The maiden’s blush,
Sweet blackberry blossom, thou
Wearest, in prickly leaves that rove
O’er friendlike turning bough.
Companionship
Thine attributes, thou givest
Likeness of virtue shielded safe
From lives with whom thou livest.
What is mankind?
But like thy wand’ring?--Time
Leads mortals through the maze of life,
And thousands hopewards climb.
A sudden blast--
Then what of hope remains?
Beauty full soon by sickness falls,
And pleasures die in pains.
But fruit succeeds--
Thou ripenest by the sky:
May human hearts bear fruits of peace
Before in earth _they_ lie!
_August 19, 1827._
----
* * * * *
[Illustration: ~Burnsal Lich-Gate.~]
[Illustration: ~Grassmere Font.~]
NOTES ON A TOUR, CHIEFLY PEDESTRIAN, FROM SKIPTON IN CRAVEN, YORKSHIRE,
TO KESWICK, IN CUMBERLAND.
“I hate the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba and say ’tis all
barren.”--_Sterne_
_July 14, 1827._ Left Skipton for Keswick. The road from Skipton to
Burnsal exhibits some romantic scenery, which the muse of Wordsworth has
made classic ground. About half a mile from Rilston, on the right-hand
side of the road, are the ruins of Norton tower, one of the principal
scenes in the poem of the “White Doe of Rylstone.” Having visited the
tower before, I did not think it worth while to reascend the immense
precipice on which it stands.
15th, _Sunday_. Previously to the commencement of the service at
_Burnsal_ church, I sketched the “lich-gate,” which differs considerably
from the beautiful one of Beckenham, in Kent; a drawing whereof is in my
friend Mr. Hone’s _Table Book_. The manner wherein the gate turns on its
pivot is rather curious, and will be best exemplified by the drawing
above. The church, an old structure, apparently of the reign of Henry
VII., is pleasantly situated on “the banks of the crystal Wharfe.” While
attending divine service, one or two things struck me as remarkable. The
church has an organ, on which two voluntaries were played; one after
the psalms for the day, and the other after the second lesson; but
during the singing of the metrical psalms the organ was silent. Instead
of it two or three strange-looking countrymen in the organ gallery
raised an inharmonious noise with a small fiddle, a flute, and a
clarinet. Why do the churchwardens allow this? The gallery of the church
should not be allowed to resemble the interior of an ale-house at a
village feast. The church would have looked better had it been cleaner:
the pew wherein I sat was covered with cobwebs. The business of the
churchwardens seemed to me to consist rather in thumping the heads of
naughty boys than in looking after the state of the church.
_Afternoon, same day._ At _Linton_, about two miles up the river,
arrived during the time of service. This church has suffered much from
the “beautifiers;” who, amongst other equally judicious improvements,
have placed a _Venetian_ window over the altar of the _Gothic_ edifice:
the present incumbent, the Rev. Mr. Coulthurst, is about to remove it.
The altar rails were covered with garlands made of artificial flowers.
Church garlands were formerly made of real flowers. They are borne
before the corpses of unmarried young women. I have heard an old woman
in Durham sing the following stanza, which evidently alludes to the
custom:--
When I am dead, before I be buried,
Hearken ye maidens fair, this must ye do--
Make me a garland of marjoram and lemon thyme,
Mixed with the pansy, rosemary, and rue.
The practice of bearing the garlands is still very common in the country
churches in Craven.
In the church-yard is the following inscription on a stone, date 1825!
The march of intellect is surely here proceeding at a rapid pace!
Remember man, that paseth by
As thou is now so once was I;
And as I is so must thou be,
Prepare thyself to follow me.
Some one had written beneath,
To follow you’s not my intent,
Unless I knew which way you went.
_July 16._ Went from Linton over the moors to _Clapham_; passed through
Skirethorns, over Skirethorns moor, by Malham Water, by the side of
Pennygent, through Great and Little Stainforth, over ---- moor,[338]
through Wharfe and Austwick. Malham Water is a beautiful lake, well
worthy of the traveller’s notice; it is supposed to be the source of the
river Aire, which springs in the neighbourhood. About a mile from it is
the famous chasm Gordale. (Vide Gray’s Journal.) From ---- moor,[339]
above the village of Little Stainforth, is a sublime view of mountain
scenery, in which Pennygent is a principal object. No traveller should
pass through Little Stainforth without seeing the waterfall below the
bridge. There is a finer one in the neighbourhood, but I was ignorant of
it when I passed through the village. From the waterfall the bridge
appears to great advantage; the arch has a fine span. There are, I was
told, some curious caves in this part. N.B. This day’s journey taught me
that the information of the peasantry with respect to distances is not
to be depended upon: at Little Stainforth I was informed it was three
miles to Clapham; six would have been nearer the mark.
_July 17, 18. Kirby Lonsdale._ This town is on the banks of the Lune,
which here winds through a finely wooded valley. It has an elegant old
bridge. In one of the battlements is a stone, resembling a Roman altar,
with this inscription--FEARE GOD, HONORE TE KINGE, 1683. Why and when
placed there I know not. Drunken Barnaby’s “_Aulam factam in tabernam_,”
may be seen in the main street: it is still used as an inn. The church
is a handsome structure; near the altar rails I observed the table of
consanguinity placed.[340] At the west end is a fine Norman doorway, a
considerable sufferer by “beautifying.” In the church-yard, on a neat
pyramidal tombstone, is the following melancholy inscription:--
_Eastern side._
SACRED
to the Memory of
ALICE CLARK,
Aged 31 years;
AGNES WALLING,
Aged 25;
BELLA CORNTHWAITE,
Aged 20;
HANNAH ARMSTRONG,
Aged 18;
AGNES NICHOLSON,
Aged 17:
All of whom were hurried into eternity by the awful
conflagration by fire of the Rose and Crown Hotel, in
this town, on the night of the 6 December, 1820.
_Western side._
In the midst of life we are in Death.
Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the
earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting thou art, O
God!
Thou turnest man to destruction, and sayest, Return, ye children of
men.
Thou carriest them away as with a flood; they are as a sleep: in the
morning they are like grass which springeth up.
In the morning it flourisheth and groweth up: in the evening it is cut
down and withered.
Erected by voluntary contributions.
All the sufferers in this dreadful conflagration seem to have been
_young_. “Whom the Gods love die young,” I think is said by one of the
Grecian poets.
A walk, extending from the north gate of the church-yard along the banks
of the Lune, affords a delightful prospect of the county, with several
gentlemen’s seats. N.B. The Rev. Mr. Hunt, the author of an elegant
version of Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered, was once curate here. I believe
the well-known Carus Wilson is the officiating minister at present.
18th, _Evening_--At _Kendal_. At Cowbrow half way between Kirby Lonsdale
and this place, is the following stanza, beneath a sign representing a
ploughboy:--
The weather’s fair, the season’s now,
Drive on my boys, God speed the plough;
All you my friends pray call and see
What jolly _boys_ we plough_men_ be.
Had this “poetry” been in the neighbourhood of Durham, I should have
suspected it to have been written either by the late Baron Brown, or
Vet. Doc. Marshall, though I do not think the doctor would have made
such a bull as runs in the last line.
19. Left Kendal for _Bowness_. Arrived there in the evening, and took up
my quarters at the posting-house at the entrance of the village. From
the front windows of the inn is a good view of Windermere. At the time
of my arrival it was invisible; both lake and village were enveloped in
a thick mist. About eight o’clock the mist dispersed, the sky grew
clear, and Windermere was seen in all its beauty. This is the largest of
the English lakes; and, according to Mr. Athey’s Guide, is ten miles in
length. The hills around it are delightfully wooded, but the scenery is
tame when compared with that of the more northern lakes. Bell’s Island
is now called Curwen’s Island, from its being the country residence of
Mr. Curwen: it is the largest of the numerous islands on Windermere. In
Bowness church-yard is a tomb to the memory of Rassellas Belfield, an
Abyssinian. Near Troutbeck bridge, in the neighbourhood, is the seat of
the laureate of the Palmy isle. In the midst of the village is a tree on
which notices of sales are posted. Bowness is to the inhabitants of
Kendal what Hornsey is to the cocknies, and during the summer months
gipsying excursions are very frequent. On the evening that I arrived
some Oxonians were “astonishing the natives:” they seemed to think that,
as they were from college, they had a right to give themselves airs. The
inhabitants appeared to regard them with mingled looks of pity and
derision.
_July 20._ Left Bowness for _Grassmere_, through _Ambleside_ and
_Rydal_. At the last place I turned aside to see Rydal Mount, the
residence of the celebrated poet, Wordsworth. While proceeding to his
cottage, an old woman popped out her head from the window of a rude
hut, and asked me if I should like to see the waterfall: I entered her
dwelling, where a good fire of sticks and turf was burning on the
hearth; and, from the conversation of the dame, I gleaned that she was a
dependant on the bounty of Lady le Fleming, in whose grounds the
waterfall was: she at length conducted me to it. This waterfall is
certainly a fine one, but as seen through the window of a summer-house
it has rather a cockney appearance. Rydal Hall is a huge uncouth
building; the beautifiers have made the old mansion look like a factory:
when I first saw it from the road I mistook it for one. N.B. For seeing
the waterfall, the price is “what you choose!”
I now proceeded to Rydal Mount, which, from the trees surrounding it,
can hardly be seen from the road: the approach is shaded by beautiful
laurels--proper trees for the residence of Wordsworth! While
reconnoitring I was caught in a heavy thunder-shower, and should have
been drenched, had not a pretty servant girl invited me into the
kitchen, where I sat for at least an hour. On the dresser, in a large
wicker cage, were two turtledoves; these, I learnt, were great
favourites, or rather _pets_, (that was the word,) with the bard. The
shower having ceased, I obtained Mrs. Wordsworth’s leave to walk through
the garden: from the mount in it I gained an excellent view of the front
part of the house. I had scarcely reached the village of Rydal when
another shower drove me into a cottage, from the door of which I had my
first view of the author of the Lyrical Ballads: he is rather tall,
apparently about fifty years of age; he was dressed in a hair cap, plaid
coat, and white trowsers. It was gratifying to hear how the Rydal
peasantry spoke of this good man. One said he was kind to the poor;
another, that he was very religious; another, that he had no pride, and
would speak to any body: all were loud in his praise.
At _Rydal_ is a neat gothic church, lately erected at the sole cost of
Lady le Fleming. I have not seen any new church that pleased me so much
as this; the east end is finely conceived, and both the exterior and
interior reflect the highest credit on the taste and talent of the
artist, Mr. Webster of Kendal. I wished Mr. Hone had seen it with me,
for I know he would have been delighted with it. The church tower forms
a pretty object from many parts of the neighbourhood. Rydal lake is
small, but very romantic. On some of the surrounding hills I observed
those rude erections of loose stones which the country boys are in the
habit of building, and which they call _men_. Wordsworth alludes to
these men in his Lyrical Ballads:--
To the top of high[341] ---- they chanc’d to climb,
And there did they build, without mortar or lime,
A _man_ on the top of the crag.
A few of these “men” being provided with arms, resemble crosses, and
transport the imagination of the beholder to catholic countries. The
“Opium Eater” resides in this part; I saw him; his name is De Q----.
_July 21. Grassmere._ Arrived here at nine in the morning, and took up
my quarters at Jonathan Bell’s, the Grassmere inn. This is a most lovely
village. The poem of the “City of the Plague,” in which its lake and
church are so exquisitely described, conveys but a faint idea of its
beauties--even my favourite, Wilson, has failed in delineating this
fairy spot. On entering, the first object that struck me was the church
and its cemetery.
There is a little church-yard on the side
Of a low hill that hangs o’er Grassmere lake.
Most beautiful it is! a vernal spot
Enclos’d with wooded rocks, where a few graves
Lie shelter’d, sleeping in eternal calm--
Go thither when you will, and that sweet spot
Is bright with sunshine.
Death put on
The countenance of an angel, in the spot
Which he had sanctified----
_City of the Plague._
I found the description correct, with the exception of the sunshine
passage; for when I entered the church-yard not a sun ray smiled on the
graves; but, on the contrary, gloomy clouds were frowning above. The
church door was open, and I discovered that the villagers were strewing
the floors with fresh rushes. I learnt from the old clerk, that,
according to annual custom, the rush-bearing procession would be in the
evening. I asked the clerk if there were any dissenters in the
neighbourhood; he said, no, not nearer than Keswick, where there were
some that called themselves Presbyterians; but he did not know what they
were, he believed them to be a kind of _papishes_.[342] During the whole
of this day I observed the children busily employed in preparing
garlands of such wild flowers as the beautiful valley produces, for the
evening procession, which commenced at nine, in the following
order:--The children (chiefly girls) holding these garlands, paraded
through the village, preceded by the _Union_ band, (thanks to the great
drum for this information;) they then entered the church, where the
three largest garlands were placed on the altar, and the remaining ones
in various other parts of the place. (By the by, the beautifiers have
placed an ugly window above the altar, of the nondescript order of
architecture.) In the procession I observed the “Opium Eater,” Mr.
Barber, an opulent gentleman residing in the neighbourhood, Mr. and Mrs.
Wordsworth, Miss Wordsworth, and Miss Dora Wordsworth. Wordsworth is the
chief supporter of these rustic ceremonies. The procession over, the
party adjourned to the ball-room, a hayloft, at my worthy friend, Mr.
Bell’s, where the country lads and lasses tripped it merrily and
_heavily_. They called the amusement _dancing_, but I called it
_thumping_; for he who could make the greatest noise seemed to be
esteemed the best dancer; and, on the present occasion, I think Mr.
Pooley, the schoolmaster, bore away the palm. Billy Dawson, the fiddler,
boasted to me of having been the officiating minstrel at this ceremony
for the last six and forty years. He made grievous complaints of the
outlandish tunes which the “Union band chaps” introduce: in the
procession of this evening they annoyed Billy by playing the “Hunters’
Chorus in Friskits.” “Who,” said Billy, “can keep time with such a queer
thing?” Amongst the gentlemen dancers was one Dan Burkitt; he introduced
himself to me, by seizing my coat collar in a mode that would have given
a Burlington Arcade lounger the hysterics, and saying, “---- I’m old Dan
Burkitt, of Wytheburn, sixty-six years old--not a better jigger in
Westmoreland.” No, thought I, nor a greater tosspot. On my relating this
to an old man present, he told me not to judge of Westmoreland manners
by Dan’s; “for,” said he, “you see, sir, he is a _statesman_, and has
been at Lunnon, and so takes liberties.” In Westmoreland, farmers
residing on their own estate are called “statesmen.” The dance was kept
up till a quarter to twelve, when a livery-servant entered, and
delivered the following verbal message to Billy--“Master’s respects, and
will thank you to lend him the fiddlestick.” Billy took the hint; the
sabbath morn was at hand, and the pastor of the parish had adopted this
gentle mode of apprizing the assembled revellers that they ought to
cease their revelry. The servant departed with the fiddlestick, the
chandelier was removed, and when the village clock struck twelve not an
individual was to be seen out of doors in the village. No disturbance of
any kind interrupted the dance: Dan Burkitt was the only person at all
“how came you so?” and he was “non se ipse” before the jollity
commenced. He told me he was “seldom sober;” and I believed what he
said. The rush-bearing is now, I believe, almost entirely confined to
Westmoreland. It was once customary in Craven, as appears from the
following extract from Dr. Whitaker:--“Among the seasons of periodical
festivity, was the rush-bearing, or the ceremony of conveying fresh
rushes to strew the floor of the parish church. This method of covering
floors was universal in _houses_ while floors were of earth, but is now
confined to places of worship: the bundles of the girls were adorned
with wreaths of flowers, and _the evening concluded with a dance_. In
Craven the custom has wholly ceased.”
In Westmoreland the custom has undergone a change. Billy remembered when
the lasses bore the rushes in the evening procession, and strewed the
church floor at the same time that they decorated the church with
garlands; now, the rushes are laid in the morning by the ringer and
clerk, and no rushes are introduced in the evening procession. I do not
like old customs to change; for, like mortals, they change before they
die altogether.
The interest of the scene at Grassmere was heightened to me, by my
discovering that the dancing-room of the rush-bearers was the ball-room
of Mr. Wilson’s children’s dance. The dancing-master described so
exquisitely in his poem is John Carradus. From an old inhabitant of
Grassmere I had the following anecdotes of the now professor of moral
philosophy. He was once a private in the Kendal local militia; he might
have been a captain, but not having sufficient knowledge of military
tactics, he declined the honour.
Wilson, while in the militia, was billeted at one of the Kendal inns,
where a brother private was boasting of his skill in leaping, and
stated, that he never met with his equal. Wilson betted a guinea that he
would outleap him; the wager was accepted, and the poet came off
victorious, having leaped seven yards; his bragging antagonist leaped
only five. Mr. Wilson appears to have been celebrated in Westmoreland
for these things; being a good climber of trees, an excellent swimmer,
and a first-rate leaper.
The poet had a curious fancy in wearing his hair in long curls, which
flowed about his neck. His sergeant noticed these curls, and remarked,
that in the militia they wanted men and not puppies; requesting, at the
same time, that he would wear his hair like other Christians. The
request of the sergeant was complied with, and the poet’s head was soon
deprived of its tresses. On a friend blaming him for submitting to the
orders of a militia sergeant, he coolly said, “I have acted correctly;
it is the duty of an inferior soldier to submit to a superior.”
While in the militia, Wilson opposed himself to seven beggars, or
trampers, of “Younghusband’s gang,” who were insulting a poor man. In
this fray the bard got two black eyes; “but,” added the narrator, “no
matter--he got ’em in a good cause.”
_July 22, Sunday._ Attended church. After service sketched the font,
which appeared to be of great antiquity. Near the altar is the following
inscription on a beautiful marble monument, designed and executed by
Webster of Kendal: the poetry is by Wordsworth.