The following touching episodal extract is from Dr. Southey's _Colloquies
on the Progress and Prospects of Society:_--The best general view of
Derwentwater is from the terrace, between Applethwaite and Milbeck, a
little beyond the former hamlet. The old roofs and chimneys of that hamlet
come finely in the foreground, and the trees upon the Ornathwaite estate
give there a richness to the middle ground, which is wanting in other parts
of the vale. From that spot I once saw three artists sketching it at the
same time--William Westall (who has engraved it among his admirable views
of Keswick,) Glover, and Edward Nash, my dear, kind-hearted friend and
fellow-traveller, whose death has darkened some of the blithest
recollections of my latter life. I know not from which of the surrounding
heights it is seen to most advantage; any one will amply repay the labour
of the ascent; and often as I have ascended them all, it has never been
without a fresh delight. The best near view is from a field adjoining
Friar's Craig. There it is that, if I had Aladdin's lamp, or Fortunatus's
purse (with leave of Greenwich Hospital be it spoken,) I would build myself
a house.
Thither I had strolled, on one of those first genial days of spring which
seem to affect the animal not less than the vegetable creation. At such
times even I, sedentary as I am, feel a craving for the open air and
sunshine, and creep out as instinctively as snails after a shower. Such
seasons, which have an exhilarating effect upon youth, produce a soothing
one when we are advanced in life. The root of an ash tree, on the bank
which bends round the little bay, had been half bared by the waters during
one of the winter floods, and afforded a commodious resting-place, whereon
I took my seat, at once basking in the sun and bathing, as it were, in the
vernal breeze. But delightful as all about me was to eye, and ear, and
feeling, it brought with it a natural reflection, that the scene which I
now beheld was the same which it had been and would continue to be, while
so many of those with whom I had formerly enjoyed it, were past away. Our
day-dreams become retrospective as we advance in years; and the heart feeds
as naturally upon remembrance in age as upon hope in youth.
"Where are they gone, the old familiar faces?"
I thought of her, whom I had so often seen plying her little skiff upon
that glassy water, the lady of the lake. It was like a poet's dream, or a
vision of romance, to behold her--and like a vision or a dream she had
departed!
"O gentle Emma, o'er a lovelier form
Than thine, earth never closed; nor e'er did heaven
Receive a purer spirit from the world!"
I thought of D., the most familiar of my friends during those years when we
lived near enough to each other for familiar intercourse--my friend, and
the friend of all who were dearest to me; a man, of whom all who knew him
will concur with me in saying, that they never knew, nor could conceive of
one more strictly dutiful, more actively benevolent, more truly kind, more
thoroughly good; the pleasantest companion, the sincerest counsellor, the
most considerate friend, the kindest host, the welcomest guest. After our
separation, he had visited me here three summers; with him it was that I
had first explored this land of lakes in all directions; and again and
again should we have retraced our steps in the wildest recesses of these
vales and mountains, and lived over the past again, if he had not, too
early for all who loved him,
"Began the travel of eternity."
I called to mind my hopeful H----, too, so often the sweet companion of my
morning walks to this very spot; in whom I had fondly thought my better
part should have survived me, and
"With whom it seemed my very life
Went half away!
But we shall meet--but we shall meet
Where parting tears shall never flow;
And when I think thereon, almost
I long to go!"
"Thy dead shall live, O Lord; together with my dead body shall they arise.
Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust! for Thy dew is as the dew of herbs;
and the earth shall cast out her dead!"
Surely, to the sincere believer death would be an object of desire instead
of dread, were it not for those ties--those heartstrings--by which we are
attached to life. Nor, indeed, do I believe that it is natural to fear
death, however generally it may be thought so. From my own feelings I have
little right to judge; for, although habitually mindful that the hour
cometh, and even now may be, it has never appeared actually near enough to
make me duly apprehend its effect upon myself. But from what I have
observed, and what I have heard those persons say whose professions lead
them to the dying, I am induced to infer that the fear of death is not
common, and that where it exists it proceeds rather from a diseased and
enfeebled mind, than from any principle in our nature. Certain it is, that
among the poor the approach of dissolution is usually regarded with a quiet
and natural composure, which it is consolatory to contemplate, and which is
as far removed from the dead palsy of unbelief as it is from the delirious
raptures of fanaticism. Theirs is a true, unhesitating faith; and they are
willing to lay down the burden of a weary life, in the sure and certain
hope of a blessed immortality. Who, indeed, is there, that would not gladly
make the exchange, if he lived only for himself, and were to leave none who
stood in need of him--no eyes to weep at his departure, no hearts to ache
for his loss? The day of death, says the preacher, is better than the day
of one's birth; a sentence to which whoever has lived long, and may humbly
hope that he has not lived ill, must heartily assent.
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