LITTLE LANGDALE—BLEA TARN—GREAT LANGDALE—LANGDALE
PIKES—WALLEND—MILL-BECK—DUNGEON GHYLL—CHAPEL STILE—LANGDALE
CHURCH-YARD—ELTERWATER—HACKETT—COLWITH AND COLWITH FORCE—TARN
HOWS—FINALE.
Quitting the slate quarries, you follow the road by which you formerly
travelled on your way to the classic Duddon, till you reach the
stream separating Lancashire from Westmorland. You now cross this
stream at the point where you approach it, and at once enter Little
Langdale, up which the road takes you past “the New Houses,” Birk How,
“Langden Jerry,” The Busk, and Langdale Tarn, all of which have been
noticed either collectively or separately, on a previous occasion.
After winding by a rough ascending road, half way round the mountain
range called Lingmoor, you arrive at Blea Tarn, which, to quote _the_
Professor, is “a lonely, and if in nature there be anything of that
character, a melancholy piece of water!” It is thus finely described in
Mr Wordsworth’s Excursion, as the abode of his Solitary:
'Urn-like it is in shape—deep as an urn;
With rocks encompassed, save that to the south
Is one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge
Supplies a boundary less abrupt and close,
A quiet treeless nook with two green fields,
A liquid pool that glitters in the sun,
And one bare dwelling; one abode—no more!
It seems the home of poverty and toil,
Though not of want. The little fields made green
By husbandry of many thrifty years,
Pay cheerful tribute to the moorland house.
There crows the cock, single in his domain;
The small birds find in spring no thicket there
To shroud them; only from the neighbouring vales
The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill-top,
Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place!'
[Sidenote: “BLEA-POND.”]
‘What!’ methinks we hear a voice exclaim—‘Is that a description of
bare, dull, dreary, moorland Blea-Pond, where a man and a Christian
would die of mere blank vacancy, of weary want of world, of eye and
ear?’ Hush, critic, hush! forget you that there are sermons in stones,
and good in everything? In what would the poet differ from the worthy
man of prose, if his imagination possessed not a beautifying and
transmuting power over the objects of the inanimate world?”
It is indisputable that the poet must possess something that may be
called “a transmuting power” of vision, for to the unpoetical optics of
any “worthy man of prose,” like you or me, Blea Tarn is much more like
a platter than “an urn.” Once upon a time, I—even I myself—in a very
sentimental mood, perpetrated a sonnet upon Blea Tarn, and, if you can
tolerate such enormity, here it is:
It is the very home of loneliness
This lonely dell, with lonely hills around,
Whose hundred rills emit one lonely sound—
A hum which doth the lonely soul oppress,
When joined with the lone scene you look upon.
The lonely pool with murky shadows thrown
Across its waters; and, within the gloom
Of mountain shade, the lonely dwelling-place,
Upon whose lonely roof each flitting trace
Of sunbeam fades like smiles beside a tomb.
And were you long to linger there and muse
In chilling loneliness, 'twould make you shiver,
Submerge your brightest fancies in the blues,
Mar much enjoyment, and derange your liver.
[Sidenote: PLAIN AND PIKES.]
It is no longer, nor has it been, for many years, a “treeless nook,”
for the “one abode” is now shaded by a sycamore or two, and the
hill-side beyond the tarn is covered with Mr Wordsworth’s most especial
aversion, an extensive plantation of fine larches, which were planted,
I suppose, by Dr Watson, the venerated Bishop of Llandaff, in the
possession of whose representatives the place still remains. For miles
hereabouts the scenery partakes largely of the Blea-tarn character,
and were it not for the house, the road, the little fields and the
intruding larches, there were nothing to indicate that the hand or
foot of man has been there. It is not until you are descending a steep
hill towards Wall-end, that the fertile meadows, the flourishing
trees, the hedge-rows and the homesteads of Great Langdale, and the
magnificent Pikes towering beyond them, neutralize the effect of the
dreary scene you are emerging from. But in introducing you to Great
Langdale, I am glad to resign my office to a much more efficient and
eloquent cicerone—so attend to _him_:—“Promise not to lift your eyes
from your ponies' ears, till we cry 'eyes forward'! We wish you to
enjoy the soul-uplifting emotion of instantaneous magnificence. There,
honest Jonathan, hold the gate open till the cavalry get through; and
now,——behold the VALE OF GREAT LANGDALE! There is no lake in that depth
profound—the glittering sunshine hides a cloud of rich enclosures,
scattered over with single trees; and, immediately below your feet,
a stately sycamore-grove shrouding the ancient dwelling of Wall-end.
Ay, your dazzled eyes begin now to discern the character of the vale,
gradually forming itself into permanent order out of the wavering
confusion. That thread of silver is a stream! Yonder seeming wreath
of snow a waterfall! No castles are these built by hands, but the
battlements of the eternal cliffs! There you behold the mountains, from
their feet resting on the vale as on a footstool, up to their crests in
the clear blue sky! And what a vast distance from field to cloud! You
have been in Italy, and Spain, and Switzerland,—say, then, saw ye ever
mountains more sublime than the Langdale Pikes?”
[Sidenote: GHYLL AND FALL.]
After passing Wall-end, you are fairly upon the floor of the vale of
Langdale, and crossing its fertile fields by a tolerable road, and
the other branch of the Brathay by an equally tolerable bridge, you
follow the road rather down the vale, till you reach the farm house of
Mill-beck, where you must stable your steed, whilst you scramble about
a quarter of a mile up the fell to look at Dungeon Ghyll. Arrived at
the entrance of this famous “rock-dungeon,” where Coleridge says “three
wicked sextons’ souls are pent,” and occasionally make a terrible
rumpus with “bells of rock and ropes of air,” the devil answering “to
the tale with a merry peal from Borrowdale,” you descend by a rude, but
stout ladder into the watercourse. After clambering over some rather
impracticable rocks, you obtain a full view of the fall, and declare
it to be an ample recompense for your journey, had it been five times
as toilsome. A perpendicular wall of solid rock rises on each side,
scarcely three yards apart, to the height of one hundred feet. At the
inner extremity of the chasm, about fifty yards from its external
opening, and directly opposite to you as you enter, the water rushes
in one clear unbroken fall, from a height of ninety feet, into a deep
circular basin, whence a lamb, which had been dashed over the fall
without injury, was rescued from drowning by Mr Wordsworth, to await
the legitimate fate of all lambs, they, like many of the human species,
“being destined to a drier death on shore.” The most curious feature
of Dungeon Ghyll is two huge rocks, which appear to have been rolling
down simultaneously from the Pikes above, and to have met and jammed
together across the top of the chasm, forming a bridge, which it is
a favourite feat with adventurous spirits to cross over, and which,
in its “contempt of danger and accommodation,” might almost seem to
have been placed there to gratify the peculiar taste in bridges of the
lamb’s benevolent preserver.
[Sidenote: WET OR DRY?]
There are various opinions on the momentous question of what is the
best weather for visiting falls such as this of Dungeon Ghyll. One
eminent lover and describer of mountain scenery, says:—“To our liking,
a waterfall is best in a rainless summer. After a flood, the noise is
beyond all endurance. You get stunned and stupified, till your head
splits. Then you may open your mouth like a barn door, and roar into
a friend’s ear all in vain a remark on the cataract. To him you are a
dumb man. In two minutes you are as completely drenched in spray, as if
you had fallen out of a boat—and descend to dinner with a tooth-ache
that keeps you in starvation in the presence of provender sufficient
for a whole bench of bishops. In dry weather, on the contrary, the
waterfall is in moderation; and instead of tumbling over the cliff in
a perpetual peal of thunder, why it slides and slidders merrily and
musically away down the green shelving rocks, and sinks into repose in
many a dim or lucid pool, amidst whose foam-bells is playing or asleep
the fearless Naiad. Deuce a headache have you—speak in a whisper, and
not a syllable of your excellent observation is lost; your coat is
dry, except that a few dew-drops have been shook over you from the
branches stirred by the sudden wing-clap of the cushat—and as for
tooth-ache interfering with dinner, you eat as if your tusks had been
just sharpened, and would not scruple to discuss nuts, upper- and
lower-jaw-work fashion, against the best crackers in the country.”
I have the temerity to hold the opposite opinion on this “momentous
question.” Some idea of the grounds on which I found that opinion,
may be gathered from the following rhyming epistle, in which, “long,
long ago,” I essayed to give a distant friend an account of a _winter_
excursion to Dungeon Ghyll:—
[Sidenote: WATERPROOF ZEAL.]
Of our wet ride to Dungeon Ghyll
A sketch, you say, would much delight you,
And though I lack descriptive skill,
A sketch I'll do my best to write you.
We took the way at high forenoon—
Three couples all on ponies mounted—
'Twas fair at first, but altered soon—
A change on which we’d scarcely counted;
For when we came to Yewdale head,
Thick clouds old Raven Crag were cloaking,
And as through Tilberthwaite we sped,
'Twas plain we’d catch a hearty soaking.
As Brathay beck with previous rains
Was flooded so we could not cross it—
We therefore wended round by lanes,
With mud and mire one _clarty_ posset.
And after crossing Colwith Bridge,—
The narrow ways forbade all other
Course but jostling in the hedge,
Or following after one another,—
In single file through Fletcher’s wood
Away we rustled, splashed, and clattered—
The foremost steed threw up the mud,
Bespattering me, whilst mine bespattered
The next behind, and in this way
We kept up one continued spatter,
And helter-skelter, clothed with clay,
We galloped on through Elterwater.
And when we came to Chapel Stile,
The heavy rain our spirits daunted,
But after sheltering there awhile,
It slackened, and again we mounted.
And as we rode up Langdale flat,
The lanes for many a rood with water
Were flooded deep, we splashed through that,
And came out looking something better.
Because we kicked up such a spray—
Our steeds abating none their paces—
It washed off almost half the clay
That stuck upon our clothes and faces.
And when we reached the resting farm,
We tied our ponies in the stable;
And then, our stiffened limbs to warm,
Ran off as fast as we were able.
Right up the hill to Dungeon Ghyll
We scudded like so many rabbits;
The ladies all got many a fall
By tripping in their riding habits;
Till, straggling up the torrent’s course,
We neared the fall whose ceaseless thunder
Seemed roaring hoarse, behold the force
That cleft this mighty rock asunder.
I've said I lack descriptive skill,
And now I really wish I’d held it,
To tell of pealing Dungeon Ghyll
When winter’s snows and rains have swelled it.
We ventured up within the rent
Where the vexed element was dashing,
And came forth cleaner than we went,
Receiving there a further washing.
We then descended to the farm,
And round the grateless fire we sauntered,
Our toes and noses well to warm,
Then back to Chapel Stile we cantered.
We saw our steeds get corn and hay,
And then enquired about our dinners,
For riding in the rain all day
Had left us six wet hungry sinners.
And when for clothing dry we’d bawled,
And some brief time to dress devoted,
_Les dames_ came forth dry gowned and shawled,
The gentlemen dry breeched and coated.
They, in the hostess’ shawls and gowns—
We, in poor Isaac’s coats and breeches,
Were much like masquerading clowns
Hobnobbing Tam O'Shanter’s witches.
But ne'ertheless the fare was good,
The room was warm, the waiter handy,
And all (_who would_) washed down their food
With reeking draughts of “_toddied_ brandy.”
Then round the hearth so cozily
We drew, mirth, song and chat combining;
And when our proper clothes were dry,
The moon and stars were brightly shining.
We cantered down by Skelwith Bridge,
And round by Borwick fast we wended,
Then scampering over High Cross’ ridge,
We to our own fair vale descended.
If e'er you pass o'er Wrynose hill,
Where three fair counties meet together,
Be sure to visit Dungeon Ghyll,
And visit it in rainy weather!
[Sidenote: A FAIR FINISH.]
When you have had enough of Dungeon Ghyll, descend the mountain side,
return to Mill-beck, re-mount your pony, and canter down the vale
past pretty farm houses, green fields, and slate-quarries, to Chapel
Stile, where my esteemed friend, Mrs Tyson, the youthful and blooming
landlady, will unexceptionably administer to your physical wants,
which, no doubt, are becoming importunate, whilst her husband will pay
equal attention to the requirements of your pony.
[Sidenote: FROM GAY TO GRAVE!]
Having refreshed to your satisfaction in Mrs Tyson's best parlour,
where the furniture of ancient oak bears such a polish as might
tempt you to re-enact the story of Narcissus, you may proceed to
examine the church yard, for here, again, the house of prayer and the
house of refreshment are in juxta-position. In this little mountain
burial-place, you will find, under a yew tree, a plain tombstone
erected to the memory of a late incumbent—the Rev. Owen Lloyd, son
of Mr Charles Lloyd, of Old Brathay, who was the early and life-long
friend of Southey, Coleridge, and Wordsworth—a participator, I believe,
in the much-ridiculed scheme of Pantisocrasy—an accomplished scholar,
and an elegant, though little known, writer. You may find a very
interesting sketch of his history and character in De Quincey’s papers
on Lake Society, and to that I must refer you. On the humble tombstone
of his excellent, but unhappy son, you may read the following epitaph,
which, I need not tell you, is by “the aged poet, whose residence is
the crowning honour of the district”:
By playful smiles, (alas! too oft
A sad heart’s sunshine) by a soft
And gentle nature, and a free,
Yet modest hand of charity,
Through life was Owen Lloyd endeared
To old and young; and how revered
Had been that pious spirit, a tide
Of humble mourners testified,
When, after pains dispensed to prove
The measure of God’s chastening love,
Here, brought from far, his corse found rest,—
Fulfilment of his own request;—
Urged less for this yew’s shade, though he
Planted with such fond hope the tree,
Less for the love of stream and rock,
Dear as they were, than that his Flock,
When they no more their Pastor’s voice
Could hear to guide them in their choice
Through good and evil, help might have,
Admonished, from his silent grave,
Of righteousness, of sins forgiven,
For peace on earth and bliss in Heaven.
[Sidenote: ELEGIAC STANZAS.]
If _post mortem_ poetical panegyric be a proof of the affection with
which the subject has been regarded through life, (and why should
it not?) Owen Lloyd must have enjoyed no ordinary share of the love
and esteem of his neighbours and friends, for his early death is the
subject, in addition to Mr Wordsworth’s epitaph, of three other sets of
elegiac verses, viz., by Mr Hartley Coleridge, Mr Ball, of Glen Rotha,
and Mr —— Lloyd, his surviving brother. Mr Hartley Coleridge’s verses
are scarcely worthy of his name, though they certainly contain some
striking stanzas, as this,—referring to his school days:—
“Fine wit he had, and knew not it was wit,
And native thoughts before he dreamed of thinking,
Odd sayings, too, for each occasion fit,
To oldest sights the newest fancies linking.”
And these,—to a later period of life, when the gloom that darkened his
latter days was appearing:—
“I traced with him the narrow winding path
Which he pursued when upland was his way,
And then I wondered what stern hand of wrath
Had smitten him that wont to be so gay.
“Then would he tell me of a woeful weight—
A weight laid on him by a bishop’s hand,
That late and early, early still and late,
He could not bear, and yet could not withstand.”
These must serve as a specimen of Hartley Coleridge's dozen stanzas.
Mr Ball’s are remarkable only as containing the following tolerable
Irishism:—
“The rock that meets the current’s way
May _stillest_ rills _arrest_.”
[Sidenote: BETTY YEWDALE.]
His brother’s verses I have not seen, and having devoted more time to
this subject than you may approve of, you had better now return to your
inn—pay your moderate bill, and set out, passing the Elterwater powder
works, and through the straggling village of that name—take a glance
at the tarn with its reedy shores, and pushing on, you pass, unseen,
far up on the height to your right hand, the farm houses called Hacket,
formerly the residence of old Betty Yewdale, the heroine of one of
the best passages in the “Excursion.” I allude to that in the fifth
book, where the sage and eloquent wanderer describes his having been
benighted amongst the hills—
——until a light
High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought,
For human habitation;——
But making for this light, he finds a matron
“Drawn from her cottage on that aëry height,
Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood,
Or paced the ground—to guide her husband home.”
As you have read “The Excursion,” or, if not, intend to correct that
sin of omission without further delay, I need not quote farther. But I
should tell you that the same Betty Yewdale also figures as the heroine
of a section of that strange book “The Doctor,” or rather, I should
say, she is the narrator of the chapter, for it was taken down from
her own lips, and in her own language, by “the Doctor's” daughter,
Miss Southey, and a friend. It is called “A true story of the terrible
knitters i’ Dent”—is by far the best specimen of our local dialect
that I know, and in truth to nature, interest of narrative, and as a
picture of manners, is infinitely superior to the only production at
all resembling it—the well-known “Borrowdale letter.” I must recommend
it to you as well worthy a careful perusal, giving you the following
short extract as a whet. She and her sister, I must premise, had been
sent from Langdale to Dent, when she was “between sebben an’ eight
year auld, and Sally twea year younger,” and tiring of the mode of
living and the incessant knitting at Dent, which are most graphically
described, they ran away. She gives a minute detail of their three
days’ journey, and continues:—“It was quite dark afore we gat to
Ammelside yat—our feet warr sair, an’ we warr naarly dune for—an’
when we turnt round Windermer Watter heead t'waves blasht sea dowly
that we warr fairly heart-brossen. We sat down on a cauld steean an’
grat sair—but when we hed hed our belly full o’ greeting, we gat up
an’ dreed on agean—slaw enough, ye may be sure, but we warr i’ kent
rwoads.——We began ta be flayet at my fadder an’ mudder wad be angert at
us for running away. It was tweea o'clock in t’ mwornin’ when we gat to
our awn duir. I ca’d out ‘Fadder, fadder! Mudder, mudder!’ ower an’ ower
agean. She hard us, an’ sed ‘That’s our Betty voice!’ ‘Thou’s nowt but
fancies, lig still,’ sed my fadder—but she waddent, an’ sea gat up an’
open’t duir, an’ thear warr we stannin’ dodderin’ an’ daized wi’ cauld,
as nar deead as maks nea matter. When she so us she was warr flay’t than
we,—she brast out a crying, an’ _we_ grat, an’ my fadder grat an’ o',
an’ they duddent flyte nor sed nowt tull us for running away.”
[Sidenote: FORCE, FARMS, AND BIRCHES.]
You soon arrive at Colwith, where you may stop to inspect the force. It
is, in my opinion, one of the finest forces in the country, possessing
by far the largest body of water, with a fall, or rather a succession
of falls, of 152 feet, very much broken and frothed up by jutting
interruptions of rock. Its immediate environs are prettily wooded, and
it is seen to most advantage from below. When you cross Colwith Bridge,
you are again in Lancashire, and in rather a dreary portion of that
important county. You have no houses for miles, except the two farms of
Arnside, which stand _unseen_ in “dual loneliness” upon the wild moor
to the left, and those of Oxenfell over the heights on your right.
As you descend towards Yewdale by the alder-fringed brook, you
may notice a large enclosure of birches, which fully justify Mr
Wordsworth’s preference; for it is difficult to name a deciduous tree
that is prettier in all seasons than the birch, with its tremulous
foliage in summer, and its flea-coloured twigs and its grey-coloured
stem in winter. One cannot help regretting that the twigs of such a
handsome tree should come to such base uses at last!
[Sidenote: A “FLASH” AND ADIEU!]
As you approach the head of Yewdale, the scenery gradually assumes
an aspect of the most varied loveliness. When you enter the vale of
Yewdale, take the steep road to the left over Tarn Hows; but Mr De
Quincey is here a much better cicerone than I, and he says,—“Taking
the left-hand road, so as to make for Monk Conistone, and not for
Church Conistone, you ascend a pretty steep hill, from which, at a
certain point of the little gorge, or _hawse_ (i. e. _hals_, neck or
throat, viz., the dip in any hill through which the road is led), the
whole lake, of six miles in length, and the beautiful foregrounds, all
rush upon the eye with the effect of a pantomimic surprize—not by a
graduated revelation, but by an instantaneous flash.”
You descend by the road winding through Mr Marshall's beautiful
grounds, until you reach the road from Ambleside. You are now very
near your excellent head quarters, and my ravings and your ramblings
are equally near a happy conclusion; so trusting you will drink your
first bumper after dinner to our next merry meeting, I bid you, most
affectionately, adieu.
FINIS.
GEORGE LEE, PRINTER, KENDAL.