfully shaded with
trees, chiefly oaks. On the right, a single range of extensive level
fields divides it from the finely-wooded Guards hill; on the left, the
wavelets of the lake run upon a gentle grassy slope close up to the
roadside, and, occasionally, in very wet weather, the lake extends its
waters across the road and the fields beyond it, leaving pedestrians no
other choice but wading or walking back.
[Sidenote: THE ROADSIDE.]
Where the road makes a sudden sweep to the right, and leaves the water
side, you may notice the miniature docks and piers where slate, &c.,
are shipped for the lake foot on its way to the sea, and the scene of
the only fatal accident known to have occurred in Conistone lake. The
first houses you approach are the buildings belonging to the Thwaite
farm, sheltering prettily under its wooded eminence, and, adjoining
them, the neat old-fashioned residence, called Thwaite Cottage; a
little further still, occupying a natural terrace on the southern
declivity of the aforesaid eminence, stands Thwaite House, or “The
Thwaite,” which commands a most comprehensive view of the vale, the
village, the mountains and the lake, in one ocular range. Saunter on,
and you soon come to a group of singular-looking buildings—built, a few
years ago, by Mr Marshall—surrounded by pretty flower-gardens which,
in the season, agreeably relieve the dismal effect of the dark blue,
or rather _light black_ stone of which the walls are constructed, with
very little mortar, lest the white should disagree with the character
of the scenery, as Mr Wordsworth avers it does: but the ivy, with its
bright green tapestry, is now rapidly covering the nakedness of these
comfortless-looking walls.
You now come to Yewdale Bridge, and, crossing it, enter Church
Conistone; but here I wish you to turn off the road, and passing
between some houses on your left, walk down the beckside for about
150 yards, and you reach a very primitive-looking bridge, formed of
two huge flags laid upon piers of ancient and substantial mason-work,
and named, with manifest propriety, “Bannockstone bridge.” It was not
this I brought you out of your way to see; but I want you to bestow
especial notice upon a large stone lying in the beck-bottom, just to
the lower side of the bridge. Though it is covered by from two to three
feet of water, Yewdale beck is so pure that you have no difficulty
in discovering that the otherwise flat surface of this stone is
interrupted by a ridge or elevation, some inches in height, occupying
one of its corners, and in the edge of that elevation nearest to you
is the deep, perfect, and unmistakeable imprint of a very large heel.
Convinced, from the time I first noticed it, that some story might be
ferretted out, to account for the production of this large heel-mark, I
took considerable pains, for which I expect your gratitude, to collect
the following facts in explanation of its traditionary origin, and now,
without amplification or comment, I retail them for your satisfaction.
[Sidenote: FRUITS OF REPENTANCE.]
In those pious and enlightened times, when the profession and practice
of witchcraft were so common that very few women could grow old and
ugly, especially if they were also poor, without being suspected of
having sold their immortal part to the Father of evil, a very old woman
whose name has not been preserved, but the certainty of whose commerce
with the devil no one ever doubted, dwelt in a hut upon the point of
land which runs into the lake near the mouth of this brook. After
practising the ordinary routine of a witchwoman’s life for several
years, it is said that, as the time drew near for the fulfilment of
her short-sighted bargain, she was seized with terror and remorse, and
resolved to try whether she might not find a means of nullifying the
agreement and evading payment of the fearful penalty to be exacted
from her in return for the evil power with which her master had endued
her old age; and, with this object, she visited a holy man, one of the
Monks of Saint Mary of Furness, who was stationed at the place now
called Bank Ground, which stands pleasantly upon the opposite side of
the lake. He, when made aware of all the bearings of the case, offered
some hope of redemption from the consequences of her contract, on the
conditions of teetotal abstinence from any future indulgence in the
[Sidenote: A MIRACLE.] evil art, _abnegation_ of the devil, his works
and devices, and a course of penance so severe and protracted, as to
make the penitent witch think the cure almost as bad as the disease;
but concern for “her pore sole,” as Winifred Jenkins pathetically
designates it, determined her to accept of Father Brian’s terms,
provided he could secure her against the power of Satan in the interim.
Being instructed to flee for her life, and to call loudly upon Father
Brian and Saint Herbert for aid, should Beelzebub come, as was likely,
to claim his own before the completion of her saving penance had
rescued her from his dreaded clutches, she returned home, and turned
over a new leaf, beginning to lead a tolerably exemplary life. As might
be expected, the other contracting party was not long in hearing of
this unpardonable breach of faith, and, one evening, he startled his
quondam disciple by making his appearance at the door of her domicile,
when she, remembering the Monk’s instructions, darted through the open
window, and fled, with the speed of light, directly up the course of
this beck, screaming loudly enough for succour as directed. She had
reached the site of this bridge, and her pursuer was just about to lay
his claws upon her, when the Saint, or the Monk, or both heard her, and
the devil’s foot, not the cloven one,—for neither dead Saint nor living
Priest can be supposed to have power over that,—but his other foot, was
set upon that stone, the heel sank into the ridge upon its surface,
and the stone hardening, he was held fast by the heel, and thus, by
the miraculous intervention of the dead Saint or the living Monk—I
cannot learn exactly whether—the penitent witch escaped; and, moreover,
ere the devil was released, Father Brian, being well versed in this
particular line of business, succeeded in obtaining possession of the
document on which the claim upon the old woman’s soul was founded, and
so was able to remit a considerable portion of her heavy penance. The
print, much too large to be produced by any human heel, is, as you
see, still there to testify to the truth of the history I have collated
for your special behoof, and, therefore, I hope that you will readily
recognise its perfect credibility.
[Illustration: CHURCH CONISTONE.]
[Sidenote: “WHERE GOD ERECTS, &c. &c.”]
You will now return to the road, and move on towards the village by the
Crown Inn, a very commodious, respectable, and well-conducted house of
entertainment for man and beast, with unexceptionable accommodation,
and a more than unexceptionable hostess. Immediately beyond it, in a
level green enclosure, having handsome iron rails on one side and low
stone walls on the other, stands an oblong barn-like building, with a
few blunt-arched windows in its dirty yellow walls, and over-topped at
its western extremity by an unsightly black superstructure of rough
stone, which some might call a small square tower badly proportioned,
and others, with apparently equal correctness, the stump of a large
square chimney. The oblong building is the church, and the level
enclosure is the church-yard, in which the almost total absence of
tombstones and the paucity of mounds lead you to the correct inference
that death is rather a rare visitant at Conistone.
If you have any desire to explore the interior of the sacred edifice,
the parish clerk, who, by the bye, is a poet of no mean pretensions,
lives in one of these cottages close at hand, and he will readily open
the doors and admit you. The only objects possessing even the smallest
interest are—first, the antique oak-chest, with its curious padlock,
which stands in the southern entrance, and in which the ancient
parochial records were deposited—and second, a plate of copper fastened
upon the wall over the Conistone Hall pew, engraven upon which in old,
but very legible characters, are the following commemorative notice and
quaint epitaph. You will perceive that there is probably an error in
the dates:—
[Sidenote: CHURCH AND SCHOOLS.]
“To the living memory of Alice Fleming, of Coningston Hall, in the
County Palatine of Lancaster, widow (late wife of William Fleming, of
Coningston Hall aforesaid, Esq., and eldest daughter of Roger Kirkby,
of Kirkby, in the said county, Esq.,) and of John Kirkby, gentleman,
her second brother, was this monument, by her three sorrowful sons,
Sir Daniel Fleming, Knight, Roger Fleming and William Fleming,
gentlemen, to their dear mother and uncle, here erected. The said John
Kirkby (having lived above thirty years with his sister, and having
given to the churches and poor of Kirkby and Coningston the sum of
£150), died a bachelor at Coningston Hall aforesaid, September 23,
A.D., 1680, and was buried near unto this place the next day. And the
said Alice Fleming died also (having outlived her late husband about
27 years, and survived five out of her eight children,) at Coningstone
Hall aforesaid, Feb. 26, 1680, and was buried in this church, close
by her said brother, Feb. 28, 1680; in the same grave where ye Lady
Bold (second wife to John Fleming, Esq., deceased, uncle to ye said W.
Fleming,) had, about 55 years before, been interred.
EPITAPH.
Spectator, stay and view this sacred ground;
See, it contains such love on earth scarce found;
A brother and a sister—and you see
She seeks to find him in mortality.
First he did leave us, then she stayed and tryed
To live without him—liked it not, and died.
Here they ly buried whose religious zeal
Appeared sincere to Prince, Church, Commonweal;
Kind to their kindred, faithful to their friends,
Clear in their lives, and cheerful at their ends.
They both were dear to them, whose good intent
Makes them both live in this one monument.
So dear is sacred love, though th’ outward part
Turn dust, it still shall linger round the heart.”
In the vestry-room there is a library consisting of theological works,
for circulation amongst the parishioners, but judging from the dusty
state of the volumes, old divinity is not a favourite study with the
reading public of Conistone. Leaving the church, you may notice,
flanking the church-yard at two of its corners, a couple of tasteful
little buildings, whose character and use you cannot well mistake. They
are the boys’ and girls’ schools, and have been conducted upon the
Home and Colonial School system, which, during the three or four years
it has been tried here, has given great satisfaction.
[Sidenote: THE BLACK BULL.]
Opposite to the school and to the church gates, stands the Black Bull
Inn, one of that low-browed, old-fashioned, roomy and snug class of
public houses once so numerous in all the rural districts of England,
but now fast disappearing before the sweep of modern improvement, or,
if you like it better, modern innovation—and around whose ample hearths
“the rude forefathers of the hamlet” were wont to muddle their brains,
whilst settling the affairs of the parish, or discussing those of the
country;—
“Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.”
This same Black Bull derives a sort of classical interest from being
the “Howf” where the English Opium-eater took up his quarters, when
he made his two unsuccessful attempts to accept Mr Wordsworth’s
invitation to visit him at Grasmere. You want to know what made the
attempts unsuccessful! Upon my word, I can scarcely tell you; but I
can give you Mr De Quincey’s own account of the matter, as detailed in
his interesting autobiographical sketches in _Tait’s Magazine_:—“My
delay”—in accepting a long-standing invitation—“was due to anything
rather than to waning interest. On the contrary, the real cause of
my delay was the too great profundity, and the increasing profundity
of my interest in this regeneration of our national poetry; and the
increasing awe, in due proportion to the decaying thoughtlessness of
boyhood, which possessed me for the character of its author. So far
from neglecting Wordsworth, it is a fact, (and Professor Wilson who,
without knowing me in those, or for many subsequent years, shared my
feelings towards both the poetry and the poet, has a story of his
own experience somewhat similar to report)—it is a fact, I say, that
twice I had undertaken a long journey expressly for the purpose of
paying my respects to Wordsworth; twice I came so far as the little
rustic inn (at that time the sole inn in the neighbourhood) at Church
Conistone—the village which stands at the north-western angle of
Conistone Water; and on neither occasion could I summon confidence
enough to appear before him. * * * The very image of Wordsworth, as
I pre-figured it to my own planet-struck eye, crushed my faculties
as before Elijah or St. Paul. Twice, as I said, did I advance as far
as the lake of Conistone, which is about eight miles from the church
at Grasmere, and once I absolutely went forward from Conistone to
the very gorge of Hammerscar, from which the whole vale of Grasmere
suddenly breaks upon the view. Catching one glimpse of this loveliest
of landscapes, I retreated like a guilty thing, for fear I might
be surprised by Wordsworth, and then returned faint-heartedly to
Conistone, and so to Oxford _re infectâ_. This was in 1806—and thus
far, from mere excess of nervous distrust in my own powers for
sustaining a conversation with Wordsworth, I had, for nearly five
years, shrunk from a meeting for which, beyond all things under heaven,
I longed. These, the reader will say, were foolish feelings.” Very
possible, indeed, that the reader _may_ say so, Mr De Quincey! more
particularly if he hold with me the opinion that the man who records
his experience of those feelings, is, though inferior in genius,
certainly superior in scholastic acquirements to the object of his
idolatrous awe.
[Sidenote: DE QUINCEY’S IDOLATRY.]
[Sidenote: HISTORY OF A HOSTESS.]
At the period of the English opium-eater’s sojourn at the Black Bull,
its domestic affairs would be under the control of Mrs Robinson,
the eldest daughter of “Wonderful Walker,” and quite as wonderful a
person, in her way, as her more celebrated father. In early life,
she was wooed, won, and privately married by a respectable working
miner named Bamford, who subsequently obtained an appointment as
sub-agent and clerk at the Leadhills Mines, in Dumfriesshire. During
her husband’s protracted last illness, she, having in common with all
Parson Walker’s children, received an excellent education, discharged
his duties as clerk, or accountant, in a manner so satisfactory to the
Mining Managers, that, after his death, she was allowed to continue in
his office and lift his salary, until an alteration in the management
caused her removal. She then returned to her father at Seathwaite
Parsonage, and she continued with him for some time, until her favour
was sought by her second “venture,” Robinson. To his pretensions the
patriarchal pastor was, however, unfavourable, and he kept such strict
watch upon their movements, that they found it impossible to transact
the requisite courtship in a satisfactory manner, until she contrived
to give her lover an impression of the out-door key in _dough_, and
he got a duplicate manufactured therefrom, which admitted him to her
society when “Wonderful Walker” was safe in the land of dreams. At
these stolen meetings, a marriage was arranged, which came off in spite
of all obstacles, and they settled on the farm called Townend, on the
eastern side of Conistone Lake. A simple anecdote I have heard, may
serve to illustrate Mrs Robinson’s shrewd and upright character. One
Sunday afternoon, some Conistone youths crossed the lake, and bought
of her husband a quantity of apples. Some dispute arising as to the
partition of the purchase, it was agreed that Robinson should divide
them. Her quick eye detected him giving a larger share to one than the
rest, when she called out, “Nay, nay, Thomas! if thou will make Tom
Park a present, bring him out some of thy own, but don’t give away other
folks’ apples.” From Townend, they removed to the Black Bull, where she
remained for many years. She discharged the duties of parish officer
in her own turn, and in that of her son-in-law, and the parish books
yet bear testimony to the beauty of her hand-writing, and the accuracy
and clearness of her accounts. She also managed a small woollen mill,
carried on here by the late Mr Gandy, of Kendal; and even in extreme
old age, when bent double by years and infirmity, so that she could
not sit upon a chair without leaning forward upon a table, she would
write for hours with her books upon her knee. Of the Black Bull there
is little more to say, than that mine especial good friend, Mrs Bell,
is, as hostess, in every respect a worthy successor of Mrs Robinson,
and if you choose to place yourself under her care, and don’t feel
comfortable, the fault will not be hers. And, lest you should be misled
and prejudiced by the identity of surname, I should tell you that she
is no connection of “Peter Bell.”
[Sidenote: THE CHURCH-BECK, &c.]
We will leave the examination of that portion of the village to the
north of the Black Bull for another convenient occasion, and you had
better now cross the bridge over the church beck, the waters of which,
from having been used at the mines in the process of dressing copper
ore, present such an appearance as might arise from some thousands of
washerwomen exercising their vocation amongst the hills, and sending
their suds down to the lake. The bed of this beck is fearfully rugged,
and reminds one of the Border stream, the Tarras, of which the old
rhyme says—
“There ne'er was ane drowned in Tarras,
Nor yet in doubt,
For ere his head could win down,
His brains would be out.”
Many years ago, a young miner, who was courting the daughter of a
blacksmith who resided at the mines, got into this beck one dark night
when it was heavily flooded, and his body was found about a quarter
of a mile below this bridge frightfully mangled. At the farther end
of the bridge stands the post-office, and, leaving it to your right,
you may ramble away down the road by Low Houses, Wraysdale Cottage,
and Gateside, and then you come to Mount Cottage, where you must stay
to inspect Mr Barrow's flower-garden, conservatory, shell grotto,
grotesquely sculptured stones, of which nature was the artist, and,
above all, his collection of busts, clerical, phrenological, general
and diabolical.
[Sidenote: “WHITTLE-GATE.”]
Immediately beyond Mount Cottage is a stile where a foot-path leading
to the Hall commences. It is called “Priest’s Stile,” and I have heard
two accounts of the origin of its appellation. First, it is said to
be so called, because a former Incumbent of Conistone died suddenly
whilst crossing it. I prefer the second derivation of the name, because
it affords an opportunity of mentioning a curious ancient custom, as
well as reason good for congratulating ourselves and our clergy upon
the progress of social improvement. In former times, the minister of
Conistone, who was also the parochial schoolmaster, had no fixed home
of his own, but held rights of “Whittlegate” over his chapelry; which
signifies that he was lodged and fed by the different householders,
each in turn, for longer or shorter periods, according to the value of
the several tenements. Conistone Hall being by far the largest property
in the chapelry, was favoured with the poor clergyman’s company, and
had the benefit of his “whittle” much more frequently than any other
residence, and consequently, on his way to and from church and school,
the Priest very often was seen using this stile, and thence arose
its name. The custom of “Whittlegate” is now all but obsolete, and,
I believe, exists only at Wastdale-head, where, I understand, the
schoolmaster is still supported on that uncomfortable system.
[Sidenote: A LONG LINK.]
Rising a short ascent called, no one knows why, Doe How, you soon
reach another cluster of dwellings, named Bowmanstead, the most
prominent amongst which are the Baptists’ Chapel and the Ship Inn;
and beyond them, a row of houses which had its name from a somewhat
odd incident. There was formerly an open ditch, called locally a
syke, across the road here; and once the funeral array of a man named
Jenkin, on the way to Ulverstone, then the only place of interment for
this part of the parish, had got near to Torver, when the mourners
discovered that the coffin had slipped, unobserved, from the “sled”
it was carried upon, and, deeming it unseemly to proceed without it,
they returned, and found it here in the syke, whence the spot is called
“Jenkin Syke” to this day.
You saunter on past the Corn-mill and cottages around it, and down a
short declivity to Hause Bank. An intelligent villager, who has resided
at Hause Bank during the whole of a long life, tells me that the
ancient cottage adjoining the smith’s shop was formerly an ale-house,
and that a neighbour, who died at a great age, when my informant was
a boy, used to relate that he remembered having seen two brothers
of the Fleming family who were staying at the Hall, go in there for
ale, and make a scramble with their change amongst the children round
the door, of whom the relater was one. The names of the brothers, he
stated, were “_Major and Roger_.” This reminiscence is remarkable, and
worthy of record, because, supposing my calculations to be correct,
it connects, by a single life, an individual of our own time with an
officer who fought under the great Duke of Marlborough, and was the son
of a gentleman who was obnoxious to Cromwell’s sequestrators, having to
pay, during the time of the Commonwealth, a large annual fine for his
loyalty. My authority is a condensed history of the Fleming family, on
referring to which I find that “Michael, the sixth son of Sir Daniel
Fleming, was Major in the regiment commanded by the Hon. Col. Stanley,
afterwards Earl of Derby, was in most of the sieges and battles in
Flanders during the reigns of King William and Queen Anne, and was
returned to Parliament for Westmorland in 1706.” I fancy he would be
great-grandfather to the estimable lady who now holds the estates and
honours of her ancient house. The other brother remembered by the old
man would be, as I have reason to believe, Sir Daniel’s eighth son,
Roger Fleming, who entered the church, and became Vicar of Brigham, a
preferment enjoyed at the present day, not by a son of the Knight of
Rydal Hall, but by a son of the Bard of Rydal Mount.
[Sidenote: ONE OF NELSON’S HEROES.]
We have not done yet with Hause Bank, for you should be told that the
old-fashioned house in the fold, surrounded by equally old-fashioned
farm-buildings, was formerly the residence of Lieutenant Oldfield,
R.N., and is still possessed by his widow.
This Mr Oldfield rose from before the mast, and was made Lieutenant by
Nelson himself, as a reward for very important service rendered on a
critical occasion—that of piloting the fleet through an intricate and
dangerous navigation at the entrance of the Baltic, previous to
——“the glorious day’s renown
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark’s crown.”
The Danes had lifted all the buoys, and taken other measures to place
difficulties in the way of the British fleet gaining the anchorage
off Copenhagen, and no other man but Oldfield was to be found in the
whole fleet, who would undertake a pilot’s responsibility under such
circumstances.
[Sidenote: A QUOTATION.]
Leaving Hause Bank, you next pass “Piper-hole,” and soon after reach
Park-gate, the farthest houses in the village in this direction. Then
take the narrow road to your right, past the pretty farm of Outrake,
and following it for a steep half mile, it brings you out upon the
table-land high above the village, where stands the ancient hamlet of
Highthwaite, called here “Heethat,” and from which you have a grand
view of the Lake and the vales of Conistone and Yewdale. Descending by
another steep lane, you arrive at another cluster of very comfortable
cottages called Cat-bank, formerly Catherine Bank, upon the brow
beyond which stands a recently-built row of ten cottages, with large
well-tilled gardens in front.
Taking the foot-path behind these, whence the natural panorama of
the dale and village appears to vary at every few steps, you pass
one or two small groups of houses, and arrive at the steep road you
descended in returning from Seathwaite. The old-fashioned farm-houses
and cottages adjoining, which are shaded by a straggling regiment
of magnificent Scotch firs, are called Dixon-ground; and from the
flat in front of the higher farm, the whole of the upper portion of
Conistone lies spread out beneath you, and beautiful it looks; “here a
scattering, and there a clustering, as in the starry heavens.” But as
you walk down this lane, I'll tell you how Father West describes the
Conistone of nearly a century back; “the village of Conistone,” says
he, “consists of scattered houses; many of them have a most romantic
appearance, owing to the ground they stand on being extremely steep.
Some are snow-white, others grey; some stand forth on bold eminences at
the head of green enclosures, backed with steep woods; some are pitched
on sweet declivities, and seem hanging in the air; others, again, are
on a level with the lake; they are all neatly covered with blue slate,
the produce of the mountains, and beautified with ornamental yews,
hollies, and tall pines or firs. This is a charming scene, when the
morning sun tinges all with a variety of tints. In the point of beauty
and centre of perspective, a white house, under a hanging wood, gives
life to this picture. Here a range of dark rugged rocks rises abruptly,
and deeply contrasts with the transparent surface of the lake, and the
stripe of verdure that skirts their feet.
* * * * *
The hanging woods, waving enclosures, and airy sites are elegant,
beautiful, and picturesque; and the whole may be seen with ease and
pleasure.”
[Sidenote: “GOOD BYE FOR THE PRESENT.”]
I need not tell you that Conistone is greatly altered since then, but
it is for the better. It has lost none of its old beauties, and it has
gained many new ones. But here we are again at the central point of the
village, the Church bridge; and if you are as tired of rambling as I am
of raving, you will be exceedingly glad when I bid you good bye for the
present.