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WORDSWORTH COLLECTION

MADE BY
CYNTHIA MORGAN ST. JOHN
ITHACA, N. Y.

THE GIFT OF

VICTOR EMANUEL

CLASS OF 1919
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CONTENTS.

PAGE
EREFALORY NORE BY. LHEME DIGOR eeeecesserecesee teen eee: eens eV,
OVER SANDS TO THE LakEs .............. Bnaanuiventert ataee suet ie ans ii
SEASIDE LAKES AND MounrTaAINS ........ RP Eee cei ana Aaa Ae 72
EKO SEGRE RINE mt IERIE Ben eee nee ctr cre CMa earn ate Peet uta fea aicareeca nie caeuse angie 157
AN OLD NEST (BEVERLEY) ..... a lehete setclesnierie de cic sinetaiatesee sitele ie/acloiieie ies I7I
ON DHE DARE Wer cee ora caliseks Sane perelon Hats raecremn mer rapa ars eat tc 193
MGGREENENOOKWTOF OLD ENGUAN DE a erceeesteeee ce ecras: eeZOZ

SAINT CATHERINE’S CHAPEL ; OR, THE PreTTy ISLAND Bay... 218
eg) RAG RU SEM choses oleae leeioatlalenln'e el te iininuinl onions welooein've Pee eee: 235
IN GPE LS TAT gO Fy oEN UiIMG a seietenn oeeoeccnsiissarecinut os cee nasieocinnsuina weet ste 240

A RuN uP THE RHINE
 
 
 
  

  

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Port Erin, IsL—e oF Man. From a Drawine sy RICHARD

 

 

WANE ........ Breese steve oases Rare eye eiastrs sett as setters aa Frontispiece
VienErrE | BYeRANDOLPH CALDECOTT ...2..(0.--00c0s0440. Title-page
SEROSSUN GRE me ANID Se rc eadert cnicete cues acte roti c csc ees ee hee BI
Tue LANCASTER COACH ....3...... Meare at etme rece. Lene ee Boag ueviees 4
KENT VIADUCT ..... ai eecreiate clacistaeie Meiers cists selenite mpreictteaeos pene ougeR 13
GRANGE ............ Me aetectecens cen ces Rane are aus sudaleuadenearemuenienss 22
VIEW FROM LEVEN SANDS 41
BaRrRow’S MONUMENT. ............0- sla sapeuleccamancan ae meeaaeneee rannene 44
BIRTH-PLACE OF SIR JOHN BARROW........cccecee seco eeeateneeetelses 45
SWARM O ORS ELAM Lae nash vcnccceacuiavisenitetee ractercnues savas desleeeensies 47
GEORGE Fox’s CHAPEL ON SWARTHMOOR ......00..0000e Hesse cuties 50
GUEASTONG @ASM ERM eres cee si asta dwar suicisediean ts Teen aan ecneets 52
CONISHEAD PRIORY......... enh ye LOSES EEE Oe eae one aeh 57
CuHapTerR House, FurNESS ABBEY................- sjostteieas aaecnncenees 59
ID) ATED ONPG AS REE eterna sraseasieecclaiscies welod sions esiadimeon ads Sacawaeacendes 61
CONISTON LAKE AND Otp Maun ...... Heed ric eee naa elgg eeenia ees Wee 63
GREENODD.......... SPARSE S ale RoR Vea a Se ae avaeinis so Nace Hates ovo since aaleateae cs 66
BACKBARROW MILLS oS
PN AUNT UNVEILS eres ethers setriccttiaais oer a noete isis cles c.n oy afaeletiaew’ eee rotors serie 7 o
(GA PDERWABEE NGM, st cas career ea ie eee uleee soniek tieaao econ dsebamcaessansane 76
SEASCALE HOTEL ..... Beh ESR ORN ape Osetia mmcaen weaies Basel sree Seta II5
ISECKER MOND aoe arettcn ce hahcanacmleatan Seumacsinwse saenenakimevsaueaes eneeaiecesane 118
ENNERDALE LAKE............++ EERO TE eta irsteticchctctan sian eeeeiioneett 127
Tue TireD Pitcrim. By RANDOLPH CALDECOTT ...........000 ,154
Tue IrisH FIDDLER. By H. MEACHAM .............cccccceeceeseeees 234
Tue EMERALD IsLE. By RANDOLPH CALDECOTT ......... eeraee ea

MIAPHOR AG HEMICAK DD) ISMRIC Teenie aeeeeeasicte tensile cee: Rancunaern Face 290
 

BREE ATORY NOTE,

 

THE contents of this volume—the seventh of the series—
may be regarded as representative of an extraordinary
amount of work done by Edwin Waugh in the department of
descriptive writing. A considerable proportion of this work
has not been republished. Its ephemeral character was
wisely recognised by its author, and it was rejected by
himself when he compiled his first Collected Edition. In
making a selection for the present volume, the editor has
confined himself to such articles as had received revision, and
the sanction implied in their re-issue during Waugh’s lifetime.
The volumes laid under contribution are three—Rambles in
the Lake Country, 1882; Lrish Sketches and Miscellany,
7882! and 7 he Limping Pilgrim on his Wanderings, 1883.
From the Rambles in the Lake Country two complete articles
are given—“ Over Sands to the Lakes;” and “Seaside
Lakes and Mountains.” Each of these was issued as a
separate pamphlet by Alexander Ireland & Co., in 1869 and

meer eT
ont ET
Vili PREFATORY NOTE.

1861, respectively. They deal with the less-frequented parts

of Lake-land, and are, consequently, more interesting than
articles, for instance, on places so well known as Windermere
and Grasmere. Especial attention may be drawn to an
,account of Professor Wilson’s doings at Wastdale Head,
en will be found. in “Seaside Lakes and Mountains.”
“Rostherne kere? un Olle Nest,” “On the Dart,” SE:
Catherine’s Chapel,” and ‘ Portrush ” are from the /7zsh
Sketches and Miscellany; while “A Green Nook of Old
England,” “In the Isle of Rum,’ and “A Run up the
Rhine” are from Zhe Limping Pilgrim.

The pleasant little sketch called ‘‘ Rostherne Mere,” which
is delicately and clearly written, receives an added interest
from the fact that it must have been one of the earliest, if
not the very first, of Waugh’s re-printed prose writings. It
was published in July, 1850, by an old Manchester man,
Joseph Johnson (who was at the time a bookseller in Newall’s
Buildings), along with a paper of his own on “A Visit to
Swinton Schools.” The “Run up the Rhine” appeared in

e “Critic” during 1875. Some of these last-mentioned
papers are reproduced in their original form, others consist
of unabbreviated chapters, embodying the most characteristic
material, and taken from articles which were judged to be
too long for complete reproduction. By this means as much
variety has been obtained as was consistent with the space
afforded in the volume.

It should be said that although this volume consists prin-
cipally of description, the writing is not of the usual hackneyed
kind. Waugh notices objects and occurrences which would
not engage the attention of the ordinary guide-book compiler ;
PREFATORY NOTE. 1X

and there is usually present that pecnliar charm which is
always the result of thorough enjoyment on the part of the
writer himself. In two things, especially, Waugh seems to
revel—the wild and stormy side of nature, those
Scenes
Where savage grandeur wakes an awful thrill,

and in the contrast afforded by the snug warmth, and the
genial company, and the clean, white-curtained bed-chamber
of some small wayside inn.

Although the articles in this volume are not specifically
dialectal, the speech-forms of the places visited are correctly
given, and the author has at all times an open ear for local
sayings and phrases, and for country customs and legends.
Of his own English it may be added that it is sometimes

none the worse for being unconsciously dialectal.
G. My

 
 

 
RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY.
ERRATUM.

For “ Whoever desires to see Coniston Water Well,” on

page 64—read “‘ Whoever desires to see Coniston water well,”

 
 

 

 

 

 

Over Sands to the Bakes.

 

CHAPTER I.

From Silverdale to Kent sand side,
Whose soil is sown with cockle shells;
From Cartmel eke, and Connyside,
With fellows fierce from Furness fells.
LANCASHIRE BALLAD OF FLODDEN FIELD,

which divides the districts of Furness and Cartmel
from the rest of Lancashire, and which receives
the waters of the Wyre, the Lune, the Keer, the
Winster, the Kent, the Leven, and other rivers of less note, is
a grand object, lying among scenes of singular interest and

 

beauty. Its picturesquely-irregular shores are full of varied
charms,—soft secluded vales, and green nooks of nestling,—
old towns and villages, rich parks, and wild woods sloping to
the water, which are all the more charming that they cling
like a garland about this playground of the capricious sea ;
with the outlines of the mountains crowding round in the rear-
ward, tier over tier, instormy majesty. Within the fine sweep
of scenery overlooking this bay, there is many a venerable
home of ancient religion, many a towered steep and storied
glen, that wakes the memories of a thousand years gone by.

{=r
2 ‘RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

Morecambe is, also, the outfall of Windermere and Coniston
waters, and is the most impressive gateway to the Lake
Country. From its shore at Ulverstone, the river I.even
will lead the traveller by windings full of changeful beauty,
nine miles, to that pleasant resting-place called ‘“ Newby
Bridge,” at the foot of Windermere. Cartmel and Furness
have been comparatively unknown, on account of difficulty
of access in days gone by; but now that the line from
Lancaster to Ulverstone skirts these sequestered regions,
their attractions cannot fail to arrest the attention of all
lovers of the picturesque in nature. In addition to its natural
beauty, Furness is indeed ‘‘a land whose stones are iron
and out of whose hills thou mayst dig brass;” but the wild
fells and green valleys of Cartmel know little-of the bustling
world, save what belongs to their purely agricultural and
pastoral character; and the primitive mountain folk dwelling
therein cling to the manners, language, and traditions of
their ‘‘fore-elders” with an affection little disturbed by
communion with the great changes of modern life. To the
scholar and student of manners, to the lover of nature, and
the man of science, these secluded hills and glens teem
with rich and rare interest.

Before the railway was made, the old way of crossing the
sands from Lancaster to Ulverstone must have been very
striking, both from the character of the scenery around, and
a sense of danger, which cannot but have given something of
the piquancy of adventure to the journey. The channels are
constantly shifting, particularly after heavy rains, when they
are perilously uncertain, For many centuries past, two guides
have conducted travellers over them, Their duty is to observe
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES, 3

the changes, and find fordable points. In all seasons and
states of the weather this was their duty, and in times of
storm and fog it must have been fraught with danger. These
guides were anciently appointed by the Prior of Cartmel
and received synodal and Peter pence for their maintenance.
They are now paid from the revenues of the duchy, The
office of guide has been so long held by a family of the name
of Carter, that the country people have given that name to
the office itself. A gentleman, crossing from Lancaster, once
asked the guide if ‘‘ Carters” were never lost on the sands.

 

“¢T never knew any lost,” said the guide, “there’s one or
two drowned now and then; but they’re generally found
somewhere i’th bed when th’ tide goes out.” A certain
ancient mariner, called Nuttal, who lives at Grange, on the
Cartmel shore, told me that “ people who get their living by
‘following the sands,’ hardly ever die in their beds, They
end their days on the sands; and even their horses and
carts are generally lost there. I have helped,” said he,
“to pull horses and coaches, aye, and guides, too, out of the
4 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

sands. The channel,” he continued, “is seldom two days
together, in one place. You may make a chart one day,
and, before the ink is dry, it will have shifted.” I found,
indeed, by inquiry, that those who have travelled the sands
longest are always most afraid of them; and that these silent
currents, which shimmer so beautifully in the sunshine,
have been “the ribs of death” to thousands, The old

   

  
  

        

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“Over Sands” route began at Hest Bank, a cliff on the
shore, about three miles from Lancaster. The coach, and
whatever travellers might be going, used to meet the guide
on the banks of the river Keer, which runs over the sands,
about three miles from Hest Bank. Here the guide care-
fully tried the bed of the stream before travellers were
allowed to cross,—for what was fordable yesterday, to-day
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 5

might be a quicksand. The safe tracks are indicated by
branches of furze, called ‘‘brogs,” stuck in the sands. The
old word ‘‘brog,” means a broken branch; and it is very
likely that the word “‘brob,” applied by the people of Furness
and Cartmel to these furze branches, is merely a corruption
of the former word, On reaching Kent’s Bank, the coach
went about three miles through the villages on the Cartmel
shore, and then forward across the Leven estuary, to
Ulverstone town. ‘These sands, though not one-third the
distance of the sands between Lancaster and Kent's
Bank, are considered much more dangerous. Probably the
difference may arise from the greater number of perso: s
crossing from Cartmel to Ulverstone. In every village,
and in almost every house I entered, upon the shores of
this bay, I met with tales of danger and disaster which
have occurred upon these sands; and even now there is a
kind of daily excitement there, arising from the dangerous
possibilities of travelling over them. Such was the old
“Over Sands” route from Lancaster. In Mrs. Hemans’
letters she thus alludes to the journey :—‘‘I must not omit
to tell you that Mr. Wordsworth not only admired our exploit
in crossing the Ulverstone sands as a deed of ‘derring do,’
but as a decided proof of taste. The lake scenery, he says,
is never seen to such advantage as after the passage of what
he calls its majestic barrier.”

This impressive scene may now be traversed by all who
prefer speed and ease to danger and delay, free from the
uncertainties of the old route. Along the picturesque
northern shores of this ‘‘ majestic barrier,” the new line of
railway from Lancaster to Ulverstone winds by Silverdale,
6 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

with the grand features of land and sea full in sight; and the
traveller lakewards may, at comparatively little cost of time
and money, look upon a scene so strikingly different to
what he will find in the country he is going to, that the
variety itself cannot but add to the interest of his journey.
The length of the line from Carnforth, six miles beyond
Lancaster, to Ulverstone, is ahout twenty miles, and, for
two-thirds of its length, it commands a continually changing
view of Morecambe Bay. It often runs over large tracts of
the sands, where the waves sometimes come lashing the
embankment, like ocean skirmishers sent out from the main
body to remonstrate with this bold invader of its old domain.
On the landward side, every mile brings a new picture; the
land is full of changeful picturesqueness of indentation, and
the shelving shores of light-hued limestone rock are rich in
exquisite variety of form and colour. The woods are
peculiarly beautiful, their lighter shades being charmingly
relieved by numbers of the dark green yew, full of brave
remembrances of England and forest life in the olden time.
Here, where the rugged selyedge of our mountain district
softens into slopes of fertile beauty by the fitful sea,—and
where the mountain streams wind silently seaward over the
sands, we flit by many a sylvan nook, and many a rural
nest, where we should be glad to linger ;—and by the outlet
of many a little pastoral glen, nestling in the verdant creases
of Cartmel, which, once seen, will remain a bower of
beautiful remembrance, where the mind may find a resting
place, even in the city’s busy throng.

Early in the month of May I found myself, one fine
evening, walking about the platform of Carnforth Station,
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 7

waiting for the train to Ulverstone. It was that time of
day when the birds were beginning to get stiller, and might —
be heard more distinctly than before, singing their little
nestward solos drowsily, here and there, among the trees,
The train started, and for the first time I was rolling towards
Ulverstone, by way of the Cartmel shore. We were soon
over the little river Keer, which, having left the hills, comes
gliding through a green plain on the right, and then, over
the Lancaster sands, where its shifty channel has been the
death-bed of many a gallant man. ‘There is an old saying
in these parts which is often repeated with a sigh, by people
who have felt its truth,—

“The Kent and the Keer
Have parted many a good man and his meear.”

Now we come to Silverdale station, where brown-faced
fishermen are waiting to see their bags of cockles, and
hampers of flukes, sent off to the southern markets by the
next train. Ina few minutes we are off again. Gardens,
and comfortable stone-built farmhouses, and little orchards
all white with apple-blossom are flitting by. The ragged
summits of Cartmel draw nearer to the eye; and, as we
draw near the Kent estuary, the view of the Cumberland
mountains, in the northward distance, is very grand.

Just before reaching the station at Arnside we catch a
glimpse of Arnsile Tower, a massive old peel, on an
eminence at the head of a solitary vale to seaward. Over a
few fields on the opposite side of the line is another of these
border peels, called Heslop Tower. Delightful Arnside!
If any man loves the beautiful in nature,—if he be a geolo-
8 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

gist, or a botanist, or an invalid in search of peaceful restora-
tion,—let him wander about Arnside, and pleasant
Silverdale,—which is close by. Shortly after this evening
ride, I returned for a ramble about Arnside, one sunny day,
in company with Mr. W. Salmon, F.G.S., president of the
Horticultural Society of Ulverstone, and Mr. John Bolton,
of Swarthmoor, a notable geologist, and a personal “friend
and fellow-labourer” of Professor Sedgwick. Mr. Bolton’s
disinterested ardour in the cause of science, his eminent
knowledge in the geology of Furness and Cartmel, and his
general characteristics, have justly won for him the name
of ‘The Hugh Miller of the north of England.” The day
was so fine, and the scene so beautiful, that we were
blithe as three lads going a-nutting to the woods on a sun-
shiny holiday. The old station-master at Arnside knew the
names of the hills around, and every remarkable point of the
glorious landscape. We chatted with him a few minutes,
watching the beautiful effect of a cloud-shadow gliding over
the limestone crags of ‘‘Whitbarrow” in the sunlight ; and,
after begging a few matches, we lit our cigars, and took up a
shady lane towards the hill called “‘ Arnside Knot.” Having
wound up this pleasant Jane, between tall bushy hedgerows,
about half a mile, we met a gamekeeper, who gave us
directions for the ascent of the ‘‘ Knot,” warning us against
the use of fire, by which considerable damage had been
done in the woods above. Skirting the eastern slope of
the hill, a good road brought us into the vale at the head of
which ‘‘ Arnside Tower,” a massive old square building of
limestone, stands, a lonesome, gloomy-looking ruin. It 1s
finely situated on an isthmus which connects the two
 

OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 9

peninsulas of Arnside and Silverdale. Seaward, it commands
a view of Warton Sands, and looks right over the bay, out to
Peel Castle, off the far western point of Low Furness.
Eastward, it overlooks the lone green vale of Arnside, with
its little tarn shining in the hollow; and beyond there is a
view of Farleton Knot, and of the sands formed by the river
Keer. The walls of this ancient border stronghold are of
great thickness, and the small rude windows, doorways,
shot-holes, and quaint fire-places are still visible. There are
no evidences of any other ancient outbuildings or defences
connected with it, and, probably, as Dr. Whittaker says, “It
has been merely a place of temporary retreat, in case of
sudden alarm from the north, for the neighbouring inhabi-
tants.” With the exception of an old farmhouse, a little
below the tower, there is no other building in all the vale
of Arnside. The old name of the township was “ Earn-
seat,” from the “‘earn,” for which it was a favourite retreat in
ancient times. The district, especially about the “ Knot,”
is famous for rare ferns, and the northern shore of that rocky
height is a favourite wandering ground of the geologist.
Leaving the road on the slope of “ Arnside Knot,” we
walked through the old farmyard below, and thence up to
the tower. Within, all was ruined, and wild, and roofless,
but we found the winding limestone staircase sufficiently
good for us to get to the top without difficulty. Here we sat
down on the broad, grass-grown, ruined wall, to look about us.
In spite of the beauty of the woods on “ Arnside Knot,” the
greenness of the vale, and the fine views east and west,
there was a touch of desolation in the scene, to which the
mouldering tower we sat upon contributed a solemn share.
Io RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

In the east a train laden with Furness ore darted by the end
of the vale, and broke the dreamy stillness with remem-
brances of the active world. It passed, and all was still
again, except where a number of swallows skimmed the air
in graceful flight between our ruined resting-place and the
ground. I chanced to fling some shreds of paper from the
tower, which, as they were born away in quivering gyrations
by the wind, were instantly pursued by the birds, and
rarely reached the ground before they were caught by one or
other of these dainty ariels, and carried off to nooks in the
eaves of the old farmhouse below. One of my friends
said it reminded him of the pursuit of knowledge under
difficulties, and was another evidence of the growing taste
for reading in these times. Another suggested that perhaps
these Arnside swallows might inherit the souls of departed
politicians, and were anxious to know something of the
political movements of the day ; and, pointing toa bird which
dropped the shred he had caught in his bill, he said that one
evidently didn’t agree with the leading article, and therefore
declined to take the paper in any further. Another thought
that they might have heard of the dispute about the duty, or
might be in some way interested in the consumption of the
article. But rumblings of distant thunder warned us that we
had far to go, so wecame down the stairs of the ruined tower
and began the ascent of “‘Arnside Knot.” A good foot-
path leads aslant the hill, through groves of larch, spruce,
and fir, whose different hues of green look very beautiful
in the sunshine. About half-way we left the footpath,
and struck up the shingly hill side to save time. The
slope was steeper than an ordinary roof, and the shingles
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. II

gave way at every step; but we toiled up, often using our
hands, till we reached a green spot at the edge of the wood
upon the summit. Here, among gorse bushes and tufts of
ling, we found it pleasant to rest. The view was fine from
this point. At the foot of the hill lay the lone valley of
Arnside, with its hoary tower standing at the head, like a
worn-out soldier dreaming of departed wars,—and its silvery
pool shining in the green hollow, the little bright eye of that
silent dell. Over the fir-clad ridge beyond we had a
charming glimpse of Silverdale, and its sequestered village
near the sea. I understand that the sands on Silverdale
shore are very fine for bathing. In this delightful dale there
is a small lake called ‘‘ Hawes Tarn,” rich in pike, and
remarkable for its thick hed of snow-white, tiny, uni-
valve sea shells, of fragile beauty. The waters of this
tarn are said to be affected by the rise and fall of the tide.
The sun was shining all around, and we had a full view of
“ Farleton Knot,” and the picturesque limestone ridges
running eastward. In a far corner of the Milnthorpe Sands,
the white tower of Heversham church peeped out prettily
from the green woods down by the shore; whilst in the east
all the great Yorkshire hills were robed in gloom, and
solemn rollings of distant thunder told that a storm was
raging among them. It was a glorious sight; but cool gusts
came now and then through the sunshine, and the trees on
“* Arnside Knot” began to talk of the coming tempest. Our
old friend said that rain would certainly overtake us before
the day had run by, and as a fir tree was but a poor shelter
in heavy showers, we had better get nearer to the haunts of
man. He pocketed his geological hammer, slung his strong
12 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY :

wallet over his shoulder, and led on through scratchy brush-
wood, under the green shades that cover all the hill top,
emerging on the open northern slope, from whence the view
of ‘‘Whitbarrow,” the shores and sands and channel of the
Kent, and the distant mountains of Cumberland, is wonder-
fully fine. Descending to the water side, our old friend
donned his spectacles, and took out his hammer again ; and
the two geologists wandered about the rocky shore in a
trance of scientific delight, picking up many specimens
interesting to them. One of these specimens I was requested
to show to an eminent geologist in Manchester, whose name
was familiar to them. We found some simple, substantial
cheer at a little country inn, called the ‘‘ Fighting Cocks,”
near the river side. From this place we went westward a
mile or so, then up the valley of the Winster to “ Castle
Head,” where we spent two pleasant hours in the house and
grounds. From thence we crossed over “ Aggerslack,”
down into “ Lindal Lane,” then up the opposite steep again,
by way of “Slack Farm,” right over the rocky summit of
“‘ Hampsfell,” descending into the old town of Cartmel,
where we took tea at the Cavendish Arms, the principal
inn, which stands on the site of the ancient priory buildings,
near the church. A seven mile walk in the gloaming through
Cartmel park, by the woods of Holker, and partly over the
Leven Sands, brought us to Ulverstone about ten at night,
after twenty miles walk, just in time to get well wet by the
storm which we had watched in the forenoon from the
eastern edge of “ Arnside Knot.” In spite of this, I hardly
ever had a more delightful ramble through a more finely-
varied country than the one I had that day. After this
“LONGVIA LNAW

eo

Saag

 
14 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

passing notice of my excursion to Arnside, I will now return
to my first ride to Ulverstone by rail.

Soon after the train leaves Arnside station, the great bay
begins to show itself as we rumble over the fine viaduct
that crosses the river Kent; and the yellow sands of its
estuary spread out on each hand. One of my fellow-
travellers pointed to a lonely stork standing quietly in the
midst of the sandy waste, like some weird genius of the
solitude. On the other side, near the embankment, the
‘Old John,” the oldest trading vessel of Morecambe Bay,
was ashore. ‘The low slopes near the line are richly wooded
with light-hued larch, and spruce, and fir, mingling beauti-
fully with dark green yew trees. The line now clips the
rocky shore for about a mile, and we are rolling over the
little river Winster, one of the boundary lines of Lancashire
and ‘Westmorland ; but, like the rest of these waters in
Morecambe Bay, so changeful in its course over the sands,
that yon pretty island, a little way from the shore, which
looks “as quiet as a spot of sky among the evening clouds,”
has been known to be first in Lancashire, then in West-
morland, and back again in Lancashire, all in a month’s
time, through the caprice of this little Winster, which, when
the fit is on it, thus plays at hide-and-seek with the two
counties. The scenery richens as we roll along. The
grand bay on one side, on the other picturesque rocks and
snatches of woodland, sloping to the shore, with the wild
fells behind, all going by in panoramic flight. It was about
low water, the sun was setting, and all that great marine
wilderness, beyond which the retired sea was out of sight,—
if a long line of golden light, far off, had not} told its where-
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 15

abouts,—that sandy expanse was so still that, but for here
and there a stranded boat, and a smack left aslant on the
shore in the distance, it might have been a sea-beach
belonging to some world unknown to man. This thresh-
old of the mighty sea, upon which so ‘many suns have
looked the grand farewell of day, was once more lighted
with a glory which made the pomp of man seem poor.

The valley, on the right hand, through which the Winster
flows, is a beautiful scene. The level plain, enclosed by an
irregular semicircle of hills, is all land reclaimed from the
sea at different times, More than four hundred acres have
been added to this reclamation by the new railway line. <A
remarkable conical hill, thickly clothed with wood, rises
from the plain in an isolated way. This singular height is
called ‘“‘ Castle Elead,” anciently, “ Atterpile Castle.” There
is a quaint mansion in a secluded part of the grounds, and
“Cif ever there was a house with a story, that looks like one.”
The sea formerly washed round the hill, and, as the old
mariner at Grange told me, “it must have been a capital
place for smuggling in those days.” ‘Castle Head” is
supposed to have been a Roman settlement, or outpost of
some kind, from the discovery of coins, ornaments, and
other articles of Roman workmanship. About sixty years
ago many curious articles were found there, among which
were parts of a human skull, vertebree, &c., teeth of
buffaloes, tusks of boar, pieces of limestone, resembling
hen’s eggs; rings of blue ragstone, lead, clay, and glass;
ninety-five sticas of Northumbrian kings, seventy-five Roman
coins, a stone, supposed to have been a mould for casting
silyer rings ; iron ore, petrified bone, pebbles, impressions of
16, RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

clay pottery, or bone, and other ancient relics. This looks
as if ‘‘Castle Head” was a place of many strange stories,
which have drifted into the misty past to return no more.
The tenantless hall of “‘ Castle Head” stands amongst woods
and gardens at the rearward base of this lonely-looking
height. The sole inhabitants of the place, at present, consist
of a Scotch gardener and his family. When I visited the
spot, with my two scientific friends, we wandered some time
before we met with “Sandy,” till, at last, by dint of shout-
ing,—which seemed to hush into wistful stillness the lonely
woods around,—we roused him from one of the hothouses.
He led us through the echoing rooms of the empty mansion,
up to the roof, from which we had a good view of the gardens
and grounds. After this we ascended, by circuitous paths
and rocky bemossed steps, terrace after terrace, to the shady
plateau upon the summit of this singular hill, which certainly
is suggestive of a deserted encampment. I could imagine
any of the races which have had mastery in Britain occu-
pying that commanding eminence. The views over the bay,
from embowered seats and recesses on the southern edge,
are very beautiful. Obliging “Sandy” was full of simple
earnestness about ferns and flowers. He seemed to have
little enthusiasm about anything but horticulture, except
autographs, of which he showed us a curious store, collected
during many years. He was quite at home in this
picturesque solitude, although the place is said to be
haunted, and “Thir folk 7 the village o’ Lindal, wha wadna
walk ower’t after dark for the hail estate.” In the lower
escarpment of rock, on the southern side, our old geological
friend pointed out a place where the union of the two
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES, 17

stratifications of slate and limestone shows distinctly. This
is the only place in the district where this union is so clearly
visible.

Nearly opposite the green recess in which “ Castle Head ”
is,such a singular feature of the scene, “Holme Island”
stands in the bay, about two hundred yards from the railway
line, and, as Spenser says, it

Seems so sweet and pleasant to the eye,
That it would tempt a man to touchen there.

- Less than half a century since, this island was little more
than a bleak rock, partly covered with thorns, whins, and
wild savin-bushes,—a lone domain of wind and wave, and
birds that love the sea. Within that time, however, it has,
at immense expense, been converted into a perfect marine
paradise. Though not much more than eleven acres in
extent, the gardens and grounds are so tastefully varied that
aman may ramble an hour or two about it and still find
himself in a new scene,—still meet with ‘something rich
and strange,”—and, in some parts, the little landscape is so
artfully natural in appearance and so lapped in pleasant
shade, that he might easily forget it was the result of man’s
taste and enterprise, and fancy himself in some bowery
nook of a wide park. On the western side of the island, a
white limestone building, modelled after the temple of Vesta,
looks out westward over the bay; and, in sheltered nooks,
rock-hewn stairs lead down to sand-banks so smooth, so
gently-swelling and secluded, that fair Sabrina might sit

there—
Under the cool translucent wave

Her bright hair knitting—
We
18 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

free from fear of intrusion. The grounds and gardens are
rich in plants and flowers of the rarest description, from all
parts of the world. The house is shadily situated, about
the middle of the island, among fine trees and tasteful
grounds.

From the highest points and openings in the shades of
“Holme Island,”—that sylvan gem of the waters—the views
are wildly beautiful or solemnly grand, whichever way we
turn. Far out, off the extreme north-western shore of the
bay, the massive ruins of Peel Castle,—that ancient strong-
hold of the abbots of Furness,—stand mouldering in wild
isolation among the waves. They have done with the
marauding Scot, the pomp of prelates, and the din of war;
and now, all silent and unsentinelled, they glide majestically
into the wastes of time. Left to the washing waves and
whistling winds,—a crumbling shelter of the seabird,—on
that treeless isle,

The empty ruins lapsed again,
Into nature’s wide domain,

Sow themselves with seed and grain,
As day and night and day go by.

Leaving this ruined fortress, the eye travels along the low
fertile shores on which the ancient town and castle of
Aldingham, now washed away, once stood near the sea.
The hold peaks of High Furness arise in the rearward of
the scene, ‘The village of Bardsea, Conishead Priory, the
town of Ulverstone, and the beautiful estuary of the Leven
are all hidden from “ Holme Island” by Humphrey Head ;
but on the north, it commands a fine view of the most
picturesque part of the Cartmel shore, with the tops of its
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES, 19

woody fells standing against the sky, like the wild outlines
of a petrified tempest. Looking east, the fells between
Lancaster and Kendal, and beyond these, Ingleborough
and other Yorkshire hills, may be seen. Southward, and
immediately opposite the island, is Arnside Knot, with its
fir-grove crown. Farther south, Warton Crags rise up, and
villas and white mansions gleam among the thickly-wooded
lower slopes, till Silverdale Point seems to shoot into the
bay, like a dark needle. Beyond this, the green ridges of
Bolton-le-Sands, Hest Bank, Heysham, Poulton-le-Sands,
the ‘Sunderland Shoulder,” and the estuary of the Lune,
‘that to old Loncaster his name doth lend,” of which river
Michael Drayton says so cheeerily :—

For salmon me excels; and for this name of Lun,
That I am christened by, the Britons it begun,

Which fulness doth import of waters still increase
To Neptune lowting low, when christal Lune doth cease,
And Conder coming in conducts her by the hand,
Till lastly she salutes the Point of Sunderland,

And leaves our dainty Lune to Amphitrite’s care.

So blyth and bonny now the lads and lasses are,
That ever and anon the bagpipe up doth blow;

Cast in a gallant round about the hearth they go,
And every village smokes at wakes with lusty cheer,
Then hey, they cry, for Lune, and hey for Lancashire,
That one high hill was heard to tell it to his brother.

All this, however, gives me but a very imperfect idea of the
great extent and variety of view from “Holme Island.”
The shores of Cartmel, seen from the groves of this little
emerald gem of Morecambe Bay, look very beautiful.
RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

CHAPTER II.

It is the shout of the coming foe,
Ride, ride for thy life, Sir John ;
But still the waters deeper grew,
The wild sea foam rushed on.
OLD BALLAD,

LITTLE beyond “Holme Island,” and about
half-way between Carnforth and Ulverstone, the
train stops at the seaside village of Grange. It

 

looks very inviting from the railway, but not till
one is in it can they fairly see how pretty it is, and how fine
the views are from its highest parts. From the rail it looks
a cluster of gardens and white limestone houses scattered
about the undulant lower slopes of Yewbarrow,—a craggy,
wooded height which fills the background. It matters little
where you build a house in Grange, it is sure to have a
pleasant outlook, and is never in the way of its neighbour ;
for the land over which the dwellings are so picturesguely
dribbled, is all fertile dingles, and knolls, and nest-like nooks,
mixed with bloomy orchards, flower gardens, and scattered
tufts of wood ; and there are several mansions thereabout,
whose green shades and ornamental grounds give a park-like
tone to the skirts of the village. Near the church, as usual,
there isan oldinn. The open space in front of ‘‘The Crown,”
commands a good view of the eastern part of the bay, with
the Yorkshire hills behind, and all the picturesque fells and
wooded shores on the J.ancaster side. Grange, though not
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 21

unknown to fame among lovers of nature and wanderers to
the sea, has, like the rest of Cartmel, been peculiarly
secluded by its position. The Lancaster and Ulverstone
line now runs by the foot of the village, bringing it into
direct communication with the main lines from the south,
Before the railway was made, the tide washed the garden
~ walls at the foot of the village.

As I walked about the open elevated ground in front of
the Crown, looking at the bay and the hills, I asked several
questions of villagers who were lounging about. They eyed
me from head to foot, wondering where I came from, and
what I had to do with their hills and dales, at last settling
in their minds that I must be a strange land surveyor,
preparing for fresh changes in that part of the country. I
think the old landlord himself hegan to be puzzled, for,
- beckoning to a stalwart young man, who stood down in the
village street with a bundle of papers in his hand, he said—
“That’s the man for ye. He’s read a deeol o’ books. He
knaas summat abaat ivvery thing, nearly ; an’ he knaas mair
abaat Grange, I sud think, than onybody in it.” I found
him an enthusiastic entomologist and ornithologist, and a
very unassuming, intelligent man, of manly manners. We
sat down in the Crown chatting, and listening whilst ‘‘ Aad
_ Billy,” a blind fiddler, who lives by scattering music among
the folk of Cartmel Fells, played ‘‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace
bled,” and “‘ Bannocks o’ bear meal, bannocks o’ barley.”
The old man beat time with his foot, and accompanied his
instrument with a curious croon, which made up in quaint-
ness what it lacked in harmony. [could not help thinking,
as he sat there, that a country village without a blind fiddler
: . i

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GRANGE.
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 23

is wanting in a valuable feature of human interest. Leaving
“Aad Billy” at the end of “ O’er Bogie,” my friend proposed
that we should go to the top of ‘‘ Yewbarrow,” the hill at
the rear of the village, from the summit of which he said the
views were magnificent. As we went out at the head of the
village by a shady road, he opened the gate of a small
enclosed knoll, on the right hand, saying, “Stop; my work.
shop is in here. We'll peep at it, if you like, before we go
Lips
hut, built of limestone, something like a large summer-house.

In the centre of this enclosure there was a rude, round

On entering, I found myself in a little museum, filled with
strange birds, and carefully arranged glass-cases of rare shells
and insects. Against the wall hung a broken skeleton head
and horns of the Irish elk, which had been found in the
neighbouring sands a few years ago. In one corner was
reared a large slab of red sandstone, from Storton, in
Cheshire, on which were plainly imprinted the footsteps
of some antediluvian creature; he thought it was the
plesiosaurus. The place was tull of curiosities; and I
noticed a live wood-owi, in a cage outside, with its large,
lustrous eyes, blinking in the sunshine. Leaving this little
sanctum of science, we went through the shady grounds of
““Vewbarrow Lodge,” and thence, by rocky, sinuous paths
to the summit of Yewbarrow. This hill takes its name from
the yew tree, for the growth of which it is remarkable, and,
from “ barrow,” a cairn or burial place. Here I was glad to
sit down and look round, for I was out of wind, and the
view had grown grander as we rose. Morecambe and a
great extent of its shores were full in sight, the slopes and
lowlands all beauty and fertility, all above and in the
24 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

distance wild and majestic. My friend told me that, on a
favourable day, the town of Lancaster was almost as
distinctly in sight as the houses at the foot of the hill; but
he surprised me more by saying that the ivy-clad limestone
rocks upon the summit of Yewbarrow were unmistakably
water-worn, that is, worn by the action of the sea. The
village lay under the eye, as clearly as a map or model on a
table. We could see all its houses, perching or nestling
picturesquely among straggling gardens and nooks of bloomy
shade. We could see all its mansions, with their rich
grounds, and woods now spreading out the bright green of
spring in the sunshine; its white roads and _ bye-lanes,
winding through orchards, and under over-lapping ‘trees,
about the green knolls and dingles, and lacing the land with
lines of ever-varying loveliness. Grange is no less pleasant
in its own quiet beauty, and in the scenery about it, than in
the salubrity of its climate, which is said to rival that of the ~
southern coast of England. In spring, its average tem-
perature is higher than that of any other place in the north
of England. In summer, the heat is tempered by the saline
breeze. Beautifully seated on this lower slope of Yewbarrow,
it is sheltered on the north and west by the green hills, and
its natural charms are heightened by the never-palling
witcheries of the changeful sea. Artists, and other curious
children of nature, who love to go about the world “ spyin
fancies,’ as country folk quaintly call it, would find its
neighbourhood full of interest. It was a beautiful sight ;
and, as I descended the hill by another route, to meet the
train, I resolved that, if possible, it should not be long
before I looked upon that peaceful nest again.
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 25

The grandest height near Grange is Hampsfell, at the
rear of Yewbarrow. Whosoever desires to see that country
well, ought to ascend Hampsfell, at sunrise or sunset, on a
fine day, and he may look upon a scene of such magnificence
as is rarely met with in any land. For those who are not
strong, a carriage road leads up the south side of Eggerslack
Wood nearly to the summit of the fell; but the sturdy
pedestrian should go out at the lower end of Grange, and
up the narrow romantic glen called ‘‘ Lindal Lane,” till he
comes to a farmhouse called ‘‘Slack,” on the left hand side
of the road. This shady gorge is a little fairy-land of wood-
land beauty in summer time. After crossing the yard of
Slack farm, a rough footpath leads up through plantations of
larch and spruce, and coppice woods of oak and hazel,
sprinkled now and then with the glittering birch,—that silver-
robed lady of the woods,—the beech, the ash, “ for nothing
ill,” the alder, and the dark green yew, “obedient to the
bender’s will.” ‘These woods, which are carefully cultivated
for “ bobbin wood,” hoops, wicker-work and other purposes,
are great sources of employment to the people around. As
‘the traveller winds through the sylvan scene, by changeful
pleasure upward led, he meets with glimpses of the sea,
gleaming through the southward trees ; and there is many a
nook of the mountain path where he may sit in cool
shadow, listening to the wild birds which fill the woods
with tuneful joy. Emerging from this leafy screen, he finds
rocky, unshaded moorlands, stretching upward in silent
desolation. Picturesque masses of limestone crop out from
the heathery waste, their ragged crevices beautiful with
plumy ferns. There is still a rude pathway to the summit,
26 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY :

but for a good walker, what country folk call ‘Th’ crow-
gate,” which means right a-head, across the trackless moor,
will be more interesting. At length the top of a square
limestone tower appears on the distant height. This is
‘* Hampsfell Hospice,” a modern erection, built by a former
pastor of Cartmel parish, for the shelter and entertainment
of wanderers over the fell. As he draws nearer this little
benevolent coronet of lonely Hampsfell, mountain and vale,
and land and sea, expand so gloriously, that he cannot but
halt now and then to gaze around with wonder and delight.
Inside the tower there are stone seats, and a good fireplace,
for which the heather around affords ready and abundant
kindling. Upon the walls are wooden tablets, inscribed with
verses allusive to the scenery, and the purpose of the
building. From these I copied the following :—

This hospice has an open door,
Welcome alike to rich and poor ;

A roomy seat for young and old,

Where they may screen them from the cold;
Three windows that command a view,
To north, to west, and southward too;
A flight of steps requiring care;

A roof that shews a prospect rare;
Mountain and vale you thence survey, —
The winding streams and noble bay.
The sun at noon the shadow hides
Along the east and westward sides,

A lengthened chain holds guard around,
To keep the cattle from the ground.
Kind reader, freely take your pleasure,
But do no mischief to my treasure!

From the roof of this “‘ Hospice” the views are indeed
glorious, both in variety of character and extent of range.
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 27

Fertile, peace-breathing valleys; old castles and churches,
and quaint hamlets and towns,—eloquent relics of past
history; lonely glens, rich parks, and forest steeps; pictu-
resque homesteads, in pleasant nooks of shelter; beautiful
estuaries; the fresh blue bay; bleak -brown moorlands ;
wild craggy fells; and storm-worn mountains, each different
in height and form, the grand old guardians of the magnificent
scene. Beginning with Peel Castle in the sea-washed
west, the eye wanders over solemn Black Coomb, and Druid
Swinstead, and all the Coniston range, in which the bold
round peak of the “Old Man” is the most familiar mark.
Then come Langdale Pikes, Scaw tell, Great End, Bow
Fell, from height to height, till “the dark brow of the
Mighty Helvellyn,” rises up majestically above the green
valley of St. John. Looking eastward, we see the pleasant
vale of the Kent, with its fine estuary; the woodland shores
of Milnthorpe; the grand crags of Whitbarrow and
Farleton, with kindred limestone ridges stretching out
beyond. Farther eastward the hills of Yorkshire rise in the
blue sky. In the south, over Arnside, Silverdale, and
Warton, we have the fells and green lowlands of the Lan-
caster side; ridge after ridge then hides the Lune and the
Wyre till the masts and lighthouse of Fleetwood show them-
selves far out to seaward. If the day be fine, the mountains
of Wales, the Isle of Man, and even the coast of Ireland
may sometimes be seen, It is a glorious combination of
land and sea; but, perhaps, the most charming bit of all
the landscape is the valley of Cartmel, just at the western
foot of Hampsfell. The little town, nestling round its
venerable church, looks so near that one might almost
28 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

expect to hear some sounds of life arise therefrom; but it is
as still down there in the middle of the sunlit vale as if it
was only the quaint centre-piece in the pattern of a green
carpet.

I feel that what is written here gives but an imperfect
idea of the wonderful prospects commanded by Hampsfell ;
and I can only add that no traveller, who has opportunity,
and cares for the glories of nature, ought to go by that
mountain unclimbed. I have noticed, after ascending some
of the highest points of that district, that, although the same
objects may chance to be seen from several heights, yet the
points of view are so different that in each case we get a
new picture.

In the neighbourhood of Grange there are several man-
sions and houses of considerable interest, such as ‘‘ Abbot
Hall,” ‘“‘ Hampsfield Hall,” “ Witherslack Hall,” a fine old
house, formerly belonging to the Earls of Derby; ‘‘ Cark
Hall,” “ Bigland Hall,” ‘ Merlewood,” ‘‘ Levens Hall,” and
“ Holker Hall,” the favourite seat of the Duke of Devon-
shire, with its noble park sloping down to picturesque cliffs
of mountain limestone and old red sandstone. Holker
Park contains many remarkable trees, of much greater size
than is common so near the sea.

The distance from Grange to Newby Bridge, at the foot
of Windermere, is six miles. The road thither winds out at
the lower end of Grange, between the woody heights of
Aggerslack and Blawith, and up the beautiful glen called
‘Tindal Lane.” An omnibus runs twice a day in summer
between these points, through the villages of Lindal and
Newton. The village of Lindal, about two miles from
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 29

Grange is worth going a long way to look at. It is not
only picturesque in itself, but is picturesquely situated among
scenes of singular beauty, and commands an enchanting
peep of the bay, with a view of the vale in which Castle
Head is such a singular feature. The whole six miles’ ride
to Newby Bridge through Cartmel Fells is full of interest to
any one who can enjoy the contrast of peaceful fertility
overlooked by craggy wildness, which he will pass through
on the way.

Quaint Cartmel, the market town of the sequestered
district which bears its name, is little more than two miles
north of Grange,—a pleasant walk over the hills on a fine
day. Its noble old priory is the only conventual church in
Lancashire which escaped mutilation after the dissolution of
the monasteries. This escape arose from its being partly
the parish church, as well as the church of the priory.
About three miles from this town, and about the same from
Grange, is the famous “Holy Well of Cartmel,” a fine
medicinal spring, which is a great attraction in the summer
months. Its waters are celebrated for the cure of gout,
stone, and cutaneous diseases. For many years past the
miners employed in the Alston Moor Lead Mines, being
liable to certain diseases arising from the nature of their
labours, have made annual pilgrimage to the village of
Kent’s Bank, near here, in order to have the benefit of
Cartmel’s “ Holy Well.” Cartmel is a settlement of great
antiquity. Camden says of the district, that “in 677,
Egfrid, King of Northumbria, gave St. Cuthbert the land,
and all the Britons in it.” ‘In 1188,” according to Baines,
‘‘the foundation of a priory for canons regular of St,
30 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

Augustine was laid by William Mareschal, the elder, Earl of
Pembroke.” His charter concludes with these words :—
‘““This house I have founded for the increase of our holy
religion, giving and granting to it every kind of liberty that
heart can conceive, or the mouth utter; and whoever shall
in any way infringe upon these immunities, or injure the
said priory, may he incur the curse of God, of the blessed
Virgin Mary, and all other saints, as well as my particular
malediction.” This priory was enriched by many grants
and donations of pontiffs and princes, and many “ offerings
of the faithful.” The town is situated in a vale watered by
two streams, one running north and the other south,
Between these streams stands the fine old conventual
_ church, with its curious belfry rising from the central tower,
a square inscribed within a square, diagonal to its base. Of
course, there is a tradition connected with the foundation of
_Cartmel Priory. It seems that nearly seven hundred years
ago, a number of foreign monks, wandering about the
country in search of a settlement, somehow found their
way into this then dense forest wild. They were preparing
to build their church upon a hilltop in the neighbourhood,
when a voice spoke to them out of the air, saying: Not
there; but in a valley between two rivers, where the one
runs north and the other south.” It seems unfortunate that
the voice should neglect to tell them where that valley was,
as they happened to be so near it at the time. But it was
so; for these homeless fathers wandered, after that, all over
the north of England, in fruitless search, until they found
the place, at last, near the very hill where they first heard
“the voice in the air.” Here, on an island of hard ground
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 31

between these singular streams, they built the Priory of
Cartmel, and dedicated it to St. Mary. They also built a
small chapel on the hill, where they heard the voice, and
they dedicated it to St. Bernard. The chapel is now gone
but the hill is called “St. Bernard’s Mount” to this day.
Going from a crowded city into this little monastic town
is almost like going to bed, or sinking into an antiquarian
dream,—all is so quaint and quiet. The market-place is a
square of old-fashioned houses, with the fish-stones near the
middle. This old market-place looked so drowsy when I
saw it that it seemed astonished if anybody walked across
it; and the people in the houses about, if they hear a foot
on the pavement outside, look through their windows and
say, ‘‘What’s that?” and if it happens to be a stranger,
they call the rest of the household, and stare, and say to
one another, “Whoever can he be; and what can have
broucht, him itherr = )/On one side) of the square,’ an
ancient gateway leads into a cloistral old street, in which
the principal inn is situated. This gateway is a relic of the
original buildings connected with the priory. There are
inns of more imposing appearance, but I met with kind
attention and good cheer at the King’s Arms, near the
3 bridge, where I spent a pleasant hour among some hungry
wood-cutters, who had been at work all day in the fells.
Following the advice of a former traveller in Cartmel, I had
inquired of a man with a red nose, who happened to be
leaning on the bridge, where I could get a glass of good ale,
and he directed me to this house. I found the place filled
with a very cheerful smell ; and, in a few minutes, I got so
thick with the wood-cutters, who were waiting for their
32 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

evening meal, that I was invited to join them at a great dish
of “‘lobscouse,” prepared by the handsome, good tempered
landlady. Judging by the speed with which the dish was
emptied, I should say that every stomach there was in good
order; and I only hope these jolly woodmen had not mis-
calculated my capacity when they invited me,—for, simple
as the fare was, the. feast was fine. We finished off with
oatcake, and butter and cheese, and a glorious dish of crisp
water-cresses,—the whole seasoned with a good deal of
hearty fun, which is not the worst part of the best meal a
man can eat. From this house the landlord directed me to
an old building, occupied as a saddler’s shop, in the opposite
corner of the square. Here I found the parish clerk,
William Lancaster, who put down his saddlery, donned his
coat, and took me through the church and up to the top of
the central tower.

The walls of the choir and transept of this old church
belong to the first erection ; the windows are of later date.
There is a noble east window, forty-eight feet high, con-
taining some fine stained glass. On the north side of the
proper choir is a narrow chapel, anciently called the
and on the south side what is called the
“Town: Choir,” which has two stone seats for the officiating

2

“*Piper’s Choir ;

priests. This is supposed to have been anciently the parish
church. ‘There are twenty-six ancient stalls in the choir, with
their grotesquely-carved mzzsereres, all in perfect condition.
There are many ancient monumental decorations in this
church ; but the most remarkable is a magnificent monument
of the Harrington family, under an arched canopy. In the
old library I was shown some rare and curious books, among
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES, Bg

which were the following :—‘ The Second Part of the Faerie
Queene, containing the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Bookes.””
By Ed. Spencer. Printed at London, for William Ponsonby,
1596. A folio copy of “ Fox’s Book of Martyrs,” in black
letter, 1610. A black-letter Bible, in six vols, printed at
Basle, in 1502. A quarto copy of the works of Thomas
Aquinas, in black letter, printed at Venice, in 1509. A
quaint little volume entitled, ‘“ Apophthegemes New and
Old, collected by the Right Honourable Francis Lo.
Verulam, Viscount St. Alban, 1625.” The Ancient Parish
Register of Cartmel for the last 300 years. As we came out
the clerk pointed to the Duke of Devonshire’s pew; and I
found, everywhere, that his grace, and the family altogether,
have won the right good-will of the people of Cartmel.
After a parting stroll by twilight round the noble old church,
and its calm, quaint, pastoral town, just as the stars began
to struggle in the sapphire vault with declining day, I took
the lonely road to Grange, through Allithwaite, a rude
village, whose inhabitants, like those of Cark and Flook-
borough live mainly by fishing and cockling upon the sands.

These villages consist principally, in each case, of one
straggling street of humble cottages; and, though there is
not much attraction in their outward appearance, consider-
able interest attaches to the peculiar way of human life
therein. Some idea of the fishery on this shore may be had
from the fact that, in addition to fluke, plaice, salmon, and
other fish, there is sometimes as much as a thousand tons of
cockles sent from Cark, in one season, principally to the
towns of South Lancashire. Cockles are found in large
beds, called “skeers.” The fish is buried about an inch

is
34 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

below the surface, and its place is known by two little holes
in'the sand, called “‘eyes;” from thence the cockler whips
out the fish with a kind of three-pronged fork, called a
*‘craam.” Although these cocklers generally belong to the
poorest class of people, no quarrels take place among them
on the sands. This arises from a firm belief that if ever
they quarrel there, the cockles would leave that place with
the next tide.

It is in these three fishing villages that the lead-miners of
Northumberland and other visitors to the “Holy Well”
take up their quarters, but chiefly, I believe, at Flook-
borough, where there is comfortable accommodation to be
had. Flookborough, as its name indicates, was formerly a
market town, holding a charter granted to the Prior of
Cartmel, by Edward the First. After the Dissolution, this
charter was removed to Cartmel. The first part of the
name may or may not come from the fish so common on
these shores,—but I heard that a certain dignitary of the
church, once visiting there, inquired of a villager how many
souls (soles) there were in the place, and the man replied,
‘Well, I dinnet justly knaa; but here’s a terrible deeal o’
flooks abaat.”

The country between Grange and the Leven Sands, about
five miles, is very interesting. Soon after the train leaves
Grange, we run through a rocky cutting, which brings us to
Cark Station, two miles from Cartmel, to which town an
omnibus runs daily in summer time. The line then passes
Kent’s Bank, with its pleasantly-situated villas, near which
“‘ Abbot Hall,” a modest, modern mansion, stands in that
green corner of the shore, on. the site of an old house, said
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 35

to have belonged to a slyly-jovial prelate of the olden time.
Leaving this place, we run about two miles by the promon-
tory of Humphrey Head, and then begin to cross Ulverstone
Sands. The scenery about Humphrey Head is a fine
mixture of the bold and the beautiful; and the country
around is full of picturesque rambles. Up in its yew-
crowned cliffs there is a remarkable cave, believed by the
natives to be the abode of fairies. The famous “ Holy
Well” is on the western shore of this fine promontory,

Upon a low fertile level, between Grange and Humphrey
Head, a little gray ruin stands near the line. This is
Wraysholme Tower, formerly a fortified house, belonging to
the knightly family of Harrington, of Aldingham Castle, in
Low Furness. The town of Aldingham belonged to this
family in 1346. Both town and castle have long since
been swept away by the sea. There is more than one
legend connected with this ancient tower. The legend of
“The Last Wolf,” is given in the “ Remains of John Briggs,”
editor of the old Lonsdale Magazine. This tradition has
been put into spirit-stirring verse, by an anonymous writer,
who contributed it to the O/lverstone Advertiser a few
years ago. The following will give the reader some idea of
the story.

The sun hath set on Wraysholme’s tower,
And o’er broad Morecambe’s Bay ;

The moon from out her eastern bower
Pursues the track of day.

On Wraysholme’s white and massive walls
On rocky Humphrey Head,

-On wood and field her silver falls,
Her silent charms are shed.
36 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY ;

No sound through all the sleeping plain
Now breaks upon the ear,

Save murmurs of the distant main,
Or evening breezes near.

The woodman in his lowly cot,
Has thrown his bill aside,

The serf forgets his bitter lot,
The feudal chief his pride.

But hark ! what sudden shout is that ?
What glaring lights are those,

That from yon turret scare the bat,
And break the night’s repose ?

Within those walls may now be seen
The festive board displayed ;

And round it many a knight, I ween,
And many a comely maid.

The story goes on to tell how that in the proud old days of
Wraysholme, Sir Edgar Harrington had sworn to hunt
down the last wolf “in England’s spacious realm,” whose
haunt was the woody height of Humphrey Head, and whose
prey the flocks and herds of Wraysholme. On the eve of
the chase Sir Edgar held a mighty carousal at the tower
among his retainers and noble guests. During the feast
he swore that the last wolf should “grace the conqueror’s
helm,” and also that,—

Whoe’er that wolf should quell,
Should have his fair niece for a bride,
And half his lands as well.

The orphan lady Adela, old Sir Edgar’s ward, with jet black
hair of glossy sheen, and bright hazel eyes, was beloved of all
the country around; but her heart and troth were with a
gallant young knight of the name of Harrington, Sir Edgar’s

 
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 37

son, who, having fled to shun his father’s wrath, was supposed
to be dead in foreign lands. He seems, however, to have
turned up at this great hunting feast just in time, after
winning honour against the swarthy Saracen, disguised under
the title of Sir John Delisle, in whom, nevertheless, the old
retainers of Wraysholme see that,—

A long lost wanderer meets their sight,
Whate’er his name be now,

But, as usual, there are cross purposes in this old tale of love
and chivalry, for Layburne, another brave knight, and the
friend of Sir Edgar, sits by the board close suitor for the fair
lady, though “from her soul abhorred.” The night drives
on in song and jest, and brimming goblets,—

Till late, with plenteous cheer oppressed,
And foaming tankards drowned,

The revellers retire to rest,
And silence sinks around.

At length the stars begin to pale,
And dewy morning cold,

Unfurls o’er distant Silverdale
His flag of gray and gold.

Old Hubert’s horn awakes the sleepers to a mighty hunting.

Full threescore riders mount with speed,—
Amidst them Layburne strides

A gallant steed of Flemish breed,
That well his weight abides.

Whilst mounted on an Arab white,
Of figure light and free,

Rides young Delisle, the stranger knight,
All wrapt in mystery.
38 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

The huntsman leads the gallant company up to the wolf’s
covert on Humphrey Head. The dogs get the track of their
grisly prey, and a brave chase begins.

O’er Kirket breast the quarry flies,
To Holker’s sheltering brakes,
Then daunted by the hunters’ cries,

To distant Newby takes.

It swims the Leven’s brawling flood,
Through Lowick’s woodland scours,
Threads Torver’s dreary solitude,
And seeks the Old Man’s bowers,

Here, the “gray beast” finds brief shelter in the recesses of
the mountain, and the hunters pause. But their hounds are
staunch, and their horses as good as ever broke cover or
dashed through a wood. The dogs are on the track of the
panting savage once more, and away they fly through wood-
land glens, and over the wild hills, in clamorous dash,—

Away by Esthwaite’s lonely deep,
Begirt by forests hoar,

With many a merry shout they sweep
Along its sylvan shore.

Till by the foemen neared apace,
And sped by thirst and fear,

Through Sawrey’s pass, the panting chase
Strikes off to Windermere.

There, where the shore of Lancashire
Doth in the lake expand,

To meet yon point projecting near,
Of rocky Westmoreland,

With one bold plunge the mere he takes,
And favoured by the wind,

The blabbing scent abruptly breaks,
And leaves his foes behind.

 

 

 
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. " 39

The rival knights, Layburne and Delisle, follow, “‘ foremost
of the dripping train,” and win the eastern side of the lake.
Two tireless bloodhounds keep the scent, and the chase
continues along the shore to “craggy Gummerhow.”

Then turns aside to Witherslack,
Where Winster’s waters range,
And thence to shingly Aggerslack,
And sand-surveying Grange.

The doomed brute now makes, with the instinct of despair,
for his old shelter on Humphrey Head, but as mild evening
sinks upon the scene, the fatal hounds are on his track,—
and he is driven madly towards a wild chasm,

Begirt by rock on every side,
That slopes in shade away.

Wolf and dog rush o’er the steep. Layburne’s horse starts
back from the awful chasm; but impetuous Delisle spurs on,
and his fiery steed sweeps to destruction down the shrouded
crag like a flash of lightning,—

The shingles in its headlong course
With rattling din give way,

The hazels snap beneath its force,
The mountain savins sway.

At this terrible crisis the fair Adela chances to be pacing the
hollow glen on her light palfrey, when the wolf appears in
sight, and “bares his glistening teeth.”

Her eyes are closed in mortal dread,
And e’er a look they steal,

The wolf and Arab both lie dead,
And scathless stands Delisle.
40 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY :

Full promptly from the slaughtered prey,
He plucks the reeking spear,

And cries, “‘Oh, beauteous Adela,
Behold thy true love here!”

Sir Edgar now appears, and discovering in Delisle his lost
son, welcomes him affectionately, and gives him the bride of
his heart. By blessed hap the Prior of Cartmel is on his
way “to drink at the Holy Well,” and he consents to
perform the marriage ceremony at once in the neighbouring

cavern.
And hence that cave on Humphrey Hill,
Where these fair deeds befell,
Is called Sir Edgar’s chapel still,
As hunters wot full well.

And still that holy fount is there,
To which the Prior came;

And still it boasts its virtues rare,
And bears its ancient name.

And long on Wraysholme’s lattice light
A wolf’s head might be traced,

In honour of the redcross knight,
Who bore it for his crest.

In Cartmel church his grave is shewn,
And o’er it, side by side,

All graved in stone, lies brave Sir John,
And Adela, his bride.

Such is the legend of “The Last Wolf,” connected with
this ruined tower of Wraysholme, the ancient abode of the
Harringtons of Adlington, in Low Furness. I find that, forty
years ago, the place was sheltered by clumps of old trees.
These are now gone, and what remains of the tower isa mere
outhouse to the neighbouring farmstead.

 

 

 

 
‘SGNVS N@AYT WOT MAA

 
42 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

Cark is the nearest station to Holker, the Duke of Devon-
shire’s Cartmel seat. Holker Hall belongs to the middle
of the sixteenth century, when it was the residence of a
branch of the ancient family of Preston, of Preston Patrick,
in Westmorland. About a century ago this beautiful estate
came into the possession of the Cavendish family. The park
is full of rich sylvan landscapes, and it contains many noble
trees, and trees of very rare kinds. ‘There are delightful
walks on the woodland heights behind the park, which
command good views of Leven Water, Thurston Vale, the
mountains at the head of Windermere, and the Coniston
range.

When the train clears Humphrey Head, the banks of the
Leven estuary open beautifully in sight. Wild, rich-hued
limestone crags straggle up the north-east side, under over-
hanging woods, and the low shore is all fertile undulations,
The bold railway mole now crosses Ulverstone Sands, and
we rumble over a lofty viaduct, where the broad Leven rolls
wild and turbid below, as if glad to escape from this
daring evidence of man’s enterprise, to the uncontrollable
sea beyond. The views from the line as we cross these
sands are peculiarly fine, for this estuary is perhaps the most
picturesque of any in Morecambe Bay. Westward, Birk-
rigg rises above the rich woods and glades of Conishead
Priory. Nearer we see the white village of Sandside,
opposite to which, about a mile from the shore, is that
interesting little isle of prayer, called ‘‘ Chapel Island,” with
its old ruined chantry among the trees. Behind Sandside,
the gray smoke of Ulverstone hovers above the valley at the
foot of “Hoad Hill.” The traveller may know this hill by
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 43

the lighthouse-shaped monument on the top. Further
along the shore there is a little cluster of shipping at the port
of Ulverstone. The low grounds beyond are, first great
tracts of yellow sands, then pleasant holms and valleys;
behind these, woody uplands and lofty moors filling the
rear of the landscape. The extreme northward view of the
estuary is bounded by the fells of Cartmel, rising peak after
peak. Looking eastward, the shore is a beautiful combina-
tion of rock and wildwood, with the great ridge of Hampsfell
peeping over the promontory of Humphrey Head.

The Ulverstone sands are considered more dangerous
than those on the Lancaster side. Mr. Baines, speaking of
the old route over this estuary, says :—

The track is from Holker Hall to Plumpton Hall, keeping Chapel
Island a little to the left; and the mind of a visitor is filled with a
mixture of awe and gratitude, when, in a short time after he has
traversed this estuary, almost dry-shod, he beholds the waters
advancing into the bay, and bearing stately vessels towards the
harbour of Ulverstone, over the very path which he has so recently
trodden.

The priory of Conishead was anciently charged with the cost
of guides across this estuary. So dangerous were these
sands considered, that on “Chapel Island,” about a mile
west of the line, the old monks of Furness built the small
chapel, where prayers were daily offered “for the safety of
the souls of such as crossed the sands with the morning tide.”
There are still some remains of this ancient chapel, which
gave its name to the island; and, though “long years have
darkened into time” since the prayers of the church were
heard there, no man can walk about in this little seaworn
nS
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Hil SAAN
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BARROW’S MONUMENT,
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 45

‘solitude without feeling that something of the interest of its
‘ancient associations lingers there still. The island is now a
favourite resort of pleasure seekers, who cross at low water
from the village of Sandside, about a mile distant,—and, even
in that short distance, sometimes meet with disaster. The
three miles over Leven sands must have been destructively
dangerous, for, “according to a petition from the Abbot of
Furness, in 19 Ed. II., the number of sixteen at one time,
and six more at another, were sacrificed in this way; and in
order to eschew the great mortality of the people of

 

BIRTH-PLACE OF SIR JOHN BARROW.

Furness on passing the sands at ebb of tide, he prayed
that he should have a view of frankpledge and a coroner of
his own; for everywhere,” he says, “it would be the salvation
of one soul at least.”

The train is now quitting the sands, and we draw near to
Ulverstone town. Long strings of carriages go by, heavily
laden with the rich iron ore of Furness. I was told that the
mines of this district now produce between seven and eight
hundred thousand tons of the finest ore in England, every
46 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY :

year. ‘Thirty years ago, old Captain Barrow, of Ulverstone,
carried all the iron ore got in Furness in one small vessel.
This Captain Barrow was cousin to Sir John Barrow, late
secretary to the Admiralty, whose monument stands on the
top of ‘‘ Hoad,” the great round hill, at the right hand side
of the line as we run over the railway bridge towards Ulver-
stone. Sir John was born, of very humble parentage, in a
little cottage at Dragley Beck, near this town.

 

CHAPTER Ir

About me round I saw
Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny plains,
And liquid lapse of murmuring streams; by these,
Creatures that lived, and moved, and walked, or flew,
Birds on the branches warbling ; all things smiled;
With fragrance and with joy my heart o’erflowed.
MILTON.

HE view of Ulverstone and the country about it, as

seen from the high road near the station, is very
picturesque. The town is pleasantly situated in

 

a vale, on the shores of the Leven estuary among
the hills of Low Furness ; and it stands at convenient distances
from so many points of interest, that I took up headquarters
at the well-known Sun Hotel, in the market-place. From
hence I. made daily excursions into the neighbourhood ;
and one of my first rambles was to Swarthmoor, about a
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 47

mile from the town. Swarthmoor Hall was, for many years,
the residence of George Fox, founder of the Society of
Friends. Leaving Ulverstone by the south road, about two
hundred yards past the railway station, a bye-path leads
over the fields a little way on the right hand, then down into
a shady dell, through which a clear rivulet plays its moody
music, running out of sight again at the south end, under
thick low-lapping branches, which gaze into it and dally
with its silvery ripples, as if in love with this limpid minstrel ;

 

SWARTHMOOR HALL,

whose song softens into silence in the woods beyond. This
_ quiet dell is a fairy chapel of sylvan beauty, where the cease-
less hymn of nature is seldom disturbed by other sounds.
In the deepest part of the hollow, an old stone bridge,
shaded by tall trees, crosses the stream; from thence a
rugged footpath climbs the opposite fields, and in about a
quarter of a mile, leads close by the rear of a hoary pile of
stone outhouses, of rude appearance. The road may be miry,
48 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

but whoever he be that goes that way, in rain or fair weather,
let him linger there a breathing while, for the old house in
front of these buildings is Swarthmoor Hall, the residence of
George Fox. On my first visit, I wandered about some
time before I could find any human creature astir. A
contemplative charm seemed to lie upon all around. The
house is a large, irregular, Elizabethan building, with nothing
grand about it, save the impressive memories of the great
reformer who dwelt in it two centuries ago. The doorways
are small; some of the windows are built up; and it has
altogether a bald appearance, considering its size and former
importance. But the home of the persecuted puritan still
looks over those quiet fields with a kind of ascetic solemnity,
as if it was mingling dreams of the past with a patient waiting
for the result of slow decay. I wandered about the rough,
cattle-trodden yard, among mire, and straw, and farming-
gear, yet all was still, except a few ducks dabbling in a
muddy pool, and a peaceful dog that roamed about the out-
houses, regardless of my presence. There was no sign of
life even about the windows. At last, I came to a kind of
kitchen at the rear of the hall, where I found the mistress
of the house and her servants, throng at their washing.
When I had explained the purpose of my visit, the mistress
pointed to a rude gate at the end, which opened to the
front of the hall. I went through and found myself in a
little green paddock, where there was not even one rose
left “‘to mark where a garden had been.” There were the
principal windows,—one little window looking out from
George Fox’s study; the other two were old-fashioned
bay windows, much larger. From the uppermost of these
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 49

windows Fox used to preach, sometimes, to his friends in
the garden below. Near the bay window is the little old
doorway, to which two rude stone steps led up. All else
was plain and unpretending; and all other windows in the
lower part of the frontage were built up. Inside, I was
shown the “hall,” a quaint, flagged apartment, on the ground
floor, with a great old-fashioned fire-place, and a kind of
stone dais in the recess of the mullioned window. Here, I
was told, the earliest meetings of the “ Friends” were held.
From this room, two steps led up toa little sanctuary which
was Fox’s study; and I felt as if every footfall there was an
intrusion ; for that dim-lighted room, with its tiny lattice
and quaint furniture, was the cell of a saint, “of whom the
world was not worthy.” His bed has been removed from
its ancient apartment into a room where the farm servants
sleep ; and I was told that his Bible is now in the possession
of a lady belonging to the Society of Friends, in Ulverstone.
Before Fox married the pious widow of Judge Fell, he was
once dragged from this house and imprisoned all night in
Ulverstone, under a guard of fifteen men, some of whom
were perched in the fire-place, for fear he should fly up the
chimney, and so escape. From thence he was removed to
Lancaster Castile, where he suffered a long imprisonment.
George Fox seems to have turned Ulverstone and the
country about it upside down in those days, preaching in all
sorts of pulpits and private houses, and sometimes in the
open market-place. He was once shamefully maltreated in
the churchyard of St. Mary’s, Ulverstone, after preaching to
the congregation there. About a quarter of a mile west of
the hall there is a plain substantial chapel,—the first chapel

amar
50 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

of the disciples of George Fox,—built at his own cost, in
1688. It stands ina little flagged enclosure, surrounded by
a stone wall about nine feet high. The white door of the
yard was open when I saw it, and the “ Friends” were met
within,—yet there was no sound, but that of the sea-breeze
whistling over the fields of Swarthmoor. About the entrance
was this inscription, plainly graven, “ Ex dono, G, F., 1688.”
At the western end of the chapel there is a croft, which was
presented with the chapel, for the accommodation of the
horses of such Friends as came from a distance.

 

GEORGE FOX’S CHAPEL, ON SWARTHMOOR,

About a mile west of Fox’s Chapel, a byeway leads into
the old Roman road, at a place where a tesselated pavement
was found a few years ago. A mile further in the same
direction brings us to the bleak summit of “ Birkrigg,” which
commands a new and extensive prospect of the bay, and its.
north and eastern shores. The pretty village of Bardsea is.
full in sight, at the foot of the hill. On the southern slope
of this rocky moorland there is a small Druidical Temple,—.
a circle of nine hoary stones, which, with one exception,,
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES, 51

are still more or less upright. A quarter of a mile west of
this relic of British history, and near an antique farmhouse,
called “Sunbreak,” there is a lonely burial-ground, looking
out towards the sea. This is the oldest graveyard of the
Society of Friends. It is surrounded by a high stone wall,
and carefully kept in order. The door is generally locked,
but I found it simply fastened with a staple and chain, and a
wooden peg. ‘The interior contains no visible commemora-
tion of the dead; but a thick swathe of the greenest grass
covers the whole area, save on the higher side, where
picturesque fragments of limestone rock, rising above the
rich herbage, are so beautifully bemossed here and there, that
it seems as if nature, in her quiet lovely way, had taken in
hand to keep the memories of these nameless tenants of the
dust for ever green. ‘There was something more touchingly
beautiful, more suggestive of repose, in the recordless silence
of this lone graveyard of the persecuted puritan, than in any
cemeteries adorned with grand effects of monumental art,—
which so oft intrude upon the solemnity of death things
sullied by the vanities of the living. The sacred simplicity
of the spot made one feel more deeply how sound they slept
below, in that unassailable shelter from the hurtful world.
The very sea-breeze seemed to pause there, and pass over
this place of unawaking dreamers in a kind of requiem-hush.

Gleaston Castle is about six miles from Ulverstone. The
direct road to it lies through the old village of Urswick.
At the end of this village there is a fine tarn close by the
highway. The people of Urswick Vale have a legend that
the ruins of an ancient town lie beneath the waters of this
tarn. Near Urswick there is a small monastic ruin of Bolton
52 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

Chapel, standing in a farm-yard, by the road, and now used
as a cow-house. Leaving this village, we pass Redmond
Hall, the seat of a family once known in English history.
About a mile from Gleaston Castle, in a hollow of the fields,
on the left hand side of the road, there is a pretty little sheet
of water, called Mere Tarn, swarming with pike. The ruins
of Gleaston Castle are of considerable extent. The castle
originally consisted of four square towers, connected by
strong curtain walls, defending an enclosure, the length of
which seemed to me about one hundred yards. One of
these towers has disappeared, and the other three are more
or less ruinous; but the summits of two may yet be easily

 

GLEASTON CASTLE,

ascended by the stone steps which wind up in the thickness
of the massive walls. In its palmy days this castle must
have looked imposing in the heart of the little vale, where it
seems to have been placed more for shelter and seclusion
than for anything commanding in position. It was built
by the Flemings, lords of the ancient manor of Much Land.
The possessions of Michael le Fleming were the only lands
in all Furness exempted from the grant made by Stephen,
Earl of Bologne and Moreton, to Furness Abbey. The
name of this Michael, which the natives pronounce
“Mickle,” still clings to old associations in this neighbour-
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 53

hood, as in the case of “ Mickle Well,” not meaning great
well, but “ Michael’s Well.” I remember how, on that
breezy day, when, with two friends, I visited the ruins of
this castle, as we were casting about Gleaston, in hungry
search of a dinner, we found this old well in a mossy
corner at the entrance of the village. ‘The stones about it
were worn by the footing of many generations, and the
water was so clear that I could have seen a single thread of
a lady’s hair at the bottom of it. I remember, too, that when
we were beginning to despair of finding anything like
substantial refreshment, we met with it at the very last
house at the western edge of the village, a clean little
hostelry, where we got an excellent dinner of eggs and
bacon, cheese, ale, pickles, salad, fresh from the garden
behind the house, and three quarts of butter milk; in
addition to which, I had my shoe mended; and we were
treated with more than common civility, all for the low
charge of three and sixpence,—which was received with
satisfaction. The way of the shoe business was this,—I
had burst the seam of it, and it was getting squashy with
wet, for we had had a delightful rough tramp o’er moss and
fell, and through miry hbye-roads, that day. The good wife
at the alehouse offered to get it mended for me whilst
dinner was cooking. The old man lent me a shoe of his
own to put on meanwhile. It was as hard as an iron pot ;
in fact, it had a considerable weight of iron work about it,
and for any rough work, I felt as if that shoe was worth at
least four pairs such as mine. With one foot handicapped
in this clog of iron and leather, I amused myself with
walking about the clean floor, listening to the difference of
54 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

sound in my footsteps, which went ‘“‘fuzz, clang,—fuzz,
clang,” reminding me of the three bells of a little country
church that I have heard of, one of which was sound, the
next cracked, and the third mended with leather,—their
united music amounting to a kind of “ding, dang, puff.”
The shoe came back mended before dinner was over, and a
thrill of returning comfort went through my frame when I
got it on, for I had felt as if walking with a wet dish-cloth
round my foot a while before. As we returned through the
village, one of my friends proposed that we should just look
in upon a relation of his, an old shoemaker, and a quaint
man, well versed in the folk lore of the district. He then
led us up to one of the most comfortable-looking cottages
I ever saw. The floor was as clean as a plate just laid down
for dinner, the place smelt as sweet as an herb stall, and all
the polishable metal things shone like pools of water in
moonlight. The cheerful old wife, whose ruddy face was
bedded in a snowy old-fashioned cap, and whose eyes, in
spite of age and spectacles, looked as bright as the stars on
a frosty night, rose from her arm-chair, and hobbled about
with her crutch, smiling and talking, and talking and
smiling, as if she didn’t know exactly what to do to show that
she was very fain. At last, opening the door of an inner
room, where the hearty old fellow and his son sat at work,
she said, ‘‘ What, dinnet ye see wha’s here?” Dropping his
hammer, and brushing the dirt from his leather apron, the
old man rose above six feet into the air, pushed up his
spectacles, and shouted, “ Why, it never is, sewer! It
cannot be reightly, can it! It’s nowt 1’ th’ warld else, aw
declare! Well, this is a capper, hooivver! What, ye’re
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 55

right good stuff for sore e’en, mon! Whatever quarter’s th’
wind in, at ye’re blawn this gate on? Well, cum, cum; sit
ye daan and let’s mak use o’ ye while ye are here.” “Ye
hevn’t hed ye’re teea, aw warnd,” said the good wife. But
we were already primely filled with good things, and no other
feast could have been so delightful as the genial welcome
which the old couple gave us. The day, too, was waning,
with an uncertain sky, and we had several miles togo. As
we sat talking with the old man, a fine pair of new double-
soled shooting boots stood at my elbow. I took them up,
and asked what such a pair would cost. He said they
couldn’t be done like them under a pound. ‘“ But,” said he,
“ye sud ha’ sin a shoe that I stitched abaat an haar sin’,
for some poor tramp. I nivver see a warse made shoe 7’
iy wie! | think. An “he couldn't hev hed ‘em lang
nawther,—’t leather wur so fresh.” As he went on talking,
I slowly lifted my foot till it came fairly into his sight.
“Hello!” said he, with a confused gaze, ‘‘ What, wor it yaar
siiged elit was.) -: Well) then, replied he, “all I can say
is, at yer wit’s a deeal better nor yer understandin’!” We
had a good deal of gleeful talk with the old folk; after
which six miles’ walk in a high wind through the vale of
Urswick brought us to Ulverstone, at the edge of dark,
well pleased with our day’s ramble.

Conishead Priory is rather more than a mile south of
Ulverstone. There is a good road through the finest
part of Conishead Park to the pretty village of Bardsea,
which village is about three miles from Ulverstone. The
road goes near the princely mansion, the seat of H. W.
Askew, Esq., which stands upon the site of the ancient
56 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

priory. The entrance hall retains some relics of the old
monastic buildings. About a mile beyond the priory, Bardsea
Hall stands at the right hand side of the road, in a
sheltered spot under the woods, and almost hidden from
the traveller by a high wall. This quaint building was
erected by the Molyneux family as a hunting seat, and is
supposed to occupy the site of the ancient hospital of
Bardsea, the oldest ecclesiastical establishment in Furness.
This religious house was in existence in the latter part of
the eleventh century, and had disappeared before the
foundation of Conishead Priory. The best view of the
Priory, and its beautiful park scenery, is from the summit
of the woods behind Bardsea Hall.

Bardsea takes its name from the British word, “ Bertesig,”
a place of thickets, as it appears in Doomsday Book. The
village is pleasantly situated on a green eminence sloping
gently to the sands. ‘The woods, and dells, and quiet shore
of this pretty sea-side nook, are full of pleasant walks.
There is an antique mansion called ‘‘The Well House,”
which is an object of interest. In the village there are two
respectable inns, and I found comfortable fare at the
Cavendish Arms, where the landlord, Mr. Gilchrist, a gallant
old retired preventive officer, from Cumberland, delighted
me with his tales of wild adventure among the smugglers
on the Scottish border, in “ auld lang syne.”

Aldingham is about three miles along the sea-side, west of
Bardsea. The road goes through the extensive plantations
of ‘‘Seawood,” the property of the Crown; and through the
old village of Baycliffe. The sea is either gleaming beauti-
fully through the woods, or is in open sight, most of the
“AUOIYd AVAHSINOO

 
58 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

way. Aldingham Church looks lonely standing there in its
little graveyard by the sea, as if musing on the old Saxon
town long since devoured by the hungry waters. This was
originally the parish church of the ancient manor of Much
Land, which extended over the present Aldingham and
Gleaston, and over several villages, such. as Rhos, Lies, and
Crimelton, which have been swallowed by the sea centuries
ago. Nothing now remains of them, but the account of
their extent and value, preserved in the ancient records of
Furness Abbey. This church is all that is left of the old
town of Aldingham, the knightly residence and property of
the Harringtons, one of which family, Lord de Harrington,
died at the head of the Furness men, fighting for the Red
Rose, at the battle of Wakefield. The church retains some
parts of the original building in its round pillars, and in one
of the doorways. The arms of the Harringtons appear in
the east window. ‘The rectory stands close to the church;
and the present rector is the Rev. John Macaulay, brother
of the famous historian and statesman.

Six miles by rail trom Ulverstone, the magnificent ruins
of Furness Abbey stand in the glen called “ Bekanks Gill,”
or the vale of the Deadly Nightshade, a sylvan seclusion, so
cloistral in its character, that it might have been intended
by nature to receive the grand pile, whose “bare ruined
choirs” now lend such an impressive charm to the scene.
This famous abbey was endowed with extraordinary wealth
and power; and its prelates were temporal princes, ruling
with almost absolute sway over a district as large as the Isle
of Man; and yet, those white-robed monks from Savigny,
and their successors, were the humanising mediators between
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES, 59

feudal tyranny and serfdom, in the rough old days. I am
told that the language of the common people of Furness
still retains French words and idioms not found elsewhere in
Lancashire,—lingering relics of the influence of the foreign

 

CHAPTER HOUSE, FURNESS ABBEY,

ecclesiastics who ruled in this remote corner of England so
long. It would be easy to give an architectural description
of the ruins from careful works already written, but I refrain,
60 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY :

partly from want of room, and partly because the visitor can _
buy all that information for a trifle on the spot itself. I may
say, however, that in addition to the general effect, the high
altar with its beautiful sedilia, the chapter-house, and the
Abbot’s private chapel, were particularly interesting to me.
Though this monastery has lost the grand proportions of its
old completeness, it is still robed in beauty, that “sole

? and kind nature is

permanence in being’s ceaseless flow ;’
quietly claiming its remains for her own again. It is a spot
to linger in until the solemn beauty. of it becomes an
enduring treasure of the spirit. Reading the ancient charter
of its foundation, I was so struck with the beauty of one
passage in it, that I think the reader will excuse me for
repeating it here. ‘The words are as follows, from “ West’s
Antiquities of Furness” :—

In the name of the Blessed Trinity, and in honour of St. Mary of
Furness, I, Stephen, Earl of Bologne and Moreton, consulting God,
and providing for the safety of my own soul, the soul of my wife
the Countess Matilda, the soul of my lord and uncle Henry King of
England and Duke of Normandy, and for the souls of all the faithful,
living as well as dead; in the year of our Lord 1127 of the Roman
indiction, and the 5th and 18th of the Epact; considering every day
the uncertainty of life, that the roses and flowers of kings, emperors,
and dukes, and the crowns and palms of all the great, wither and
decay; and that all things, with an uninterrupted course, tend to
dissolution and death; I therefore return, give, and grant to God and
St. Mary of Furness, all Furness and Walney, etc. etc.

Dalton, the ancient capital of Furness, is about a mile
from the abbey, and four from Ulverstone. The Roman
road from Maryport to Lancaster passes through this town,
and it was the site of a Roman station (Galacum), In
Saxon times this town belonged to Earl Tosti. Later, it was
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 61

the manor court and market town of the abbots of Furness,
the square tower of whose castle still looks with an antique
frown upon the market-place, Here the civil business of
their vast possessions was transacted. ‘The courts baron of
Dalton are still held in this tower. Dalton Church stands
hard by the castle, near the edge of a steep rock, overlooking
the vale of Deadly Nightshade. Romney, the painter, who
was a native of this parish, lies buried in this graveyard,

 

DALTON CASTLE,

under a plain stone, bearing the name, dates, and the words,
“ Pictor Celeberrimus.” The parish of Dalton was almost
depopulated by the great plague, two centuries ago. In
the church there is a massive old stone font, sculptured with
the armorial bearings of the ancient lords of the district.
This venerable relic stood for some time in the churchyard,
62 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

exposed to mutilation and wear of the elements, until,
through the good taste of the Rev. Mr. Morgan, the present
vicar, it was removed to the interior again,

Peel Castle is about nine miles from Ulverstone, by rail,
passing Furness Abbey, to Peel pier. A boat may be had
at the pier, to the island, which is immediately opposite,
divided from the main land by a narrow channel. Going by
way of Barrow, the distance by rail is about twelve miles;
but the route is more varied. No other way of approaching
the ruins of this fortress is so impressive as by boat from
Barrow, which is easily obtained, especially if ‘civil old Joe
Winder” be about. This route also gives the tourist a good
opportunity of seeing the harbour. The isle of Walney,
Rampside, and the most characteristic objects of this remote
nook of the Furness shore, are in sight from the water.
Barrow itself is an interesting spot. It is now the great port
of Furness, and a place of increasing importance. Here,
most of the ore of the district is shipped for Carron and
Swansea, where it is used to enrich the poorer ores of
Scotland and Wales. MHollinshed says that the Scots, in the
reign of Edward the Second, during one of their raids into
England, “‘ met with no iron worth their notice until they
came to Furness, in Lancashire, where they seized all the
manufactured iron they could find, and carried it off with
the greatest joy, though so heavy of’ carriage, and preferred
it to all other plunder.” In Barrow and its neighbourhood,
as in many other parts of Furness, roads, houses, cattle, and
men are more or less coloured with oxide of iron. A
Furness miner, when disguised in his Sunday clothes, is
seldom slow to tell you that he has “‘taen his degrees i’th’
‘NVA G10 GNV B2XYVIT NOLSINOD

 

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Se

 
64 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

Red Lone College.” The view of Peel Castle, as the boat
nears the island from Barrow, is very striking. The castle
was built by the Abbots of Furness, in the reign of Edward
the Third, upon an. older foundation, supposed to be the
remains of a Danish fortress. These fierce sea-rovers often
ravaged this part of the coast, and the terrors of their name
linger yet among its traditions. The castle has been a place
of much greater extent and strength than now appears. On
the eastern side of the island, where high tides wash the base
of the ruins, immense blocks of wall, which have been many
years among the waters, are yet as firmly held together by
their old cement as if they were solid rock. On the east
and southern sides, the sea now covers a great extent of the
old foundations; which are visible here and there under
water. On the north and western sides, the two great
ditches, the double lines of wall, and the strong flanking
towers, still give some idea of the strength of the ancient
defences. Near the ruins there are two cottages, where the
only inhabitants of the island reside. The largest of these
cottages is a public-house, chiefly frequented by sailors.
Here the visitor may get good plain fare.

Coniston Lake is about an hour’s ride by rail from
Ulverstone, on the Furness and Ulverstone line. The line
goes by Kirby, the town of Broughton, Woodlands, and
Torver ; and then along the western bank of the lake, with
the Old Man” and other Coniston mountains rising up
from the left hand side. The station is at Coniston village,
near the head of the lake. This line runs a considerable
distance by Duddon Sands, commanding an extensive view
of the estuary. Whoever desires to see Coniston Water
OVER SANUS TO THE LAKES. 65

Well, should see it on a fine summer’s evening from Lake
Bank, at the foot of the lake.

Newby Bridge, at the foot of Windermere, is nine miles
from Ulverstone. A coach starts thither from the latter
place every day in summer. The road is full of interesting
vatiely, winding by the banks of the river Leven almost all
the way. On the right hand, the upper part of the estuary
stretches out from near the highway, bounded by the fells
and beautiful shores of Cartmel; on the left, the green hills
of Low Furness throw their shadows, here and there, across
the way. The river Leven brings down the waters of
Windermere to the sea. About four miles on the road
the beautiful valley of the Crake opens up on the western
side, and the summits of the Coniston range are in sight.
Through this valley the river Crake empties the waters of
Coniston into the Leven. If any sojourner at Ulverstone
desires a fine walk through picturesque scenery, let him go
about two miles along this high road from Ulverstone, then
up Newland Vale about a mile, and then northward across
the hills a mile and a half, down to the village of Penny
Bridge, at which spot he may be safely left to the influence
of the scene. From these high grounds, between Newland
Vale and Crake Vale, there are glorious views of the
Coniston mountains. Near the entrance of the Crake
Valley the road passes the picturesque little village and port
of Greenodd, in a nook of the estuary. A short distance
from Greenodd, over the hills, there is an interesting old
Baptist chapel, built in the intolerant days of the “ Five
- Mile Act.” At Backbarrow,—where a stranger may be sur-
prised to find a cotton mill in such a spot,—the river Leven

Cape
‘qqONdaad

 

 
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 67

falls over the rocks beautifully, on the right hand side of the
road. Thence, to Newby Bridge, the road lies through a
delightful woodland scene between the hills, with the river
shining and singing all the way over its old bed cf mossy
rocks, down on the left hand. The old mansion-like inn,
called the White Swan, is delightfully situated by the clear
Leven side. In front of the house, a quaint bridge of five
arches spans the stream, and a few yards below, the river
runs over a little fall, filling the quiet vale with its drowsy
song. Above the bridge, the water comes down from
Windermere through lovely scenery, gradually narrowing
from a lake to a river, with the current of water scarcely
discernible. The picturesque old inn, the bridge, the river,
the drowsy fall, the choral woods, and every object in the
hollow of this green nest of the mountains, is full of beauty
and repose; and the hills that shut them in from the rest of
the world heighten the general charm. ‘The clear river glides
by the front of the inn, with only the road between. It is
.pleasant to sit at the upper windows, or on the green
flower-garnished benches below, on a summer evening,
listening to the birds and the waterfall, and watching the
fish leaping up from the water, as if giving a last frolic
defiance to the cooks at the White Swan. At Newby Bridge
we are on the very doorstep of that beautiful region of
England,—the Lake Country, —and
All that creation’s varying mass assumes
Of grand, or lovely, here aspires and blooms;

Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow,
Bright lakes expand, and conquering rivers flow.

Perhaps the finest views to be had in the immediate
“STTIN MOUUVANOVEA

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OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 69

neighbourhood of Newby Bridge are from the summit of
Finsthwaite, a lofty wooded height, which rises steeply a
little westward of the inn. On the top there is a square
tower of slate stone, commemorative of the naval victories
of England. The inside walls are written all over with
names and nameless rhymes. The key of the tower may
be had at the White Swan. A footpath leads through
the plantations to the summit, which is a singular mixture
of craggy wildness and pretty woodland walks. Finsthwaite
commands a fine extent and variety of scenery in this
land of lake and mountain. Southward, the vale of the
Leven winds away to Ulverstone Sands; westward, the
mountains of Coniston; eastward, the fells and vales of
Cartmel; and northward, from the foot of the hill, the entire
length of crystal Windermere, dotted with its emerald isles,
is in full view. Beyond, the most kingly cluster of all our
English mountains bounds the landscape. Green is “the
favourite colour of God,” and the green shores of this
garden-girt lake are of a brightness such as is rarely met
with elsewhere in the world. Looking upon Windermere
from Finsthwaite, on a sunny day, one may say, in the words
of Tom Moore, that nature seems to have lavished her
charms upon that scene,-—

To make a heaven for love to sigh in,
For bards to live and saints to die in.

The distance from Newby Bridge to Kendal, by way of
Cartmel Fells, is ten miles; by Leven Bridge, fifteen miles.
An omnibus goes from the inn twice a day in summer
through’ Cartmel to meet the trains at the village of Grange.
aYaWaaadNim

 
OVER SANDS TO THE LAKES. 71

- Steamers start daily in summer to Ambleside and back,
calling at Bowness. There are ample facilities for boating
and fishing ; and, in addition to this, I believe there is hardly
a house of entertainment in the Lake Country more notable
for genuine comfort, and for the general excellence of its
accommodation, than the White Swan at Newby Bridge.

 
 

Sensitle Lakes and Wtountains.

 

CHAPTER a.

Here, rivers in the sea are lost;

There, mountains to the skies are tost ;

Here, tumbling billows mark the coast

With surging foam. BURNS.

==]F all our English lake scenery no part is less known
than that which skirts the sea, from the ruins of
Peel in Furness, to Whitehaven in Cumberland ;
and there is none which less deserves neglect.
Shut out on the east by England’s wildest mountains, and on
the west by the Irish Channel, this region was, till lately,
more difficult of approach than any other quarter of that
picturesque land. ‘Tourists have made fitful trips to its retired
lakes and glens, but have seldom wandered far there, or
remained long enough to drink in the spirit of its varied
scenery. Taking the beaten track of imitative sight-seers,
they have climbed out of Borrowdale into Buttermere; and
after eating char at the “ Fish,” and talking over the legend of
the vale, they have gone in a boat across Crummock Water,
to look at Scale Force,—the lady of English waterfalls. They

 
z
&
4

SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 73

have followed mountain guides over craggy wildernesses
down to the lone hamlet at Wastdale Head; from whence
they have, perhaps, ascended Scawfell. The mountain tops
have shown green valleys winding to westward, lighted
here and there by the glimmer of a clear river’s “sweet
meander,” with the blue sea heaving beyond; but, after a
hasty glance at some of the great features mentioned in guide-
books, they have generally turned again to more familiar
haunts of tourist life, content to believe that what they were
leaving unexplored must be uninteresting, because compara-
tively little known. But he who wanders lovingly in that
cabinet land between the mountains and the main, will find it
full of natural variety, from the wildest, mountain sublimity
to soft pastoral vales whose beauty melts into the sea. One
charm peculiar to this remole part of the Lake District is, that
the ocean lips its western border, stretching grandly to the
horizon’s edge, save where the outlines of Mona’s historic isle
stand out from the waves. The voice of the sea floats up its
green valleys, as if to woo their wandering waters home,
Some of these rivers are of rare beauty, such as the Duddon,—
that darling stream of Wordsworth’s lay,—the Esk, the Irt,
“the Ehen, and the Calder,—whose tranquil murmurs mingled
so long with the monastic chants of its secluded vale. I do
not know a better clue to the finest features of the district
than its water-courses afford. They abound in scenes
delightful to the painter’s eye. From the shore, where they
glide into the sea, they lead through green holms and vales ;
under shady woods; by quaint hamlets and bowery nooks ;
between craggy banks, festooned with greenery ; now stealing
silently over level sands; but mostly, in glittering frolicy
714 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY :

among picturesque beds of mossed rock; till they come to
where lone lakes lie among savage mountains, down whose
steeps tributary cascades leap from their wild birthplace.

The district is no less remarkable for the associations of
history than for its natural charms, its mineral wealth, and
its interest to men of science. Furness Abbey, Peel Castle,
and Gleaston Castle, although on the Lancashire side of the
Duddon, naturally belong to this sea-coast part of lake-
land. In addition to these, it has, for its extent, a more than
common share of the relics of antiquity. The beautiful ruin
of Calder Abbey, in its monastic vale; the old conventual
church of St. Bees; the Runic crosses of Beckermont and
Gosforth ; the remains of Egreinont and Millom Castles ; the
legendary hall of Muncaster, looking down from its shady
height upon lovely Eskdale’s stream; Broughton Tower,
and many others of less note. From the time when Druid
priests worshipped in the temple at Swinside, and Roman
soldiers marched from camp to camp among these hills,
till now, this tract of country possesses interesting relics of
every race which has left a name in our history.

Since the opening of the new line from Ulverstone to
Whitehaven this district has been gradually becoming
better known. The train from Ulverstone calls at Furness
Abbey ; then crossing the Duddon estuary, winds round the
base of Black Coomb up to Ravenglass; after which it clips
the sea so closely for more than ten miles, that one might
- fling a stone from the carriage window into the waves at
high water. At St. Bees the line quits the shore, and shoots
through a fertile valley to the port of Whitehaven. To an
imland man, this is a singularly interesting journey. On the
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 715

one hand the open sea, with here and there a spot,—as at
Seascale.—which seems destined hy nature to become a
favourite bathing place; on the other hand, the grand out-
lines of the mountains, always in sight, yet always changing
in relative appearance as we roll along.

As a sequel to my recent wanderings in Cartmel and
Furness, I propose now to lead the reader with me through
some parts of this district, where I rambled last year, first
in summer, then at the fall‘of the leaf, when vegetation, like
the setting sun, puts on its grandest robe to die in. My
first trip was in!summer, from Ulverstone to Black Coomb,
the general character and position of which is finely described
in the following lines from a poem called ‘‘The Minstrels
of Windermere ” :—

Close to the sea, lone sentinel,
Black Coomb his/forward station keeps ;
He breaks the sea’s tumultuous swell,—
And ponders o’er the level deeps.
He listens to the bugle-horn
Where Eskdale’s lovely valley bends ;
Eyes Walney’s early fields of corn;
Sea-birds to Holker’s woods he sends.
Beneath his feet the sunk ship rests
In Duddon Sands, its masts all bare,

It was one of those cool bright,mornings that give the
heart a pleasant fillip, The quaint town of Ulverstone was
yet asleep; and, as I looked out of my bedroom window,
some public clock chimed a quarter past six, in tones which
rang through the streets, and died away upon Leven Sands.
There had been a great storm of wind and rain during the
night, but now, everything”from the sky to the ground looked
“AAGAVY UAACTVO

 
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 77

fresh and glad; and the old market-place was all still as a
cloister, except where a few pigeons pecked and croodled
about the cobble pavement, or a red-hued iron miner went
whistling through the sunshine, on his way to work. At
the station, I met my two friends, whom, for the nonce, I
will call “‘ Buckland ” and ‘‘Sedgwick.” © Stepping into the
carriage we startled a bird, which had just flown in, but
evidently had no desire to go any further by rail. Half-
past six. We are off towards Black Coomb. ‘The handle
of Buckland’s geological hammer stuck out of his brown
swinger, and he had a strong hempen wallet over his shoulder.
Sedgwick’s shiny case for botanical’ specimens hung jauntily
from a strap which crossed his breast ; and he was accom-
panied by a most innocent-looking dog, of undefinable breed,
called ‘‘ Jack ;” who seemed to take the rumble of the wheels
for the growls of a thousand invisible enemies, whose close
neighbourhood frightened him into silence. Away through
the smiling fields; past Lindal, the scene of a tussle in
the Parliamentary War; past ancient Daiton, with its squat
old tower upon the steep ; through the green valley of Deadly
Nightshade, to Furness Abbey, where a full choir of birds
were making the ruins ring with their matin songs. Before
we could satisfy ourselves with this beautiful scene, the train
turned back a little to get upon the Whitehaven line, and,
in a quarter of an hour, we were rolling along the southern
shore of Duddon estuary, where the cool sea-breeze came
freshly over tumbling waves. Leaving Kirby, with its great
slate quarries on the moor-side, we stop at Foxfield, and a
few travellers get out to go forward on the Coniston line.
Yonder is the bold peak of the Old Man. And here, a
78 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

little to the right hand, is the town of Broughton, on a sunny
slope. But our line clings to the sea. We rattle over the
Duddon viaduct, and by two or three stations, in a quiet
green country, where hamlets and scattered white cottages
show themselves upon the landscape. Black Coomb has
been long in sight ; and now, ‘Out here for Silecroft!” which
brings us to the very foot of that bold outpost of the
mountains,

The journey had taken abou: an hour, and the morning
air was cool. There was a new inn near the station. The
front door was not yet open; but, seeing a red-armed girl
cleaning steps at a side entrance, we asked her if we could
have breakfast. Putting her floor-cloth down, she rose from
her knees, looked at us wistfully, then wiped her hands on
her apron, and said she would go and see, Whilst she was
upstairs, we peeped into the front rooms. In one the relics
of a night carousal lay strewn about, looking sickly in the
sunshine ; the other was a clean little parlour, with pictures,
music books, and a piano init. Here we waited till the girl
brought word that breakfast would be ready in half an
hour, and said we might stay in that room if we liked. In
a few minutes footsteps were heard overhead ; the landlady
came down stairs; and all the household began to stir.
We opened the window, and the morning air brought in
sweet smells from gardens over the way. On the mountain
side, right opposite, we could see the gray line of our path
up Black Coomb. Sedgwick played the “Ranz des
Vaches” from Rossini’s “William Tell;” and here I may
say that I do not know any bit of music that so beautifully
breathes the spirit of the mountains. We listened to it
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 79

over and over again on that sunny morning, at the foot
of Black Coomb, till it turned our hearts to the pleasant
business of the day. After this, we went into the garden,
and talked with villagers who were lounging about, till the
girl called out that breakfast was ready. Our meal was
good, and the charge moderate. When it was over, we
took time, and had another tune from our friend before
starting. I see from Mr. Linton’s book, that there are
some interesting druidical remains below Black Coomb,
“lying scattered about in the vicinity of Annaside and
Gutterby, near the sea-shore ;’

?

and, at Selkar’s Bay, about a
mile from the beach, “‘it was said that the remains of several
vessels or galleys could be seen until about the end of the
last century, having, according to tradition, been sunk and
left there on some invasion of the Romans.” ‘The limited
time did not admit of our exploring these things; but it
is as well to mention them for the sake of those that
come after.

The greatest part of Silecroft. is opposite the hotel, in a
hollow which divides the railway line from the first slope of
Black Coomb. There was nothing remarkable in its
irregular white cottages, though they looked pleasant that
morning, with flowerpots in the windows here and there.
We walked through the village ; and, about half a mile on the
road beyond, struck over the left hand fields, to reach the
path we had seen from the inn. Droves of sheep and lambs
were wending slowly up from different points; and about a
quarter of an hour’s ascent brought an interesting pastoral
scene in view, A glittering streamlet came tumbling down
the mountain, and, in a dinge of the steep, its waters were
80 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

dammed up by a rude stone enclosure, known in moorland
districts as a ‘‘sheep-wash.” At one end of this enclosure,
a bleating crowd of sheep and lambs huddled in the shade of
a stone field-wall. These were let into the watery enclosure,
one at a time, through a little square opening, where they
were soused, and scrubbed, and swilled by the sturdy washers
inside, and then let out, panting, frightened, and clean,
through a similar opening on the opposite side.

Heavy, and dripping, to the breezy brow

Slow move the harmless race; where, as they spread
Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray,

Inly disturbed, and wond’ring what this wild
Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints
The country fill; and tossed from rock to rock,
Incessant bleatings run around the hills.

As this went on, the water was continually refreshed by the
in-flowing stream ; and a little outlet at the lower end carried
away its impurities. Shouts and Jaughter of herdsmen, and
the barking of dogs, came cheerily up the hill-side; and the
air was vocal with tremulous complainings of sheep and
lambs, which, having passed through the “ wash,” wandered
wildly about the heathy steep, chased to and fro by dogs.
The clear stream leaping by our pathway; the majestic
mountain high above us; the beautiful bowery vale below ;
the blue sea hard by ; the splendour of the morning ; the
stillness all around, save where this pastoral tumult rose;
it was a scene that kept us gazing with delight. But we had
Black Coomb to climb, so we toiled slowly up the rough
way, oft pausing to look back at the landscape. This is the
steepest part of the ascent from Silecroft; but our tricksy
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 81

streamlet kept us pleasant company till about a thousand
feet above the sea. Here we came upon a bleak platform,
where silent desolation reigned. A better road now took a
circuit over the expanse, afterwards making a white and
winding line up to the summit. From this point each chose
a path which he thought would lead soonest to the top ; and,
half an hour’s climbing found us together at a pile of stones
left by the government surveyors. All around us was a
sombre wilderness strewn with slabs and splinters of
Skiddaw slate. No bird, nor bee, nor buzz of summer life
was there. When the cold strong wind lay still for a minute,
the only sound heard was a low murmur of the sea breaking
against the coast below. There was nothing astir, but here
and there a black-faced moorland tup, staring fiercely, as if
half-inclined to dispute our strange intrusion. Sometimes a
cloud sailed overhead, putting us into gloomy shadow, and
making the wilderness look wilder. It was a strange sight,
then, to watch the play of sun and shade upon the lower
slopes, and to see the strong sunlight sleeping serenely on
the green vale below. The following lines may be interest-
ing to the reader. They were written by Wordsworth, with
a slate pencil, upon a stone, on the side of this mountain :—

Stay, bold adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs

On this commodious seat! for much remains

Of hard ascent before thou reach the top

Of this huge eminence, —from blackness named,—
And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land,

A favourite spot of tournament and war!

But thee may no such boist’rous visitants

Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow;

And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air

7—6

;
:
f
f

i

iy
82 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle,
From centre to circumference unveil’d!
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
That, on the summit whither thou art bound,
A geographic labourer pitch’d his tent,
With book supplied and instruments of art,
To measure height and distance; lonely task
Week after week pursued! To him was given
Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed
On timid man), of nature’s processes
Upon the exalted hills. He made report
That once, while there he plied his studious work
Within that canvas dwelling, suddenly
The many-coloured maps before his eyes
Became invisible; for all around
Had darkness fallen,—unthreaten’d, unproclaimed,—
As if the golden day itself had been
Extinguish’d in a moment; total gloom,
In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes,
Upon the blinded mourtain’s silent top!

The views from Black Coomb are of the grandest
imaginable kind, both in variety and extent. The sea fills
all the west, and the mountain seems to rise sheer from its
waves. Eastward, a storm of mighty hills closes the scene.
Southward, and just under the eye, the woodland ridge of
Millom shuts in a rich valley which fringes the base of
Black Coomb with verdant beauty. Immediately beyond,
the estuary stretches wide, where,—

Majestic Duddon, over smooth flat sands,
Glides on in silence, with unfetter’d sweep,

Farther south, green hills, rich vales, towns, towers, and
gleaming rivers, as far as the eye can go. Grand as our
views were, the day was too hazy to see all that can be seen
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 83

thence, when the atmosphere is favourable. Further of the
prospects this glorious eminence commands let Wordsworth
speak once more, in a manner worthy of the theme :—

This height a ministering angel might select ;

For from the summit of Black Coomb (dread name
Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range
Of unobstructed prospect may be seen

Which British ground commands; low dusky tracts,
Where Trent is nursed, far southward ! Cambrian hills
To the south-west, a multitudinous show.

And in a line of eye-sight linked with these

The hoary peaks of Scotland, that give birth

To Teviot’s stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde ;
Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth,
Gigantic mountains, rough with crags; beneath,
Right at the imperial station’s western base,

Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretch’d

Far into silent regions, blue and pale;

And visibly engirding Mona’s Isle,

‘That, as we left the plain, before our sight

Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly

{Above the convex of the watery globe)

Into clear view the cultured fields that streak

Its habitable shores; but now appears

A dwindled object, and submits to lie

At the spectator’s feet. Yon azure ridge,

Is it a perishable cloud,—or there

Do we behold the frame of Erin’s coast ?

Land sometimes by the roving shepherd swain
(Like the bright confines of another werld)

Not doubtfully perceived. Look homeward now
In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene

The spectacle,—how pure! Of nature’s works,

In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea,

A revelation infinite it seems; _ :

Display august of man’s inheritance,

Of Britain’s calm felicity and power.
84 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

After lingering on the summit till the keen wind began to
make us chill, we went round by the southern edge of the
mountain, and, on the east side, came to a most impressive
scene, called the ‘‘ The Screes,”—a vast craggy amphitheatre,
which geologists say is the crater of an ancient volcano.
With some difficulty we made way into the swampy hollow
of this immense basin. High up in an inaccessible part of
the rocks, ravens were screaming, and wheeling about their
wild eyrie. That lofty sweep of blackened crags seemed
to frown the landscape into silence, as I stood, lost in the
gloomy profound, listening to the geological conversation of
my two friends. A curious, cone-shaped mound rises in the
centre of the hollow. The lower side, or lip of the great
basin, is broken off; and an extensive porphyry dike runs
down into the southward vale. In the same direction, the
narrow gorge, through which we descended to the valley, is
watered by a wild stream, called ‘‘ Witcham Beck,” which
fills the pass with turbulent glee, as it dashes over the rocks.
By the side of this stream, a good road brought us down to
“Witcham Mill,” a building quaintly worn with age, and
sheltered deep ina nook by the water side, below ‘‘ White
Hall Knot.” Somehow, a corn mill seems to belong,
naturally, to quietness and the green country; and the
sounds that arise therefrom mingle better with songs of wild
birds and leafy rustlings of the woods than with the tumults
of town life. Sedgwick knew the miller well, so we walked
about the building, in and out, with the cheerful old corn-
crusher, whilst Buckland splashed through ‘“‘ Witcham
Beck,” and clambered about the ferny crags, in search of
some rare plant that he knew of. It was now long past
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 85

noon. Threatening clouds hung over us, and rain began to
fall. There was a little public-house a mile over the east-
ward fields, and we made haste to its friendly shade. The
house is kept by a staid old widow, who supplied us with
bread and cheese, milk and butter,—all her humble larder
could afford,—but it was very good. The distance from this
place to the druidical temple, at Swinside, is about four
miles. The shower soon ended, and all was bright again.
We took a path which winds about the south side of “‘ White
Hall Knot,” and then through the hollow of a deep glen to
the east, where a handsome lad was whipping small trout
from the stream almost as fast as he could put bait on hook,
Leaving this road, Sedgwick led up the hills, where there
was no trodden footing ;—now through green swamps, that
often turned us back; now through rough tracks of heather ;
now over stone walls, that rattled after us as we leaped
down ; now splashing through a watercourse ; now labouring
up a craggy steep; till at last, men and horses at work and
the gables of a farmhouse came in sight on the distant hill-
side. The temple is near this lonely farmhouse. We had
to climb a lofty wall into the great enclosure where it stands.
The day was glorious; and we sat down upon dry moss
within the circle, resting our backs against one of its gray
stones. The temple is 285 feet in circumference ; and
consists of fifty-four moss grown stones, some of which are
prostrate, a few still nearly upright, and all slanting more or
less in different directions. Through a cleft in one of the
largest blocks, a fine young rowan tree or mountain ash,
has pushed its way from the ground, spreading its branches
over the venerable stone. This sylvan hermit prefers the
86 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY :

unsheltered hills to crowded woods and forests. It was
interesting to find this tree, which has been associated with
the wildest superstitions of our island from time immemorial,
hanging here so fresh and green, over the relics of the
ancient temple. From the ‘“ Forest Trees of Britain” I
cull these words about it :—

Lightfoot and Gilpin are both of opinion that the mountain ash
was held in high estimation by the Druids, The former says, “It
may be observed to grow more frequently than any other tree in the
neighbourhood of those druidical circles of stone so often seen in
the north of Britain; and the superstitious still continue to retain a
great veneration for it, which was undoubtedly handed down to them
from early antiquity.’ Often, at this day, a stump of it is found in
some old burying place, or near the circle of a Druid temple, whose
rites it formerly invested with its sacred shade.

An ancient song says,—

Witches have no power
Where there is roan-tree wood.

There is a kind of recess, or avenue, on the east side of the
temple, composed of two stones on each side. Buckland
searched about till he found a curious fibrous plant, called
‘¢ Druid’s hair,” of which we brought some specimens away.
The sunset was glorious among those lonely mountains, as
we came down, by another route, startling the red grouse
from its heathery nest. A delightful walk of a mile anda
half brought us to a fine old farmhouse, called “Crag Hall.”
It was milking time; but we rested a few minutes, and were
kindly refreshed in that hospitable homestead ; after which
we set out again as the farewell light began to blend with
evening shades, to the village of Green, through which a
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 87

beautiful stream runs close by the highway. The best way
to the temple at Swinside is to get off at Green Station, and
go through the village, up to Crag Hall, where vehicles may

be left ; from whence a good road leads up a mile and a half
to the druidical circle. As we came through Green, a strong

sulky-looking dog rushed from under a passing cart, and

seizing our poor canine friend “Jack,” shook him like a rat. |
But for the timely aid of a friendly cudgel or two, the poor

brute would have been ‘‘ nowhere” in a few minutes, The

station is a mile from the village. We took the train here;

and so returned to Ulverstone, well pleased with our day’s

excursion to Black Coomb and the temple at Swinside.

 

CHAPTER II.

A realm of mountain, forest haunt, and fell,

And fertile valleys, beautifully lone ;
Where fresh and far romantic waters roam,
Singing a song of peace by many a cottage home.

J. C, PRINCE.
7=|[ was autumn, the evening of the year, and
summer’s green had begun to pay its annual
tribute to decay. I set my mind on a stroll
through that part of the lordship of Millom which
occupies the north bank of Duddon estuary, and forms the
southern point of Cumberland. Near the shore it looks rather
bleak but there is a charm about the sea which never palls ;
and here, at the foot of a glorious mountain land, the spirits

 
88 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

rise breezily in barometrical sympathy with nature. As we
go eastward, the country is all picturesque ups and downs,
and pleasant nooks of rural life, and the land is richer and
better wooded. I chose this route partly because I wished
to see Millom Castle, the ruined fortress of the Boyvilles
and Huddlestones, lords of great power there in ancient
times. The nearest station from Ulverstone to the castle is
Holborn Hill, from whence there is a picturesque road
along the estuary to Broughton-in-Furness, about seven
miles distant. ‘The view from Buckman’s Hall, the ee
point of this road, is worth the journey.

I had been spending two hours of midday with a friend
at Furness Abbey, where he had shown me that the finest
view of that noble ruin is from the summit of the valley’s
eastern bank; up to which neat gravel walks lead, with
rustic resting places by the way. At two we left for Hol-
born Hill, on the Whitehaven line. When we came to
Duddon Sands the air was unusually clear, and the heather
flower in full glow along the line. From the station, Millom
Castle is visible among a clump of trees about a mile east-
ward. ‘The high road goes by it. ‘The village of Holborn
Hill was a little on the left, and, from what I could see, it
is simply one street of rural cottages, mostly whitewashed.
There is something instructive about the old names of places
in England, but the new title given to this village is far
away from the character of the place and the scenery
around. As we drew near the gray walls of Millom, all
was sunny and still, and a few tall trees threw their shadows
across the road. ‘There was a little round-faced lad loitering
by the hedge with a switch in his hand. Weasked him what
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 89

house that was. ‘“‘It’s t’ castle,” said he. ‘‘ What castle?”
** Aa dinnet knaa.” ‘ Who lives at it?” ‘‘Yon man, yonder,”
replied he, pointing to a stout farmer who was watching
his men in a neighbouring field. The happy lad then
played with his switch again, and loitered by the ancient
castle as if it was a ruined cow-shed. So much for the
changes time brings round. This lad might be descended
from a serf of these old feudai lords of Millom who ruled
“over a country eighteen miles long, and, in some places,
eight miles broad. ‘They were endowed with extraordinary
privileges, for theirs was a jurisdiction into which the
sheriff of the county could not enter. They had power of
life and death, and “enjoyed” juva regalia in six parishes.
‘*Mr. Denton, writing in 1688, says that the gallows stood
on a hill near the castle, on which criminals had been
executed within the memory of persons then living.” But
times are strangely altered since Henry the First was king,
when de Boyville, lord of Millom, gave ‘‘all the parishes
between the Esk and Millom to the Abbey of St. Mary, at
York,” and gave, also, the churches of Bootle and Witcham,
and the land called ‘‘ Monk Force,” to the Abbey of Furness,
reserving only “the harts and hinds, wild boars and their
kinds, and all aéries of hawks therein.” ‘The first lords of
Millom are associated with the ancient legend of “‘ The Horn
of Egremont Castle,” and they bore the horn and hattrell
in their escutcheon,.

Horn it was which none could sound,
No one upon living ground,

Save he who came as rightful heir

To Egremont’s domains and castle fair.
go RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY :

Their names are now almost forgotten in their own land.
The castle was embattled in 1335, by Sir John Huddleston.
In ancient times it was surrounded by a fine park, of which
there are some scanty remains on a ridge to the north. The
great square tower is still habitable, though its old battle-
ments are gone. ‘The castle was invested during the Parlia-
mentary war, and the old vicarage house was pulled down
at the same time, “lest the rebels should take refuge there.”
There are traces of the ancient moat still visible. We
turned in between the broken pillars of an old gateway, and
up a deserted avenue, to the front of the ruin, which, though
not of great extent, presents a fine specimen of the decayed
pomp of feudal times. The walls of the court-yard were all
weather-stained and worn; and, here and there, delicate
beds of moss have crept over them, year after year, so long
that the moist old stones are now mantled with hues of great
beauty. The front of the castle is roofless, and some parts
of its massive walls are thickly clothed with ivy, in which the
wild birds were flitting out of and in to their nests. Even in
ruin this part of the castle has a noble appearance. A fine
flight of worn steps leads up through the frowning archway,
to the great tower, in the inner court. Above this archway
a stone shield bears the decayed heraldries of the Huddleston
family ; and these arms appear, also, on a slab in the garden
wall, and in other parts of the buildings. Whilst we roamed
about the inner courts, the front entrance of the great
tower stood open, and we caught sight of a fine old carved
staircase, which led me to suppose that the interior may
retain some of its ancient characteristics. That part of the
moat which remains below the walls of the western tower is
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. OI

mostly filled with weeds and brushwood; and it divides the
castle from the ancient parish church, which stands upon a
knoll, overlooking the fields. The church is a venerable
building, with its quaint little turret, containing two bells.
Near the east window is an octagon stone font, ornamented
with quatrefoils, and a shield charged with the arms of
Huddleston. ‘The church contains an ancient mural tablet
to the memory of the Huddleston family, and near to it is
an altar-tomb ornamented with Gothic tracery, on which
recline the effigies of a knight and his lady, but in a very
mutilated state.” Peeping through a corner window we saw
this altar-tomb, with its recumbent figures, close to the wall.
In the churchyard, the sculptured shaft of an ancient cross,
charged with four shields, still stands erect. A plaintive
tone of decay was over all the works of man about us, in
spite of the smiling fields; and the rooks, cawing above the
tree-tops which shade the ruin, were quite in keeping with
he spirit of the scene. In the burial-ground all was hoary
and old. ‘The worn steps leading to the fields ; the dim sun-
dial; the mossy walls; the fragments of ancient sculpture
reared against the church; the head-stones, leaning
to and fro in irregular ways; the weed-grown grave-stones,
mottled with decayed verdure, and trodden with long
footing, till almost illegible. Fit companion, this eloquent
old bed-chamber of the dead, for the mouldering fortress
whose pride it had seen, and whose decline it was sharing.
There was nobody about; but a faint buzz came from the
new school-house, a little northward. We knocked at the
inner door, and a stout young man with a mild face came
out to us. He was too shy to talk much, but he told us
92 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

that there was a fine view from the top of a knoll, three fields
off, westward. A footpath from the church stile led to it,
and, when we came there, it was as he had said. The
rippling estuary, filled with the top of the tide, and all
glorious with sunshine, was in sight, spreading out to the
open sea. Close to, on the north-west, Black Coomb
looked solemnly down upon us. Going eastward, the eye
wandered over the Coniston range; till, on the morning side
of the horizon, the sky was wild with mountains behind
mountains reared, among whose summits the sun was trailing
his golden hues in graceful change, as if trying to weave a
garment fit for such a royal scene. At the foot of the
knoll there was a charming contrast in the silent fields, the
church, and the ruined castle half concealed by trees.

We returned by the avenue again, taking the road thence
to Broughton-in-Furness. The way was full of variety ; now
down between trees, and by an old farmstead ; now meander-
ing high about the unshaded upland, overlooking Duddon,
and in sight of the hills. About three miles on the road we
came into a shady dell,—a sylvan cup,—where the wheel of
Thwaites’s mill is turned by a mountain stream, and the
trees make ‘a kind of checkered night and day.” There
seemed to be just room for the mill, the house, the bridge,
the road, the trees, and the restless little river, whose
Julling murmur awakened ‘dreams that wave before the
half-shut eye.” We asked for a drink of milk at the miller’s
door, and were invited into a room, where the good wife
and her daughter were lining bed quilts with wadding, upon
a wooden frame. We rested, and talked with them awhile ;
and when we rose to go, the old lady seemed half-offended
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 93

that we should ask what there was to pay. At Buckman’s
Hall, which, I suppose, takes its name from the old house
close by, we gained the highest point of the road, and a
sharp turn brought in sight a splendid prospect of the upper
part of the estuary and the country around it. The
mountains seen from this height are nearly the same as seen
from the knoll near Millom Church, but here they look
grander, and present a different aspect, through change of
position. ‘This fine view is before us most of the way down
Buckman’s Brow, a long steep, ending in a shady avenue
of trees as we draw near Duddon Bridge. The day had
- travelled by while we had lingered, and twilight was now
closing over the scene. Before we were across Iuddon it
began to rain. We hurried over the green level, and up the
hill, from the top of which the rain-loaded blast pelted us
gallantly into the old King’s Arms, at Rroughton, a very
comfortable shelter, especially at such a time. Tea, with
good trimmings, was set out for us in a cosy parlour, where
several trunks were piled in a nook. Here we talked of
what we had seen during the day, and of the next day’s
ramble up Duddon Vale. It wanted an hour and a half to
the time for the last train to Ulverstone; so we agreed to
run down there for the night, and return to Broughton early
in the morning. The remainder of our time was passed in
the kitchen, with the landlord and a thin-faced young man,
whom we had taken at first for a hoozy cobbler ; but he soon
convinced us we were wrong. His manner was shy and
hesitating ; but on the commonest theme his language was
choice and appropriate. He evinced an ardent love of
nature and a well-stored mind. When we inquired about
94 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY :

Duddon Vale, his eyes lighted up as he spoke of his rambles
there, and of Wordsworth’s sonnets in its praise. We spent
an interesting hour with him till train time; and after
ordering breakfast for eight o’clock next morning, we rolled
down to Ulverstone through the rainy night. As we parted
in the market-place my friend said, ‘‘ Half-past six in the
morning, at the station. Good night!” “Good night !—
but stop; how if one should sleep too long?” ‘“‘ Well then,
th’ titter ‘co: th’ latterup.- Good! neet |) 7 5

Next morning was fine again, and we were back at the
King’s Arms, in Broughton, half an hour before breakfast
time. Let us open the window and see what we can see.
Our parlour looks upon a kind of square opposite the hotel.
About six yards from the corner there is a little grocery
shop, up two worn steps, where women and children are

going in and out with loaves, and ounces of tea, and butter
wrapped in copybook leaves, Across the square a brown-
faced man, in corduroy, is leaning against a doorway,
smoking, and quietly stroking his chin, as if he thought it
was about time to get shaved, if he only had the penny.
Blue smoke is curling up lazily in the clear air from cottage
chimneys ; now it flies away on a gust of wind from the sea ;
and now it curls up lazily again. Doves are cooing and
strutting yonder; sparrows are chirping noisily about the
roofs ; and hens are pecking on the road below. But now
the town is getting busy, for two men saunter into the square,
talking together. One is filling a short pipe, and the other
carries a long rough stick, such as cow jobbers delight in.
The man with the short pipe strikes a match on the bowl,
turns his back to the wind, gets a light, pushes the tobacco
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 95

in with his finger, puffs carefully half a dozen times, and
then calls out ‘‘Good morning” to somebody at a window
over our heads. Now a young greyhound bounds like a
four-legged arrow into the sunny space, and begins to
gambol about alone, as if playing with an invisible friend.
Here comes another dog, a little frisky fellow, of no
particular breed. This one barks a great deal, in a good-
tempered way, and the two begin to sniff and frolic to and
fro, as dogs do when they are ‘‘ thick together.” What is he
that comes next upon this little sunlit stage of country life ?
A very short, double-jointed fellow, with an enormous head,
and a most antique visage, that reminds me of something
I have seen at the end of a spout on an old church wall.
His age seems to have parted company with his growth
about half way up the usual height, in an untimely way. He
is talking to himself, and smiling about something, reckless of
all observers, as he paddles across the square with a great
pitcher in his hands. Which is the pitcher and which is the
man? for though evidently a man in age, he doesn’t look
as if he would hold more than two gallons or so, if he was
fairly cleared out to make room for it. What if he should
stumble now, and fall into the pitcher? Hold! he has
turned the corner. May peace lead him kindly by the hand
through this uncertain world. The clock in the little shop
is striking eight, and a chubby lad trails by. His hands are
deep in his pockets, and his nose looks cold, and moist.
A slate hangs on his arm by a string, as he goes, with
wandering steps, and slow, sulkily kicking bits of stone on
the road, and “creeping like snail unwillingly to school.’
Suddenly a woman’s voice calls out, “Come now, gang thi
96 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

ways, or [’ll warm thee, mi gentleman!” ‘The lad starts,
takes his hands out of his pockets, and makes haste off at
the house-end ; after which,—he mutters and loiters again.
Yonder, right before us, at the head of the steep main
street, a private carriage road leads up the wooded hill to the
tower of the Broughtons of Broughton. But that must
wait; for “neat-handed Phillis” is laying the cloth, and our
friend of last night trickles in, with a mild salute, to join us
at the morning meal. Over breakfast we talked about the
route tor the day: and our friend gave us some valuable
hints anent it. ‘The way we chose was up Duddon Vale, by
Seathwaite, to Cockley Beck. Then, over Wrynose into
Little Langdale; returning by Yewdale to Coniston, and so
home by rail. After breakfast we walked up to Broughton
Tower, which crowns a woody eminence, at the head of the
town. It commands a fine view over the town and estuary
out to sea; and eastward, of Furness Fells. The exterior
has been somewhat modernised; and the oid battlements
have been replaced by a plain parapet. This tower is
associated with a remarkable adventure in our history, which
led to the downfall of its ancient owners. Mr. West says of
the Broughtons, in his ‘‘ Antiquities of Furness,”—

This was an Anglo-Saxon family of high antiquity, in whose posses-
sion the manor of Broughton had remained from time immemorial,
and whose chief seat was at Broughton till the reign of Henry VII.
At this period the power and interest of Sir Thomas Broughton was
so considerable, that the Duchess of Burgundy relied on him.as one of
the principal confederates in the attempt to subvert the Government
cf Henry VII. by the pretensions of Lambert Simnel.

What the fate of that adventure was is well known.
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 97

Sir Thomas is said to have fallen in the field of battle; but there
remains a traditicn that he returned, and lived many years amongst
his tenants at Witherslack, in Westmorland, and was interred in the
chapel there.

With this unfortunate gentleman the family was extinguished
in Furness; and the manor was granted to the Earl of
Derby. For nearly two centuries it has been the property
of the Sawrey family. Broughton may be called the capital
of Upper Furness. It is about six miles from the summit
of Black Coomb, and that mountain may be approached by
the high-road as far as Broadgate ; from whence there is a
hill-side way onward. Broughton is the nearest point by
rail to the beautiful vale of Duddon, which begins about a
mile north of the town.

 
98 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

CHAT tit

In glens which resound to the waterfall’s song,
My spirit shall play the wild echoes among ;
I’ll climb the dark steep to my lone mountain home,
And heartsome and poor o’er the solitude roam ;
And the keen winds that harp on the heathery lea
Shall sing the grand anthem of freedom to me.
THE MOORLANDS,

== OW we set out for the solitary vale and stream

which Wordsworth loved and sung. . By ten
o’clock that bright forenoon we had crossed the
hill north of Broughton town, and were walking
over a green holm through which the pretty “Little” runs
babbling and dancing, like a child dressed for a holiday, to
go with Duddon to the sea. Leaving the Bootle road near
Duddon Bridge, we turned off at the end of a blacksmith’s
shop, taking the right hand road, which leads between tall
hedgerows up into the vale. This road soon quits the green
level, and begins to soar windingly between the trees, by little
plots of sloping garden, and cottages perched like bird-nests
in leafy nooks, high above the narrow entrance of the vale.
The river is deep below, hidden by the woods rising from its
margin. The tree-shaded banks by our wayside were often
thick with terns and lichens, and tangled bushes of the dear
wild bramble, ‘whose fruit full well the schoolboy knows.”
Its prickly stalks were loaded with luscious berries, and we
stopped to pick a handful now and then. On the opposite
side, the spreading shades ot Duddon Grove mantled the

  
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 99

lower slope of the mountain with rich autumnal foliage.
There, below, green lawns, trim paths, and cultivated
grounds marked the influence of wealth and taste; above,
Stoneside Fell rose proud and poor, and sternly free. Now
we lost sight of the landscape, as we came into a cool,
shady dingle, where the checkered pattern of overhanging
leaves played quietly upon the sunny road; and the unseen
river wooed us thenceforth with its quiet song. The hills
begin to rise wilder before us,—Corney Fell, Stainton Fell,
Hest Fell, and Birker Fell. About a mile and a half from
the entrance of the vale, we emerge upon a common. Here
the mansion of Duddon Grove, its rich grounds and plumy
woods are left behind ; and cultivated beauty gives place to
untrimmed nature. “The wilderness is rich with liberty.”
Yon patch of sunshine, gliding across the dark breast of
Stainton Fell, seems to slacken in its journey, as if it had
met with a spot that pleased it there. A smell of wood fires
is about us ; and mottle-faced lambs skip away up the ferny
slope, bleating tremulously, and turning round to look back
now and then. Here the solitary vale is almost treeless ;
and the road freaks in and out, so near the stream, that we
are continually halting in wonder and admiration as some
reach, more beautiful than the last, steals into sight. These
mountain rivers obey the moods of the weather with great
alacrity ; hence the local proverb, ‘‘ Up with a shower, and
down in an hour.” But Duddon was in its glory on that
sunny day, after the recent rains. Grand as those wild fells
are, all purpled with autumnal splendour, the speciality, the
very genius of that valley’s charm, is the varied loveliness of
its stream. J have roamed by many a pleasant moorland
Se eae

100 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

river, but I never saw one so full of delightful change as the
Duddon. Every turn of it brings a new picture to the eye.
Now, wildly-glad, it leaps down from the rocky hills ; now,
almost silent, it glides by in “liquid lapse serene ;” now it
meanders, pranked into a thousand silvery shapes of beauty,
where moss-clad stones lie strewn about its bed in nature’s
careless taste, and where its water seems to complain “ with
gentle murmur, that its course they do restrain,” For three
or four miles the road lies more or less near the stream,
and we trailed by through its enchanting sights and sounds.
At Ulpha Kirk, “to the pilgrim’s eye as welcome as a star,”
there is a small hamlet near the bridge; and on a knoll
close by, the little church stands, of which Wordsworth
says :—

How sweet were leisure! could it yield no more

Than ’mid that wave-washed churchyard to recline,

From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine ;

Or there to pace, and mark the summits hoar

Of distant moonlit mountains faintly shine,

Soothed by the unseen river’s gentle roar.
Whilst we lingered on the bridge, from whence the stream
is more wildly charming than before, a tall gentleman, with
a fishing basket slung from his shoulder, rode quietly up on
afine horse. He stopped, and we got into talk about the
beauty of the river at this place. He pointed out some of
the most striking features of the scene; and we learned in
the course of conversation that he was an enthusiastic
botanist, and author of “The Natural History of Redcar.”
A little beyond Ulpha Kirk we came to another bridge,
which a passing dalesman called “IT” Aad Mill Bridge.”
Here the clear green-tinged stream, flowing deep between

 

 
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. IOI

thick woods, over mossy rocks, is worth stopping to look at.
A little farther, we pass a tiny chapel, with a marble slab
over the door, on which is graven,—
To Thee, O Lord, whose goodness crowns our days,
Our thankful hearts this humble temple raise ;

Blest Jesus, by thy Spirit teach our youth,
And sanctify our age with heavenly truth.

Half a mile beyond this chapel, on the northern slope of the
road, the country opens before us, and, as ‘“ Black’s Guide”
says, “The finest coup @eil in the whole valley presents
itself.” We are now in what is called “Low, in Ulpha,” and
the mountains begin to gather wildly around, Cove, Blake-
rigg, Walna Scar, Seathwaite Fell, and Dow. Crag; and
right a-head, the rugged mass of Wallabarrow Crag is a
remarkable feature. A tall dalesman was striding in our
direction, and we fell into company with him, taking two
steps for his one. He knew the valley very well, and had
roamed the fells more than thirty years. Pointing to Walla-
barrow Crag, he said, “ That’s a rough clim, now, when yan
comes tull it.” We asked him how far Seathwaite was off.
“Oh,” said he, pointing up the vale, “‘ Seathut’s just theer.” .
“But what distance is it?” ‘‘Wheea, mebby three mile, or

.)

so.” We found that ’‘mebby,” and “or so,” are such elastic
elements of measure that there is no calculating their exact
value. ‘They have only vague notions of distance in these
dales. Sometimes, the place we were travelling to seemed
to get farther off the more we went towards it, so that it
appeared as if the best way to reach our destination would |
be to turn our backs upon it, and walk the other way. As

we drew near Seathwaite, we began to talk about Robert
Io2 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

Walker, the famous old minister there. He thought him
one of the greatest men that ever lived, if he “hedn’t hed to
scrat sea sair for a livin.’ I’ Wonderful Walker’ time,” said
he, “Seeathut parson gat varra lile money, an’ hed to mak
oot’ wi’ a lock o’ odds an’ ends, sek as he could get hod on.
Amang udder things, t’ farmers all gev him a cleease 0’ woo,
an’ a sheet o’ hay a piece yance a year. ‘T’ hay were to be
as mich as he could carry fra t’ field in a blanket. An’
aa’ve heeard t’ aad standards o’ Seeathut say,” continued
he, ‘‘ that sometimes he packed t’ blanket seea full that he
couldn’t trail it neea way ; an’ he hed to tak a lock on it oot
afore he could manish to gan. . . . Bud what, he was
a vatra good giver, an’ a varra good man, poor as he was.”
By this time, we were low down in the vale, near Duddon
side again, at a place which he called ‘“‘ Hall Bridge, 7
Pendle Holme,” about a mile from Seathwaite. Here he
advised us to leave the high road, and take a bye-path up
the left-hand side of the river, ‘‘ ower t’ Hippin Steans,” and
through the wood to Seathwaite Chapel. This route reveals,
especially at the Hipping Stones, a beautiful part of the
stream, and is very little farther than by the high road to
Seathwaite. Here we parted with our rustic friend, who
was “gannin’ on by Wallabarraw Crag, efter some sheep.”
The great beauty of the Duddon held us at the Hipping
Stones a few minutes. Wordsworth says of these Hipping
Stones, that they

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.
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 103

After this we made our way through the wood on the other
side, and over a broken wood bridge, to Seathwaite Chapel.
In the burial-ground, we sat down upon a large slab, sup-
ported by two upright stones, looking at the modest edifice,
and thinking of the primitive old pastor who laboured there
through most of last century ;
Whose good works formed an endless retinue;
Such priest as Chaucer sang in fervent lays ;

Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew;
And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise !

The slab we sat on was graven with these words :—

In memory of the Rev. Robert Walker, who died on the 25th of
June, 1802, in the 93d year of his age, and 67th year of his curacy at
Seathwaite. Also of Ann, his wife, who died the 28th of January,
1800, in the 93d year of her age. Also Elizabeth Rcbinson, their
eldest daughter, who died 3d of February, 1820, aged 81 years,
There was a world of eloquence inthis simple record. It
was full of scenes of quiet, unsophisticated life, and serene
decay. Peace be to the venerable sleepers. We seldom
find a father, mother, and daughter, lying in one grave,
- whose three ages amount to two hundred and sixty-seven
years. On another gravestone was this epitaph :—

Time was I stood where thou dost now,
And viewed the dead as thou dost me;
Ere long thou'lt lie as low as I,
And others stand to look at thee,
In Seathwaite Chapel-vard, where the Duddon runs close
by, murmuring its “one smooth story for all years,” a man
might feel that there are

Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
104 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

We are now about five miles from Cockley Beck, and, a
little beyond the chapel, Duddon comes over the rocks in a
succession of beautiful little falls. After this the road crosses
the stream from Seathwaite Tarn, at Nettleslack Bridge.
Near this bridge the two roads meet, and a guide post points
one way to Coniston, and the other to Langdale. The
Langdale road, on the left, is ours. This upper part of
the vale is wildly grand. The Langdale road goes up
through a narrow defile, between Harter Fell and Grey
Friars, where the stream is heard rushing deep below,
overfrowned by precipitous crags. Emerging from this pass,
it is worth while to linger a few minutes at Birk Brig.
There, the stream comes down in a narrow channel, where
the rocks are worn into quaint arches, and fantastic shapes,
that might be the ruins of some water-spirit’s palace. The
river settles here in pools of clear green-tinged water, beautiful
as liquid emeralds. Some ot these pools, or “pots,” are ten
feet deep. Above the bridge the stream narrows rapidly,
and the valley becomes a scene of almost unrelieved desola-
tion, with Grey Friars on the right, Harter Fell and Hard-
knot on the left, and rocky Wrynose shutting in the scene
ahead. Here, ‘‘cloud-born” Duddon steals down the wild
vale as if afraid to disturb its loneness. Wordsworth says
of the young stream, that the whistling blast chants its birth,
and desolation is its patron saint. We began to think that
Cockley Beck ought to be near, and yet there was no
visible habitation in the silent glen. At last we spied a
shepherd stalking along the hill with a lame sheep on his
shoulders; and a clump cf stunted trees come in sight, by
the streamlet side. Our path leads up to the trees, and we
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS, 105

found a rude farmstead partly sheltered by them. It
certainly didn’t look promising at first. Could this be
Cockley Beck that we had heard of so oft? We knocked,
and inquired. The good wife came to the door, and said,
with a smile, “‘ This is t’ pleeace. There’s neea udder hoose
vt daal. Willye cumin?” We sat down in a low-roofed
room, at the front. ‘Thesmoky rafters were hung with hams,
and shrunken legs of cured mutton; and on a long shelf
near the ceiling there were little cheeses, dried herbs, staves,
jars, and a tattered book or two. By the ingle, a tall, grey-
haired man, in clogs, corduroy breeches, and a rough light
blue woollen jacket, of home-made cloth, was quietly
watching the wood fire, and;keeping it up by laying sticks on
from a pile before him. He was eighty-three years of age,
and very deaf, Stealing a look at us occasionally, he turned
away again, and went on feeding the fire with a countenance
as calm as if he was a statue of contented age. Evening
was drawing on, and they told us we could stay all night, so
we doffed our satchels, and began to be at home. The
good wife bustled about in her blue bedgown; and a low
babble of children came ,from,a room behind, which was
half-filled with eilding for the winter. Looking out at the
window, on the other side of the narrow vale, Hardknot rose
bleak and craggy to the skies. Between its summit and that
of Harter Fell, a lofty pass leads into Eskdale. About half-
way down the Eskdale side are the ruins of a Roman
camp, called Hardknot Castle, “ whose guardians bent the
knee to Jove and Mars.” In the opening between Hard-
knot and Wrynose, Scawfell was pointed out, “with a lile
mist a-top on it.”
106 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

There was about an hour and a half of daylight left; and,
as it was ‘‘nobbut a mile an’ a hauf, mebby,” to Hardknot
Castle, we agreed to go there whilst tea was preparing. It
was strange to see a little girl of thirteen put on her best
clothes to go with us as guide. The sun had set before we
had reached the head of the pass, and the wind blew keen
across. The ruins lie about half-way down the opposite
side,—a great square of fallen stones, on a commanding
platform, looking over Eskdale out to the sea,—a very
beautiful prospect. Around the ruins mighty mountains
frowned, Scawfell, Hardknot, and Harter Fell, all savage
desolation. . That wild scene must have changed very little
since Roman trumpets woke its echoes. Scawfell saw those
warriors come and go, like the mists on his summit; and he
still looks proudly upon their scattered camp, untamable
by aught but Him who reared his head so high. We had
only a few minutes to wander in this ruined eyrie of the
Roman eagle. The shades of evening were making green
Eskdale dim, and we hastened up the pass again.

By the time we reached John Tyson’s house, candles were
burning inside ; clouds were gathering gloomily, and it began
to rain. A white cloth was on the table, and a bright wood
fire filled the room with ruddy light. The good wife spread
our board with ham and eggs, white bread, and spice cakes ;
cheese, preserves, strong tea, and cream,—such as cities
seldom get to see. John Tyson had come in from the fells,
and he sat on a long wood bench under the window, very
quiet. A great sheep-dog lay asleep on the hearth. It had
a stony look about the eyes, and I thought it old, and
perhaps blind. Cockley Beck was rushing by the front of
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. TO7

the house, and the wind and rain filled the lone glen with a
wild roaring. Sitting comfortably by the solitary farmer’s
fire, there was a strange charm in listening to the elementary
war that raged in darkness around us. By way of getting
into talk, I asked Tyson how old the dog was. He said it
was only three years old. Dogs didn’t last so long among
those fells. ‘They had a hard life of it. We noticed the
wood fire; and he told us that brush-wood and turf was all
they had to burn. Coals were too far off, and would cost too
much; for carriage. “What,” said he, “we're verra nee
oot o’ t’ warld, ye see; for Cocklo’ Beck’s seb’m mile fra a
mill, five mile fra a shop, an’ aboon fower mile fra a church,—
an’ hard roads tull it, as ye’ll hev sin.” He said they made
their own candles of the pith of rushes dipped in mutton fat.
They made as many in two days as lasted the whole year.
These rush dips are not much thicker than a strong knitting-
needle, and give but a dreary light to people accustomed
to gas. But they seemed to think the light very good;
beside, they went to bed soon o’ nights. An iron clip, some-
thing like a pair of curling tongs, hung from the ceiling
by a string; and in this clip the rushlight was stuck aslant,
and shifted as it burnt away. Leather for the family’s shoes
was bought whilst at market, in Broughton or Whitehaven ;
and the shoes were made in their own house, by a wandering
son of Crispin, who went from farm to farm among the fells,
getting his meat and lodging, and, as I understood, about
two shillings a pair, for his work. It was the same thing
with clothing. A tailor came up the glen at certain times,
and folding his legs upon the long table under the window
for a few days, he ate and drank with the rest, and chatted
108 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

and stitched away, till they were clothed forthe year. Being
among such a way of life as this felt like living three hundred
years ago; and, somehow, the place reminded me of the
highland bothy at Aberfoyle, where Bailie Nicol Jarvie
singed the chieftain’s tartan with a red hot poker. Tyson’s
wife told us that tourists rarely went by the house without
calling. ‘An’ sometimes,” she said, “thooar tramps ca’s, 7’
threes an’ fowers; an’ sometimes mair nor that. Here was
yan cam reight in bi hissel’ yaa day, an’ steead upo’ t’ harstan,
an’ aa gev him tuppence; an’ then he wad hev some bread
an’ cheese. Seea, aa teil’t him he mud gang to t’ dear.
An’ seea, when he gat ootside, aa whipt dear tull, an’ barred
it. Bud, my word, hoo he dud cample. Aa rayley thought
fora, while) he was like to brak in agean! 2.8 Well
anudder time, here was six cam tegidder, when oor men
was away amang t’ fells, efter sheep. Aa gat a wap on ’em
cummin’ doon t’ beckside: seea aa fasten’t t’ hoose up, an’
crape oot o’ seet wi’ t? childer. Bud, my word, didn’t aa
tremmle sair i’ t’ neuk; for they was a gay lang time afear
they wad gang away; an’ they tried to get in everywheers,
but they couldn’t manish. Aa was terrible fain when oor
men gat heam that day. TT’ heal o’ that lot was tean up
efter, at Ammleside, for summat or anudder.” It was clear
that these mendicant robbers did not always beg there
because they were hungry, for she said that “‘ Girt dozzlles o’
bread an’ cheese at hed bin gan tull ’em was fand sometimes
hudden amang t’ steans bi t’ road side.” When tea was over
we drew round the fire, and I pulled out an old Axamzner
and Times to light a pipe with. ‘‘Neah, neah,” said Tyson,
“whativver are ye baan to du, bairn? Dinnet rive that,
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 10g

hooivver! What, aa’ll find ye a leet. What is’t? A news-
papper, belike! We mud gang a lang ways to get yan o’
thame at Cocklo’ Beck. What, here’s plenty o’ leets
widdout brunnin’ i’ news, sart’ny. Ye’ll mebby read us a lile
bit.” I read part of the news from Italy. “Aye, aye,”
said he; “What, here’s gay rough deed amang ’em, then!
Well, well. Disto hear, lass! What, they’re baggin’ kings
and girt folk, an’ kiliin’ yan anudder leeak mad i’,—wheer
ist, dud ye say?” “Italy.” “‘Italy! ‘That’s ower t’ water
somewheers. Well, well. It’s terrible wark, bairn ; terrible
wark! An’ what is’t all aboot?” I read on a little, and
explained the thing as well as I could ; after which he folded
the paper up, and put it carefully out of harm’s way. We
talked on a little while, but he couldn’t understand this
“terrible wark.” Everybody seemed tired, and we crept to
bed early. At the foot of the stairs there was a rude gate,
“to kep’ t’ dogs fra gannin up.” Our little bedroom looked
against the steep of “Grey Friars ;” but all was wild and
dark outside, and we fell asleep hearkening the stormy wind.
Next morning the weather was fine. We crossed Wrynose
Pass into Little Langdale; thence, over by Yewdale, to
Coniston, and so home by rail.

 
IIo RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

CHAPTER IV,

Here storm, and solitude, and silence dwel
And stern sublimity has set his throne.
C. PRINCE.

NE bright morning, early in October, I fettled
myse.f or a tripto Ennerdale Lake, which is one
of the loneliest of all Cumberland’s waters.

 

Autumn is aprime season for sucha journey. There
is a pensive beauty about the declining year, which touches
the gladdest spirit sometimes, with a tone of melancholy more
profoundly pleasing than aught that jocund summer can
inspire. My friend had proposed that we should go by rail
as far as the old town of St. Bees, then walk on about nine
miles to the lake. The route filled me with novel expecta-
tion. Our train didn’t leave Ulverstone till half-past twelve,
so I spent the forenoon in wandering among little shops
in the market-place, and in gossiping with a certain
eccentric chin-polisher, who once, at least, mischievously
slipped the lather between my lips when I was going to talk.
I lounged awhile, too, about the Advertiser office, to the
annoyance of the editor, Mr. John Stanyan Bigg, author of
that fine poem, “ Night and the Soul.” No doubt he heartily
wished me at the other end of my journey; for the weekly
publication fever was rising to a crisis; inky printers’ devils
were fluttering about, and the editorial air was getting thick
with little anxieties, But it is half-past twelve. The train
starts.
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS, Ill

We move in th’ elephantine row ;
The faces of our friends retire;

The roof withdraws; and quaintly flow
The curtsying lines of magic wire.

° ° ° . . é

By flower-knots, shrubs, and slopes of grass,
Cut walls of rock and ivy-stains,
Through winking arches now we pass,
And flying meet the flying train;
Whirr—gone !
We hurry on,

Trim corn-fields; kine in pleasant leas;
A hamlet, lane, a tower, a pond ;
Long hedge rows; counter-changing trees,
The blue and steady hills beyond.
House, platform, post,
Flash,—and are lost.

About half an hour brings us to the Duddon once more,
where the scene is always changing. It was high water,
and those bleak tracts of scant herbage on which I had seen
cattle browsing, with more industry than profit, yesterday ;
those pools and channels where poultry dabbled; that
smooth embossed shore, where placid wavelets were lipping
so delicately to and fro upon the yellow sands, like a
mother caressing a sleeping child,—all was now a sea of
white-crested billows. The wind blows a gale from the
south-west ; and, far out yonder, the excited main lashes
the north-west point, then breaks into mighty showers of
spray, that leap high into the air, and make the sunlight
wink with wild pearls, The whole scene is alive with breezy
delight. The trees, the long osiers near the line, every bush
112 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY :

and shrub, and blade of grass, is stirring to the blithe
influence of the wind. Kine and lambs scamper as we
thunder by. Here and there, a horse, too, snorts and
gallops off, ignorantly-indignant, like a workman striking
at the wrong time, and little dreaming what service may be
rendered to his kind by the machine which has frightened
him so unreasonably. But in yonder field, there are four
of a wiser sort standing abreast behind a hedge, with a
cold-and-hungry look, like men out of work. They have
endured so much that they are not to be moved by any
small terror now,—the railway train may thunder on, and do
its worst. They stand with their backs to the cold wind,
and they are looking steadfastly at the ground, in one
direction, as if they had just given in four charity tickets,
and were confidently expecting a feed of corn and a horse-
cloth a-piece coming up at that spot in a few minutes.
There is something comically pathetic about the counte-
nances of these four,-—for though they are four horses, their
countenances are one; and if it were not that their manes and
tails toss so in the breeze, they are as motionless as so many
statues of patient distress. If there be any truth, now, in
the transmigration of souls, it is not impossible that their .
ancestors may have stood so by causeway sides in market
towns, holding down their heads, and demurely watching
the effect of a doleful sentence written with chalk upon a
spade. Or, perhaps, in early life, they have been trained to
stand that way in circuses, for acrobats to leap over them.
But there is no judging about such things; let the poor
brutes go; I wish them a good feed a-piece. Let us look
again. Here clouds of fieldfares are soaring and sinking in
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 1T3

the air; there crows and sea-gulls mingle noisily in social
crowds ; yonder, compact flocks of tern fly across the water
with twinkling wings. These little roamers of the wild sea-
shore make way with wonderful ease through the strong gale ;
and seem to quiver with delight to see Neptune’s white
horses leaping below. It was very exhilarating, that ride by
the sea, with the salt breeze sweeping freshly through the
carriage! A keen, quick-eyed Irish gentleman sat with us;
and, looking out at the window, with kindling glance, as if
he gloried in this beautiful stir of nature, he rubbed his
hands, and said, “I’m thinking the ‘Gondola’ will get a
cheap lesson in dancing on Coniston Lake this day.”
Leaving Duddon estuary, we also lose sight of the sea for
several miles; but there is only a narrow belt of undulant
land between, and though out of sight, I may venture to say
that we are hardly out of the sound of it. Near the quaint
fishing port of Ravenglass we are close to the sea again.
This little old marine nook is about a mile from the ancient
hall of Muncaster, and stands at the confluence of the rivers
Esk, Irt, and Mite, which form a sandy harbour there. The
first time I-saw the place at sunset it reminded me of
Kingsley’s beautiful lyric, ‘The Three Fishers.” It looks
as if it belonged quite as much to the sea as to the land;
and in high tides, with a strong south-west wind, the waves
wash up to its little streets, as if asserting that they have as
much right to be there as anybody else. Ravenglass is
nearly opposite the Isle of Man, and looks vastly like a
place that has seen smuggling in its day. A market was
granted to this ancient town in the reign of King John, “by
right of the haven there.” For some centuries after, on the
7—8
114 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

morning before St. James’s Day, the officer of the lords of
Egremont proclaimed the fair in Ravenglass, attended by
the sergeant of the bow of Egremont, with the insignia
belonging thereto; when all the tenants of the forest of
Copeland came, as a customary service, to attend him in the
proclamation of the fair, and to “ abide with him during the
continuance thereof.” About four miles beyond Ravenglass
the train stops at Seascale, a serene spot, with an inviting
beach for sea-bathing; as they seem to have found out at
the hotel close by, for there is a van upon the sands yonder.
Some quiet people, who creep down here out of the way of
fashionable perturbation, are so in Jove with the place, that
they are afraid of it being found out by the rest of the world.
From Seascale onward, for more than ten miles, we run so
near the sea that it looks as if we were sailing on one side
and going by rail on the other; and to me, this amphibious
part of the journey was very delightful.

Now we are at the town"of St. Bees, and ecclesiastical
students are fluttering about the platform, in their caps and
gowns. A little way off to the left, the ancient abbey
church nestles at the foot of a green hill, with the new
collegiate buildings close by, The same hill runs out west-
ward to where the great headland of St. Bees looks proudly
over the sea, St. Bees,is said to take its name from Sancta
Rega, or Beza, an Irish saint, who founded a nunnery on
the site of the present church about the year 650. In Mr.
John Linton’s admirable ‘‘ Handbook of the West Cumber-
land Railways,” I find an interesting legend of St. Bees”
foundation, ‘extracted from an old manuscript in the Dean
and Chapter Library, at Carlisle ;” beginning,
- “IGLOH HITVOSVaSs

 
116 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY.

There was a pious, religious lady abbess, and some of her sisters
with her, driven in by stormy weather at Whitehaven, and the ship
cast away i’ the harbour, and so destitute, and so she went to the
lady of Egremont Castle for relief. That lady, a godly woman,
pitied her distress, and desired her lord to give her some place
to dwell in; which he did, at the now St. Bees. And she and her
sisters sewed and spinned, and wrought carpets and other work, and
lived very godly lives, and gott them much love. She desired Lady
Egremont to desire her lord to build them a house, and they would
lead a religious life together; and many wolde joine with them if
they had but a house and land to live upon. Wherewith the Lady
Egremont was very well pleased and spoke to her lord; he had land
enough, and sholde give them some to lye up treasure in heaven
And the lord laughed at the ladye and said he would give them as
much land as snow fell upon the next morning and mid-summer day.
And on the morrow looked out at the castle window, on the sea side,
two miles from Egremont, all was white with snow for three miles
together. And thereupon builded this St. Bees’ Abbie, and gave all
those lands was snowen unto it, and the Town and Haven of White-
haven; and sometimes after, all the tithes thereabouts, and up the
mountains, and Inerdale Forest, eastward, was appropriated to this
abbey of St. Bees; which was got by one Mr. Dacres, of kindred to
the Lord Dacres; gott a long lease of it at Fall of Abbies, and married
one Mrs, Latos, of the Beck Hall, Millom, who afterwards married
Squire Wybridge of Clifton, in Westmorland, who purchased the
inheritance of this Abbie of the Crowne, and sold it to old Sir John
Lowther, who gave it to his younger son, Sir Christopher Lowther,
Knt., Bart., soon after,

So runs the legend. St. Bees had its share of trouble in the
old times. It was utterly destroyed by the Danes; and was
always in danger in that wild borderland. It was pillaged
by the Scots, under Robert Bruce, when, according to Sir
Walter Scott, the prior was “compelled to say mass with an
old hollow oak tree for his stall.” The following lines are
from Wordsworth’s poem on St. Bees :—
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS: TI7

When Beza sought of yore the Cumbrian coast,
Tempestuous winds her holy passage cross’d ;

She knelt in prayer,—the waves their wrath appease ;

And from her vow, well weigh’d in Heaven’s decrees,

Rose where she touch’d the strand, the chantry of St. Bees.

When her sweet voice, that instrument of love,

Was glorified, and took its place, above

The silent stars, among the angelic quire,

Her chantry blazed with sacrilegious fire,

And perished utterly; but her good deeds

Had sown the spot that witnessed them with seeds,
Which lay in earth expectant, till a breeze,

With quickening impulse, answer’d their mute pleas,
And lo! a statelier pile, the Abbey of St. Bees.

This ancient priory church,—

On whose symbolic beauty gazed
Peasant and mail-clad chief with pious awe,

is a very interesting building, of red sandstone. The oldest
part of the walls is thickly mantled with ivy. Nothing now
remains of the once extensive conventual buildings, except
faint traces west of the church. The western entrance is
by a fine deep-moulded Norman doorway; and in the
interior are preserved many fine fragments of ancient
sculpture originally belonging to the abbey. There is a
large hotel near the station ; but, desiring to see something of
the little town, we went up its one long street, and dined at
a comfortable hostel, called the ‘ Queen’s Arms.” Enner-
dale Lake is more than a mile nearer from Whitehaven than
from St. Bees; and there is a branch line from Whitehaven
‘to Frizzington, within two miles and a half of the lake.
From St. Bees it is more than nine miles. The day was
*“LNOWYaNOad

 
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 119

short ; so we didn’t linger, but took out at the north side of
the town about four in the afternoon. For about a mile
the road wound slantingly up the hill, and we had a fine
view of the fertile valley of St. Bees, the church, part of the
town, the sea, and the tall headland. About three miles off,
north-west, the smoke of Whitehaven made a still gray cloud
in the air. When we had got well over the hill-top, the
outskirts of Egremont town were just visible, about a mile
east of the road. Egremont, or the Mount of Sorrow, is an
ancient town, on the west bank of the river Ehen. The
ruins of its once famous castle stand upon a mound a little
south-east of the town. This castle was built by William de
Meschines, in the reign of William the Conqueror, who
granted to him the great barony of Copeland, ‘extending
between the rivers Duddon and Derwent from north to
south, and from east to west, between the mountains and
the sea.” To Ranulph, brother of this baron, the Conqueror
granted all Cumberland. The ancient tradition of “The
Horn of Egremont” is connected with the Lucys, lords of
the barony in the time of the crusades. Our way led through
a fertile country of gentle hills and dales. It is, also, the
richest part of the iron ore district, and those red hues which
are so familiar to the eye in Furness, are visible here. Roads,
houses, carts, horses; and men,—‘‘subdued to what they
work in, like the dyer’s hand.” There are signs of industry
and wealth all round. Mines, ironworks, flax mills, and well-
cultivated lands. As we passed through the village of ~
Cleator a heavy shower fell, and we took shelter in an old
Irishwoman’s cottage. At the hamlet of Wath we lose
sight of the open country, and descend a shady steep which
I20 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

brings us to a sheltered nook by the river Ehen, where there
is a large old farm-house, which nature has taken a fancy to
adorn. Here the vale of Kinniside opens. Daylight was
just beginning to think of its decline when we came into
this scene. Low down by the Ehen side, our road twines on
between hedges crowned with hazel; and now and then the
beautiful little river glints through a gap, as we pass by.
The stream runs close to the left hand, with just a hedge
between it and the road; and its melody rises so sweetly in
the air, that the wind seems to stand with its finger on its
lip, saying to all the landscape, ‘‘ Hush ; that I may hear it
sing!” I ran up the hedge now and then, to take another
look at the water. This little vale of Kinniside is rich, and
soft, and still. Wood and water, hill and dale, are scattered
here in exquisite relationship, and there is a retiredness and
repose about it, which gives the scene a finishing charm.
No doubt I saw it favourably by that October twilight ; and
I should not like to forget how beautiful it looked. The
little river itself plays lingeringly about its channels there, in
pretty childlike ecstasies, as if it thought that valley an
uncommonly pleasant spot, and didn’t care to run away from
itso soon, ‘The stones in its bed, too, are loth to part with
the water; they stop it a little wherever they can, holding
it in twinkling chat, persuading it to dance, and making
it look as lovely as they can before it goes away. We came
out upon higher grounds, just as the sun began to dip
behind the hill, The landscape was ‘calm as a resting
wheel ;” the air was strangely clear ; and a kind of expectant
silence dwelt upon all things. The valley lay partly in twi-
light shade; but upon the hill side, upon the sloping roid
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 121

before us, and upon the hedge-rows, and bemossed walls
thereby, the setting sun’s last radiance lay melting away in
almost unearthly splendour. When the sun had gone down,
clouds,—which seemed to have awaited his departure,—
came trooping out of the west; the wind rose wild and
strong, and fitful showers came down. By the time we
reached the hamlet of Ennerdale Bridge, a dark stormy
night was around us. We were yet two miles from the lake.
I should like to have seen this mountain hamlet by day
light; but it was not so. Its churchyard is the scene of
Wordsworth’s poem, “ The Brothers.” The place may have
changed a little since “the homely priests of Ennerdale”
said :
In our churchyard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone nor name,—only the turf we tread
And a few natural graves.
The dead man’s Rome
Is “bat a fellow to that Ze field,

We kage no nee of names a oceene
Wetalk about the dead at our fire-sides,

On a winter evening,
If you were seated at my chimney’s nook,
By turning o’er these hillocks one by one,
We two could travel, sir, through a strange round
Yet all in the broad highway of the world.
Now there’s a grave,—your foot is half upon it,—
It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man
Died broken-hearted.

The new chapel stands on the site of a very old and simple
structure. There are two bells in the present turret ; one of
these is the ancient bell of Ennerdale Chapel, and bears

RSTn Heep See cee EES
122 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

upon its rim this inscription: “‘Sancta Bega, ora pro nobis.”
This chapel has always belonged to St. Bees; in fact, all
Ennerdale Forest was part of the ancient endowment of that
abbey. As we stood in the middle of the village that night,
there was not a light to be seen anywhere. All was gloomy ;
and between the howlings of the wind the swollen river’s
roar arose. By groping as much as by sight, we found our
way to the kitchen of a little public-house, where we
warmed and refreshed ourselves a few minutes, then set out
again to finish the last two miles that lay between us and
the Boathouse Inn, at Ennerdale Lake. But, before we go
on, I will give from Wordsworth’s poem, ‘‘ The Brothers,” a
descriptive passage relating to Ennerdale, and life there.
The old priest of Ennerdale has been telling how a certain
huge crag, overlooking the vale, was once rent with light-
ning ; and he goes on, saying,—

For accidents and changes such as these

We want not store of them; a water-spout
Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast
For folks that wander up and down like you,
To see an acre’s breadth of that wide cliff

One roaring cataract! A sharp May-storm
Will come with loads of January snow,

And in one night send twenty score of sheep
To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies

By some untoward death among the rocks;
The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge;
A wood is felled :—and then for our own homes!
A child is born or christened, a field ploughed,
A daughter sent to service, a web spun,

The old house-clock is decked with a new face;
And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates
To chronicle the time, we all have here
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 123

A pair of diaries,—one serving, sir,

For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side,—
Yours was a stranger’s judgment: for historians
Commend me to these valleys!

It was a wild, dark walk, though we caught a wink of blue
between the flying clouds sometimes. At length we came
to a tract of level moorland, where the storm had room to
rage in. Before we were over this, the path came to where
four roads met, and we wandered from one to the other,
‘doubtful which to take. We climbed up to look at the
broken guide-post, but that battered old friend of the
stranger was dumb, and his trembling limbs pointed to
nowhere. At last we chose the road that seemed most
travelled, and it turned out right. The rising moon sent a
tinge of wild light through the clouds, and we could dimly
see the steeps of half-concealed mountains. In the black
profound between, we heard the lake lashing its rocky shore ;
but nothing of it was visible. The scene was gloomily grand.
I would not exchange the robe of stormy darkness which
Ennerdale wore that night for all that sunlight can do to
make it gay. The wild changes of weird light which stole
from the moon through those flying clouds made the view
more savage still. We laboured along the splashy road,
through everything that makes a man damp, but the wild
sublimity of the scene repaid for all. Our road led through
a miry farmyard, from which we emerged by great folding-
doors upon a slope, down which the path continues to the
water-side. The clouds broke a little again, and we
caught sight of the gables of the Boathouse Inn below. It
sounded strange, in such a scene, to hear the jolting of a
124 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

cart, and people singing as blithely as if they were taking
the last load home from a harvest field. They had
evidently been “calling” somewhere in the wilderness.
They passed us with a boisterous “Good night,” and went
singing into the gloom behind. A clatter of hoofs next
came up, and we had to stand aside, as a tall figure, on a
great horse, dashed through the mist, like a moss-trooper
riding home from a midnight foray. A few minutes more
found us inside the Boathouse; and the wind whistled
through the lock-hole after us, as if it wanted to come
in and dry the mist off its wings. The house was
cheerful as the scene was wild,—a comfortable kernel in a
stormy shell. The kitchen was a large clean room looking
into another, in which a matronly woman and her grown-up
daughter were busy among butter and milk-bowls. The
landlord and two young shepherds were basking by the fire,
with their dogs about them. Everything in the place
evinced plenty, and cleanly, homely care. We were at home
with these hearty mountaineers in a minute, and the women
began to prepare a kind of dinner with tea to it. In the
meantime we went outside to look at the lake. The clouds
are breaking into detached masses,—all flying wildly in
one direction,—like knots of Chartists hurrying to a great
meeting. Between these flying masses the calm blue sky
begins to show itself; and the moon is up. Now hidden
behind a dusky cloud, her brilliance overflows its border
with a silvery fringe ; now, as she sails into sight, the rocky
mountains soften in her smile; now, full and fair, upon the
open blue, she floods the landscape with queenly radiance,
and all the world grows tenderly beautiful beneath her
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 125

pensive spell. But look at the lonely lake ; it is alive with
enchantments! In this sheltered corner little eddies of
shimmering silver flit about,—the dainty Ariels of moonlit
water; there, is a burnished islet of stirless brilliance, in
which even the moon smiles to see herself look so passing
fair; and, out beyond, the wide waters are ina tremulous
fever of delight with her sweet influence. But now a great
fit of cloud comes on, and all is gloom again. If there be
magic in the world, it is this! When it cleared again, we
took a boat. The landlord cautioned us not to pull far out,
or we should find it difficult to get back again that night.
We pulled to and fro about the broadest end of the lake,
between the mountain called ‘“‘ Herdhouse,” on the north,
and the rock called “ Angling Crag,” which is overtopped
by Revelin on the south. Near Angling Crag a little islet
of stones rises from the lake. As oft as we approached these
stones, we found that the stormy wind had such a forcible
sweep the whole length of the narrow lake, that it was best
to return. It was a wild scene from the water that night,
One minute Crag Fell, Revelin, and Herdhouse were lit up
to their summits by the moon; the next they were all gloom,
and half-concealed by drifting mists. We pulled till we were
tired, then tethered the boat, and went to tea. It was a
spread that would have done credit to any inn in Christendie.
The window of the room where it was set out looked upon
the lake. After tea we went to roost with a will. Our bed-
room was scrupulously clean, and even more tastefully
furnished than is common at good inns in largetowns. But,
Good night! God bless the man that invented sleep !
126 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

CHAPTER V.
Scenes
Where savage grandeur wakes an awful thrill.
WORDSWORTH,

UR clothes had been dried and put into comfort-
able trim overnight ;-and when we rose from
sleep a crisp October morning was steeping the
mountain tops in splendour. The wind was still,

and Ennerdale Water lay in its craggy frame, like a looking-

glass under the sky. That sublime gloom which, last night,
by half concealing the features of the scene, had suggested
something grander than what it concealed,—was all gone;
and the mountains rose clear from the water up to where
their rolling summits made bold outlines against the sky.

It was a glorious morning ; but there was more of the lonely

‘and sterile about this lake than I have seen about any other.

Ennerdale Lake is about three miles long, and _ three-
quarters of a mile at its widest part. The only signs of

 

cultivation about it are on its western shore ; the rest of the
scene is all barren crags. About mid-way upon this western
shore, the Boathouse Inn stands, and commands a good
view of the broadest part of the water, and of the encircling
mountains. About a mile from the inn, the lake narrows,
and winds out of sight between Herdhouse and Revelin ;
and the water beyond this point lies in a scene of solitary
sublimity. At the head of the wild narrow vale beyond the
lake, Great Gakle rises, 2,925 feet, closing the landscape
ANVTI FZIVGYANNG

 
 

128 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY :

magnificently ; and on the south side the vale is bounded
by the mountain called Pillar, 2,893 feet high. Strangers
are strongly advised to climb to the summit of Red Pike, on
the north side of the lake, from whence there is a fine
prospect, commanding views of the five lakes, Ennerdale,
Buttermere, Crummock Water, Lowes Water, and Derwent
Water. Ennerdale Lake supplies the town of Whitehaven,
and its waters are said to be the purest in the north of
England. ‘The mountains seen from the Boathouse Inn are
Herdhouse and Bowness Knot, on the north side; and
Revelin and Iron Crag on the south. Steeple and Pillar
are in sight also east of these. Pillar takes its name from a
lofty, precipitous rock, ‘‘ rising like a column from the vale,”
at the head of the lake. This rock is a remarkable feature
of the grand mountain to which it givesa name. “It was
considered inaccessible until the year 1826, when an adven-
turous shepherd clambered to the summit. Since then it
has been several times ascended. The prospect from the
top of the mountain is extremely noble.” In Wordsworth’s
poem, ‘‘The Brothers,” the old priest of Ennerdaie tells of
a young dalesman who wandered one May morning up this
mountain with his companions. He had lingered behind
the rest, and was missed by them, until, returning, they
spied him stretched at ease upon the wild summit of this
fearful crag. Not thinking any ill they went home without
him ; but next morning the wanderer was still unheard of.
The neighbours were alarmed, and the missing youth was
sought for, high and low. Before noon,

They found him at the foot of that same rock—
Dead, and with mangled limbs,
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 129

It was supposed that,-in falling, he had grasped his shep-
herd’s staff,

For on that Pillar of rock
It had been caught mid-way ; and there for years
It hung ;—and mouldered there.

Pillar stands between Ennerdale Head and Wastdale
Head. I heard something more about the mountain when
we got to Wastdale, and more also about the disasters
peculiar to mountain life.

I was wandering about the house that morning, whilst
breakfast things were being laid out. The landlady was a
kind and cheerful old dame, with a spice of humour in her.
I wanted shaving badly,—or rather, I was very much in
need of shaving, so I asked her which was the way to the
nearest barber’s shop. ‘‘ Ye mun tak’ t? Whitehav’n road for
that,” said she, ‘an’ then your beard ull hev time to groo a
bit langer afore it gets cut. But ye needn’t be particklar
aboot yer chin. Ye’re fair mair likely to need a shoemakker,
or an aad wife to mend yer stockin’s, afore ye git to
Wastd’le Head,—that is, iv ye do get theer,—for aa’ve sin
folk start fra this house to gan t’ seam way that ye’re gannin’,
an’ when they’ve gitten ower top o’ Scarf Gap, they’ve tean
a wrang turn an’ fand thersens here agean at dark o’ t’ neet,
varra much to their surprise. So ye’d better mind. Aa’s
nobbut tellin’ ye, ye knaw. But iv ye do happen to come,
we’s be like to mak yo as comfortable as we can, aa reckon.”
And I have no doubt they would have made us comfortable ;
for they know how to do it.

About ten in the forenoon we set out for Buttermere.
Our way was a shepherd’s track, over the north-western

ae
130 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

mountain pass, by the edge of Floutern Tarn, and so down,
on the right hand, between Melbreak and Blea Crag, to
Buttermere, a walk of six miles. We had not gone half a
mile before we missed the way, and got to the little hamlet
of Bowness at the north-western corner of the lake. Here
we inquired again, at a shepherd’s cottage, where two dogs
rusbed out upon us. An old wife came forth, and, pointing
up in the same direction we had been shown before, she
said, “‘ Mak wv best gate ye can up by t’ lift hond side o’ this
beck, till ye cum tull a sheep-track ower between t’ fell-tops.
Then gang on by t’ track, an’ hug t’ beck till ye cum to
Floutern Tarn. When ye cum to that, lig weel tul it, or
yell git wrang. Then gang forret down by t’ seam track,
an’ clip t’reight hond mountain gaily, till ye cum to Scale
Force, an’ then ye'll see Buttermer reight afore ye.”
Thanking the old woman, we struck up the rocky moorland
steep. After a hard and slippery climb, we came upon the
track, but it was often so dim that we had some difficulty in
keeping it. This bleak pass was all trembling swamp,
soaked with the recent rains ; and though we kept the track
pretty well, such as it was, there was more wading than dry
walking in it. At last, after about three miles’ tramp,
Floutern Tarn came in sight, on our right hand, nestling in
the gloomy shade of Herdhouse. To any one going this way,
Floutern Tarn is one of the principal guiding-marks, and he
must take heed of it. There is nothing very remarkable
in this cheerless sheet of water, except its extreme loneli-
ness. This little hermit of the mountains looks up to heaven
from its rocky bed with ascetic eye, as if it would rather be
absorbed there than mingle with the vain pleasures of this
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 131

world’s busy waters. At Floutern Tarn we come to the
eastern edge of the pass; and down in the eastern vale,
three miles off, we get a glimpse of the green land which
divides Buttermere from Crummock Water. The mountains,
too, seen from this point, are very grand. We now began
to descend the steep, keeping as well as possible to the
track, which wanders bewilderingly along the base of the
right hand mountains, Herdhouse and Blea Crag. Our
descent was a mixture of sliding, jumping, wading, running,
and scratching,—with an enlivening tumble, dropt in now
and then, to give the whole a finishing flavour, and make it
- go down better. We lost the main path so oft, that, at
last, we gave it up altogether, and went ahead the best way
we could, taking advantage of any little sheep-walk that led
our way. It was a rough bit of travelling, but we got through
it merrily. About two miles down from Floutern Tarn, the
southern corner of Crummock Water becomes visible ; and
Scale Force is on the right hand, a long silver line, shining
. between the lofty crags, and partly shrouded by scanty
foliage. Not feeling inclined to go up to the fall, we went
forward along the foot of Red Pike, and so across to Butter-
mere. The little hamlet of Buttermere is scattered about a
gentle slope, at the base of Whiteside, and near the foot of
the lake. The road to Keswick leads up from it, over
Buttermere Haws, 800 feet high, and then through the vale
of Newlands. ‘The hamlet stands on the east side of a
stripe of cultivated land, which divides the twin lakes of
Buttermere and Crummock, and on which three or four
farmhouses are straggled about the fields. This little
isthmus of green land, with its tufts of trees, and the hamlet
132 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

at its side, contrasts pleasantly with the steep and lofty
mountains which gather around these waters. The moun-
tains here are amongst the highest and wildest in Cumber-
land ; Mellbreak, Whiteside, Grassmoor, Ladhouse, Whiteless
Pike, Robinson, Yew Crag, Honister, the Hay Stacks, High
Crag, High Stile, and Red Pike,—these are the guardians
of the vale in which Buttermere and Crummock Water lie.
Crummock Water is three miles long by three quarters of a
mile broad; and Buttermere is one mile and a quarter long
by half a mile broad. ‘There is a splendid view of these two
lakes, and of the encircling mountains from a place called
“The Knots,” about three hundred yards from the Victoria .
-Inn, in Buttermere. The mountains, however, cannot be so
well seen anywhere as from the bosom of Crummock Water.
Seen from that lake, Mellbreak is remarkably fine, and
“Whiteside and Grassmoor are majestic in the highest
degree 4

There are two inns now at Buttermere,—the Victoria
and the Fish. The last was the house kept by the famous.
‘“‘ Beauty of Buttermere,” whose unhappy story has been so
often told in guide-books, and elsewhere. There was no
bustle about the hamlet when we were there,—nobody
wandering about,—not a wheel to be seen in the space at
the front of the Fish. The fever of the tourist season had
* cooled down; the place was taking rest; and we seemed to
have it to ourselves. We went into the Fish, because it has
a quaint look and a story connected with it ; and there we
dined on “char,” that dainty fish which is said to have
been first brought to these lakes by the old Romans.
About three we set out for Gatesgarth, at the head of Butter-
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 133

mere, about two miles off. The road goes along high ground,
on the eastern bank of the Jake, and the water shows itself
through the trees most of the way. On the left, the lower
slopes of the mountain called Robinson are cultivated, and,
in some places, clothed with fir woods. In the length of
this walk there are two fine mansions, occupying choice
positions, on the slope between the road and the lake, and
each in a paradise of groves and gardens, fringing the
solemn little lake with a beauty that it would do a man’s
heart good to see. The day was cool, and calm, and bright,
and this walk was a delightful change.

Gatesgarth is a large farmstead, a little beyond the lake,
and at the foot of Honister Crag. Seen from this spot,
that mighty amphitheatre of precipitous rock is a grand
sight. At Gatesgarth guides may be had. ‘The day was
getting far spent, and I had the old Ennerdale landlady’s
advice in my mind about losing our way. But there was
not a guide at home. ‘The last had gone with a man to
Wastdale some time before; and the girl said we should
very likely meet him returning. The toughest part of the
journey was still before us, and there was nothing for it but
to set to work. As we toiled up Scarf Gap, Honister Crag
grew ever more awfully impressive. Its frowning solitude
was more widely and distinctly under the eye, marked with
wandering streaks of white, where the waters came down
from wildernesses too savage for anything but storm and
cloud to abide. We panted up. The last nook of Butter-
mere Lake glided out of sight, and the valley disappeared.
Higher yet, we climbed and twined among scattered rocks,
whilst on each hand steep crags glared sternly down through
134 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

the mist. On the crown of the pass, we came to a little
platform of swampy land, where the track grew faint, and
began to branch off this way and that, always ending in
impassable bog, or in some untrodden part of the solitude.
The wind blew wild and chill, and great clouds of thick
mist folded us so completely in their damp embrace, that
we were getting wet through, and sometimes could hardly .
see a yard before us. At last we caught sight of the path
disappearing upon the edge of the mountain ; and we rattled
down into the glen through which the river Liza runs from
Great Gable to Ennerdale Water. A tall young shepherd
was coming up the mountain, with a plaid on his shoulder
and a long staffin his hand. This was the guide of whom
they spake at Gatesgarth. J was inclined to take him to
Ennetdale with us, but my friend put a good face on the
matter, and thought we should manage very well. The
guide pointed to a solitary little tree up the glen, and near
the foot of Black Sail, telling us’ that we should find the
path to Wastdale on this side of it. It seemed easy enough
to get there, so we set off again with a will, not thinking of
the mosses, waters, slaps, and boggy bewilderments that lay
between us and our mark. Down we went, over rocks,
shingles, and “‘slape places ;” and through spongy, deceitful
spots, where lurking waters made the mountain green with
swamp verdure. In the hollow our path was dim, splashy,
and erratic. Atlast we came to a ruined cottage, nearly
opposite the tree before mentioned. Here we lost the path
again, and found also that the river Liza was between us
and Black Sail. Whichever way we turned the swamp
began to swallow us as if it was hungry. Night was coming
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 135

on; fits of heavy rain began to fall; and mist-laden winds
raged savagely around as if they were glad to catch us in
such a place at such a time. We found that we must
move on at once or be benighted there, which would have
put an unpleasant finish to that day's journey. Dashing
recklessly through the swamp, we waded the stream, and
clambered over the rocks, as straight as possible towards
the tree. We drew near it, and looked about; but the dark
steep seemed pathless. We went nearer, and, to our delight
perceived a narrow path, about a hundred yards to the right
of the tree. Wet, and hot with exertion, we paused to take
breath. If we could keep this track, there would be just
about daylight enough to see us over the mountain. We
found this pass wilder than Scarf Gap, but we worked in that
howling storm, up to the top, when the rain ceased, and we
felt comparatively comfortable. After our difficulties that
wild October nightfall, I was not much surprised to find
that “ Black’s Guide” calls this route to Wastdale “so per-
plexing, that although the hardy pedestrian, with very minute
directions, might succeed in finding his way over the
mountains, yet every one who has crossed them will be
aware of the danger of the attempt, and of the fatal conse-
quences attending a diversion from the right path.”

After this, the following passage from a letter to the editor,
appears in the same volume :—

The passes at Scarf Gap and Black Sail should not be attempted
late in the season without a guide, for the following reasons: A friend
and myself left the inn at Buttermere this morning, on oir way to
Wastdale, in a heavy rain, being pressed for:time. We reached the
summit of Scarf Gap, and descended into the Ennerdale valley with
136 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

tolerable success, in spite of a cold north-east wind and driving rain,
we also ascended Black Sail about half way, when my friend’s pony,
a hardy and powertul animal, came to a standstill. I then pushed on
alone, on foot, to find a better track for the pony, and had attained
so close to the summit as to see the platform, as it were, within my
reach, when prolonged wet and cold produced such severe numbness
and faintness, that I had barely strength to return to my companion,
whom I found very little better off than myself. But for a flask of
brandy in his bag, I do not think we could ever have left the valley
alive; as it was, we had barely power to make our way through the
swamps, rocks, and swollen torrents of the Liza, Never but once
before did I feel so near the gates of death,

This looks like putting too dark a colour upon the matter ;
but even in fine weather, it is very desirable for a stranger to
have some spare daylight to work in when crossing these
passes. From the summit of Black Sail the road was more
distinct, and not so steep; and there was more of what
dalesmen call “ green travelling” about it. In some places,
however, the rain had made it as much a river as a road.
We descended rapidly, crossing from point to point of the
winding path ; and being already well wet and soiled,-a boot-
full of water, or a slip in the swamp, was no great matter.
A mountain torrent roared down this wild pass, between
Pillar on the right, and Kirkfell on the left. When we came
into that part of Wastdale Head called Mosedale, the
sublime appearance of Pillar was such as I cannot express.
The expiring light of day was struggling with the still
hovering storm ; and through the clouds a strange, unearthly
light settled upon the awful summit and steeps of that
mountain, which, somehow, called Horeb and Sinai to
mind. A mile’s walk from the foot of the pass brought us
to the Huntsman’s Inn, the house of William Ritson, the
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 137

well-known guide at Wastdale Head. Wet and weary we
walked in at the kitchen door, just as night was lapping the
wild mountans in its overpowering gloom. A servant girl
was placing candles on a long, heavy table under the window,
by which four men sat waiting for their supper. The storm
was rising again, and the wind roared in the wide chimney
as if it was challenging the fire to come and have a round
with it outside ; but the cheerful house-warmer went on with
its play, and looked round with a grateful smile, as if it
wished above all things that Mrs. Ritson would bring more
pans with meat in, that it might set to and cook something
for the good of the company. The fender was one half of a
heavy tram-wheel. In a corner, at the table-end, a thoughtful
looking man, in military undress, sat turning over some
papers. He belonged to the ordnance service. A very
tall, stark man, about sixty, sat on a low chair by the fire.
His wiry hair was sprinkled with grey, and his long,
weather-worn face beamed with manly benevolence. A
little, white-headed lad stood between his knees, playing
with a book. Muttering to himself, he climbed the old
man’s limbs, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and poked his fingers
into his ears, like a kitten teasing a Newfoundland dog.
‘‘Fadder, what’s this?” and “ Fadder, look here!” said he
with all the healthy restlessness of a child ‘that feels its
lite in every limb.” The old man was talking to some one
else, and he took little heed, till the lad pulled his hair,
the wrong way, which made him wince. He then sat him
down on the floor, and said, ‘‘ Lile lads should be varra still
when folk’s talking.” The lad was still for a minute or two,
and then he began again,—“ Fadder ;—fadder, see yo. Aa
138 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

can say that off by heart. adder, it isn’t bedtime yet, 1s
it?” ‘ Well,” said his father, ‘“‘that just depends whether
lile lads are quiet or not. Hesto hed thi poddish?” “Aye.”
‘Well, then, thoo must behave thisen, like a good boy, or
else thoo’ll hev to gan to bed at yance, now.” The little
fellow retreated, pouting, towards his mother, and muttered,

{2

“Ye du swagger becos yer mi fadder This hale old man
was William Ritson, the Wastdale guide. Opposite to him
sat Jackson, the Borrowdale guide, a square-built, strong
man, with a round face. He had brought a gentleman over
Sty Head pass, early in the evening. Behind Ritson, a
stout young fellow, with a flushed countenance, was smoking
and swinging back and forward upon the hind legs of his
chair. They called him “ Willie the Waller.” He was a
stone-mason ; ‘‘a girt awkertly fell-heed daal lad,” and, as I
learned afterwards, ‘“‘a gay good hand at levellin’ rough
lumps o’ cheese.” A fine young fox-hound, called
“‘Crowner,” was snuffing about the kitchen, and a staid-
looking sheep-dog, called ‘‘ Boy,” lay asleep before the fire.
The two guides were talking about food for dogs. ‘‘ Poddish
an’ milk,” said Ritson, ‘‘ poddish an’ milk for dogs! It keeps
’em reight. Now, a pound o’ meal a day would sarra thooar
lile dogs varra weel,—thou.” ‘Aye, varra weel,” said
Jackson. And thus the talk went on during the time we
stayed in the kitchen. The storm was raging again outside,
and every time the door opened the wet blast swept fiercely
in. We went to bed early, intending to go down Wast
Water in a boat next morning, and so forward to Drigg.
But we will say something more about Wastdale Head in
another chapter.
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 139

CHAPTER Vi.

By my halidome,
A scene so rude, so wild as this,
Yet so sublime in barrenness,
Ne’er did my wandering footsteps press,

Where’er I happed to roam,
SCOT

=| HEN morning came we found a great storm raging
‘through Wastdaie Head. All was wild uproar
outside. The heavy rain blinded our window
=1 with its fierce assault ; and the mist was so dense
that we could see no more of the landscape than a little nook
of garden below, in which a few currant bushes were struggling
frantically to keep hold of the ground they grew in. A
sound of rushing waters mingled with the elemental din,
rising wildly in the surrounding gloom whenever the hurri-
cane paused a minute to take breath. The swollen torrent
from Kirkfell went madly by the rear of the house, too big
for its bed ; and every channel that seamed the rocky steeps
around was full of wild water. When the misty curtains
parted an instant, we could see the white currents dashing
down the dark side of Yewbarrow, close by the house.
This storm continued through the whole day, and all who
had passed the night at the ‘“‘ Huntsman’s Inn” were weather-
bound. The Borrowdale guide was there; and the gentle-
man he had brought over Sty Head Pass was now waiting
impatiently alone in his little room for a favourable change
of the weather. In addition to these there was Ritson and

 
140 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

his grown-up son; the ordnance surveyor; “ Willie the
Waller ;” three farmers from Lower Wastdale ; and Ritson’s
father, a shrewd, grey-headed old dalesman, retired from
active life. These, with Ritson’s wife, his little lad, and two
servants, made up a curious storm-prisoned company.
Most of this number passed the greater part of the day
merrily, in a detached building close to the house ; but
Ritson and the Borrowdale guide, with one or two others,
kept steadily to the kitchen, and

Got planted unco right,
Fast by the ingle, bleezing finely.

To ourselves it was a disappointment to be pent up in the
heart of that sublime group of mountains, Yewbarrow,
Pillar, Great Gable, Kirkfell, Lingmell, and Scawfell,—and
yet unable to behold them. But it was something to feel
that, although unseen, they were standing awfully around us
in the tempestuous gloom. Our little parlour faced the
storm; and we had a bright fire in it. There was an
accordion and a few books in the window-sill; and we
got through the wild day very well. On the previous
night Ritson had spoken doubtfully of the weather, and he
had advised us not to attempt the ascent of Scawfell. All
chance of climbing that mountain during our visit was now
gone, and we made the best of the matter.

In the course of the day I went into the kitchen now and
then, to talk with the company there. . Ritson was full of
tales of the mountains. Speaking of the wild crag which
gives name to Pillar,—the great mountain between Wast-
dale Head and Ennerdale Head, he said there was a bottle
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. I4I

deposited upon it, containing some half dozen names of
people who had climbed to the top of it. The last man who
ascended was Baumgarten. ‘Before Baumgarten set oot,”
said Ritson, “he left his watch an’ his purse an’ a note, an’
he said if he never cam’ back, a’ would be mine. Aa went
alang way up with him,” continued he, “ but aa tell’t him
aa wadn’t gang tot’ top. Aa knew t’ way varra weel; but
aa didn’t like to engage it again. So he axed me what were
t’? reason, an aa tell’t him aa’d mair nor mysel’ to think on
now, an’ it was ower big arisk. Bud, nowt wad sarra, bud
he must gang ; so he shook hands wi me, an’ aa gev him t’
best instructions aa could, an’ he went forret, and he was
seen soon after sittin’ stride-legs upo’ t’ edge o’ t’ rock,
sheawtin’ an’ wavin’ his hat. He left his neam i’ t’ bottle at
top; an’ a gay time we hed when he cam’ down again
safe an’ sound.” JI asked whether travellers were not some-
times lost on the mountains, ‘* Aye, aye,” said the Borrow-
dale guide. ‘‘ Aye,” said Ritson ; ‘““ here was two gat lost
upo’ Scawfell yaa cold neet ? March, two year sin. They
were oot all neet upo’ t? mountain, an’ yan on ’em cam’ down
here about seven?’ t’ mornin’, sair deun up. He tell’t us as
weel as he could where we could find his friend. He’d bin
force’t to leave him upo’ t’ fell. Poor fellow, he was varra
ill, an’ he hung a terrible lang crag, for he was freeten’t that
his comrade wadn’t live till we gat tull him. Well, me an’
Daniel Braithut, t’ farmer, set oot wi’ a lile bitch called
‘ Crafty,’—an’ she was crafty an’ all. We hed hard wark to
keep up wi’ her. Bud she made straight ahead, an’ when we
gat tull him ¢’ lile thing was lickin’ the blood off his hand, an’
she look’t sorry, as if she ken’t that it was a hard case.
142 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

He’d hed two or three fits afore we gat up, an’ he was quite
wanderin’ in his mind, an’ imaginin’ ’at he was gannin’ to be
murdered. We tell’t him that his comrade hed sent us wi’
summat for him to eat an’ drink, but he kept sayin’, ‘No,
no; aa hev nae money!’ Ye see, he was terrible freeten’t
at we was efter his money. At last, we gat a sup o’ wine
int’ll him, an’ a bite o’ summat to eat. But, when we gat
him into t’ sun, t’ poor fellow was varra ill, sure-ly. His
e’en was white an’ wild, an’ he wander’t in his talk; an’ he
was as helpless as a teeam seck. We hed to dad him on
softly, little by little, for he was like a man wi’ two wood
legs. In a lile bit, he axt for mair wine, an’ aa knew by
that he was comin’ round, so aa began to give it to him 7’
less sups. We gat him safe down, an’ he was varra ill for
two or three days ; but he cam’ tull at last. His name was
P_——\., of Whitehaven; an’ aa believe he gat on varra
weel at efter.” ‘ Aa’ve sin war cases nor that,” said the
Borrowdale guide. ‘‘ Aye, aye,’ said Ritson ; “‘ they don’t
awlus get off sea weel as that.” |

The Borrowdale guide was a shoemaker, in addition to
his other occupations ; and, taking up a shoe from the floor,
he turned it over critically, like unto one having under-
standing in such things; and, holding it up, he said,
‘William, aa’ve made shoon, see ye, that aa could ha’ put
that i’t inside on. They was Big Lord’s; what, ye’ll ken
him weel enough?” “Ken him, aye,” said Ritson. ‘ An’
then, here’s John Fisher o’ Newlands. He taks a girt
shoe,” continued the Borrowdale guide. “Aye,” said
Ritson, ‘‘aa ken him, too, varra weel. He hes a most
serious foot, hes John. There’ll not be so mony mair nor
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 143

two in a yard ov his measurment, aa sud say.” ‘Two!
Will there be two, think ye?” ‘Well, varra nee.” ‘‘ Well,
then,” continued the Borrowdale guide, “there was New-
land Dwarf. He was anudder; a girt, strang, stark-like
fellow. He was sea tall, that he yance turned all t’ public-
hoose signs i’ Keswick t wrang way aboot 7’ t’ neet-time.
Dan, t’ policeman, was sent to tek him up; but he didn’t
like o’t job, for he knew t’ Dwarf was a dangerous chap to
mell on, and he mud happen get his licks, reight off-hand.
Sea Dan went cannily aboot it; an’ when he fand him
drinkin’ in a public-hoose, he whispered tull him, in a
friendly way like, what he was aboot. Well, v Dwarf
happened to be in a good temper; an’ he axt Dan if he
would hev a glass afore they started. Dan said he wad, an’
he was varra glad, too,—for Dan was awlus a good takker.
But, this time, he teuk an’ teuk, glass efter glass, till he was
clean dune up; an’ what does t’ Dwarf do, but whips ¢’
handcuffs upo’ poor Dan, an’ turns him oot a doors. . . .
Now, there was a trick for ye, William.” “Aye,” said
Ritson, “that caps Cut-Lugs. Bud it’s just like the man.
Aa’ve heeard Adam Tyson tell on him. Now Adam was
another queer-like chap. He was an aad guide, gentlemen,
that use’t to be here. Whenivver Parson Hodgkinson an’
his wife cam’ up to Wastdale Head in a boat, they wad hev
aad Adam with ’em, an naabody else. Ye see, he could
spin a lang yarn aboot a thing, an’ he was cant an’ comical,—
that’s how it was. Well, as ye come up Wast Water, here’s
places where there’s good echoes, an’ Adam hevin’ a strang
voice, t’ parson wad hev him to shout for t? echo,—so he
shouted, ‘A—dam !’ varra loud an’ slaw ; an’ t’ echo answer’t
144 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

‘A-dam!’ Then t’ parson tried, with his short thin voice,
an’ there was naa answer to his cry, for t’ echo had nowt to
work on, ye see. They axt Adam how it was, an’ he said
it was varra likely because t’ echo didn’t ken ’em. Well,
another day, when he was shoutin’ for t’ parson an’ his wife,
as usual,—‘ A-dam!’ aad Robert Briggs happened to be
pot, (crags, an she ‘called out; Here am 1! i parson
was quite surprised, till Adam tell’t him that it varra offens
did so when it was in a good humour.” ‘Thus the talk
wandered on, quaint and simple, from one thing to another,
on that stormy day. ‘The chapel at Wastdale Head is one
of the smallest in England. Ritson told us of an old parson
of Wastdale who kept a churn-full of sermons, which he used
to preach down to the bottom, then turn over and begin
again. “Yan Sunday,” said he, ‘‘ when t’ aad priest cam’ to
t’ forenoon sarvice, what should he see but Birkett, t’ clerk,
straddle’t upo’ t’ chapel riggin’ with a girt hammer in his
hand. ‘Why, Birkett,’ says he, ‘whatever are ye doing
there?’ ‘Well,’ says Birkett, ‘ye see, sic a yan hes borrowed
t’ bell-raap, to leaad hay wi’, sea aa’s cum up a-ringing t’
He said, also, that the
same parson was so puzzled with the writing in his sermon
one dark winter’s forenoon, that he stopped, and, handing
the manusczipt to the clerk, he said, ‘‘ Birkett, just go to the

Waa

sarvice in wl’ t’ coal-hammer.

window, and see what that word is.” This reminded me of
an anecdote concerning a little moorland church in Lanca-
shire, where the clerk having given out a psalm to be sung
to a ceftain tune, a round-faced rustic leaned over the front
of the organ-loft, and called out, “ Sammul, thae knows very
weel ’at we connot sing that tune to-day, becose Jack’s gwon
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 145,

to a weddin’ in Rossenda’, an’ he’s taen o’ th’ music wi’
him.” Ritson told of a parson in a little Cumberland village
who, finding one Sunday forenoon that his whole congrega-
tion consisted of three of his intimate neighbours, hesitated
before beginning the service, and said to them, ‘‘ What think
ye three men if we all go up to t’ ‘Mortal Man’ public-
house, an’ hev a pint of ale a-piece? ”

I was most interested in Ritson’s anecdotes of famous
men who had visited Wastdale. He had wandered many a
day with Professor Wilson, Wordsworth, Professor Sedgwick,
De Quincey, and others. He spoke of Wordsworth as “a
varra quiet-like aad man, who had nea pride aboot him, an’
varra lile to say.” But Professor Wilson “banged ’em all
for fun.” Ritson had been a famous wrestler in his youth,
and had won many a country belt in Cumberland. He
once wrestled with Wilson, and threw him twice out of three
falls. But he owned that the Professor was ‘‘a varra bad un
to lick.” Wilson beat him at jumping. He could jump
twelve yards in three jumps, with a great stone in each hand.
Ritson could only manage eleven and three-quarters. ‘T’
first time that Professor Wilson cam’ to Wastd’le Head,”
said Ritson, “he hed a tent set up in a field, an’ he gat it
weel stock’t wi’ bread, an’ beef, an’ cheese, an’ rum, an’ ale,
an’ sic like. Then he gidder’t up my granfadder, an’
Thomas Tyson, an’ Isaac Fletcher, an’ Joseph Stable, an’
aad Robert Grave, an’ some mair; an’ there was gay deed
amang ’em. ‘Then, nowt would sarra bud he would hev a
boat, and they must all hev a sail. Well, when they gat into
t’ boat, he tell’t ’em to be particklar careful, for he was liable
to git giddy’ t head ; an’ if yan ov his giddy fits sud chance

7—I10

RRaplerEESenS Ete ‘
— SSR er eR

ee
146 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

to cum on he mud happen tummle into t’ watter. Well,
that pleased ’em all gaily weel, an’ they said they’d tak varra
girt care on him. Then he leaned back an’ called oot that
they must pull quicker. So they did; and what does Wilson
do then but topples ower eb’m ov his back i’ t watter, with
asplash. Then there was a girt cry,—‘ Eh, Mr. Wilson’s
? t’ watter! Mr. Wilson’s 7’ t’ watter!’ an’ yan click’t, an’
annuder click’t; but nean o’ them could get hod on him,
and there was sek a scrowe as nivver. At last, yan o’
them gat him round t’ neck as he popped up at teal o’ v’
boat ; an’ Wilson taad him to kep a good hod, for he mud
happen slip him agean. But what, it was nowt but yan ov
his bits o’ pranks,—he was snurkin’ an’ laughin’ all t’ time.
Wilson was a fine, gay, girt-hearted fellow, as strang as a
lion, and as lish as a trout ; an’ he hed sek antics as nivver
man hed. Whativver ye sed tull him ye’d get your change
fon mit cally esoony yy) ta, femember (there wasea
‘ Murry Neet’ at Wastd’le Head that varra time; an’ Wilson
an’ t’ aad parson was there amang t’ rest. When they’d
gotten a bit on, Wilson med a sang aboot t’ parson. He
med it reight off o’ t’ stick end. He began wi’ t’ parson
hrst them he sateto Pope; and then) he tumed iti tont
divvul, an’ sic like, till he hed ’em fallin’ off their cheers wi’
fun. T’ parson was quite astonished, an’ rayder vext an’ all,
but at last he brust oot laughin’ wi’ t’ rest. He was like.
Naabody could stand it. . . . TT’ seam neet there was
yan o’ their wives cum to fetch her husban’ heam, an’ she
was rayder ower strang i’ t’ tung wi’ him afore t’ heal comp’ny.
Well, he took it all i’ good part, but, as he went away, he
shouted oot to t’ aad minister, ‘Od dang ye, parson, it wor
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS, 147

ye ’at teed us two tegidder!’ . . . It was a’ life an murth
amang us as lang as Professor Wilson was at Wastd’le
Head.”

When evening came, the three farmers and one or two
others who had been making merry in the little detached
building near the house, came into the kitchen. They had
spent the greatest part of the day in chaffering about the
last halfcrown that stood between their striking a bargain
for a certain heifer. This was still going on when they came
in, All quiet talk was at an end; and the mirth grew fast
and furious. They would dispute noisily, tossing a luck
penny to and fro, and clashing their hands, and twisting and
twining the terms of bargain, in the hope of gaining a shilling
or two of advantage on either side, and then, finding it a
matter of diamond cut diamond, they would turn away from
each other, vowing not to budge a penny nearer, and seeming
to give up the whole thing. Then there would arise a little
generous contention between them about who should pay
for the next glasses; and in this manner each man spent
three or four times the amount in dispute during the course
of the day. At nightfall they were getting ‘‘ glorious ;” and
the elder and more talkative of the two would suddenly
whisk away, as if he didn’t care a flirt for the heifer, and
begin to sing :—

If they ax whoar I cum fra, I say the Fell seyde,
Where fadder an’ mudder an’ honest fwok beyde;

An’ my sweetheart, God bliss her! she thowt nin leyke me,
For when we shuik hans, the tears gushed frev her e’e,

“ Well, cum, Willie Ritson; ‘here’s fra hurse heels, cart
wheels, bum-baillies, bad wedder, an’ the divvul, Lord
148 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

deliver us,—an’ incline us to keep a good law.’
Here’s a lock o’ ye hes a lile bit o’ religion; but ye hevn't
laid it oot yet. Mebby, ye’re fleyed o’t bein’ deun to soon.
Aa guess ye think it’ll come to chickens 7’t end, iv ye nobbut
keep sittin’ o’t, seam as they du wi’ hen-eggs. But, what;
they’re varra weel kept ’at God keeps, as t’ sayin’ is, Willie :
An’ I whussel’d, an’ wandered; my bundle I flung
Owre my shou’der, when Cwoley he after me sprung,

An’ howl’d, silly fellow! an’ fawn’d at my fit,
As if to say,—‘ Watty! we munnet part yet !’”

He seemed to have taken a dislike to a young man who sat
smoking dreamily in a corner, for every time he spoke the
old farmer began, “Hod thi tung, thoo fozzy fet). Aa’ll
ding tho ower 7’ now!” ‘What; aa’s like to speak amang
t’ rest, isn’t aa?” said the young fellow. ‘‘There’s nea call
for that,” replied the other. ‘‘Them as knaas nowt sud say
nowt. Hod thitung! Thoo sits glowran an stewan 7’t neuk
like a mazy hullert. It maks mo crop-sick. Hod thi tung,
thoo ill-mannert mule, or aa’ll g’ tho a clonk o’t heed!”
‘“‘ What aa said was varra innocent,” replied the young fellow.
“Nea, nea; there’s nowt innocent aboot tho, except aboon t’
e’en, an’ below t’ knee,—nea wheers else ; not an inch 0’

tho.” ‘Cum, Robert, ye’re rayder ower hard on him,—
divvent ye think sea?” ‘‘ Thoo’s as bad as him,” quoth the
farmer. ‘Ye two maks yaa divvul; yan carries t? hurns an’

tudder t’ teal.” The Borrowdale guide now turned the
conversation upon some person in a neighbouring dale, of
whom Ritson said: “All ’at he ails is ’at he connut bide
condition. It’s like yan o’ these young cowts’at gans aboot
i’ March, low ?’ flesh an’ hingin it heed, for ivver under yan’s.
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 149

feet, like an aad pet geuss. But wait a lile bit, tull ye’ve
gan it a lock o’ corn, an beans, an bran, an’ then see what
it’ll du for ye. . . . Whenivver aa see folk at connut
bide condition, aa think they’re raytherly wantin’ at top end
o’ their person. What should be their best room is varra
lile better nor a lumber-shop.” ‘Weel dune, Willie,” said
the garrulous old farmer. ‘“Ye’re talkin’ weel, aad lad!
Ye’re i’ girt cue this neet. Canny Cumberlan’ for ivver,
agean the world! Daal-head lads for ivver an’ a day !—
A-men !—an’ incline us to keep a good law!
Our Ellik likes fat bacon weel ;
An’ haver-bannocks pleases Dick,
A cowt-lword meks layle Wully fain,
An’ cabbish ne’er turns Philip sick.
Our deam’s for gurdle-keaks an’ tea;
An’ Betty’s aw for thick pez-keal ;

Let ilk yen fancy what they wull,
Still mey deleyte is gud strang yell.

Cum, aa’ll just hev anudder glass, an’ then. . . . Wheer’s
belles ye We whey nea bell it’ ‘kitchen,’ ‘said Ritson;
“‘knock o’ t’ teable.” ‘‘ Aa’ve a good mind to fling t’ tengs to
t? back o’ t’ door, t’ seam as they du i’ Trubbeck,” replied
the farmer. “But here shoo is! . . . Whisky,—an’
het watter! Cum, William, aad lad; ye’ll keep mo
company in anudder?” “Nea mair for me, te-neet,” said
Ritson. ‘Du! Just anudder! Cum?” “Neda, aa’s not so
Vantauwecl aes) cllumvemknaa ty best., | lhen) he sang

again, —
as Deuce tek the clock, click-cleckan sea,
Still in a body’s ear,
It tells an’ tells the time’s gean by
When Johnny sud bin here.
150 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

Deuce tek the wheel, ’twill nit rin roond,—
Nea maiz te neet aa’ll spin,

But count,each minute with a sigh,
Til—

Cum, now, what d’ye say aboot yon heifer? It’s gettin’
leate ; an’ aa’s off!” ‘‘Nay, aa tell’t ye, Robert, aa’ll nut
tak a skurrick less, —hev it or leave it. There isn’t a lishier
beast, nor yen fuller o’ promise ? a’ Wast’dle. Aa’s nut sea
varra keen o’ partin’ wi’t.” ‘“‘ What, aa knaa what it is varra
weel, an’ aa’ve bid weel tu. Ye’ve deun it nea good wi’
lettin’ it lig out thooar raggy neets. Bud, cum now, aa’ll
tell ye what aa’ll du. Aa’ll turn ye a shilling back, an’ stan’
glasses.” ‘“‘Nay, aa’ll not budge.” “Well, then, we'll
drop it.
Th’ hunt’s up through the wood,

Through the wood, through the wood ;
Th’ hunt’s up through the wood,

An’ aa’s gannin’ heam,—heifer or nea heifer.” And thus
we left them going on, long after Ritson’s little lad had
finished his poddish and gone to bed; and stormy night
had closed over Wastdale Head once more.

When morning came the rain had sunk to fitful showers,
with a steady drizzle between. The mist was getting lignter,
and though moaning winds came up the vale, the elements
seemed tired of contention, and the storm was evidently
abating. The little green level at Wastdale Head was
becoming more visible, but the mountains that shut it out
from the world were all still concealed, except the lower
part of Yewbarrow, close by the river. We agreed to wait
till noon. My friend sat down to read whilst I wandered
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. I5r

about the stables, shippons, and bracken-bedded yards,
tooting into the nooks of the outbuildings. | One corner
specially interested me; it was a dusty storehouse of
eloquent symbols,—a doorless shed, with a low wooden
floor above, up to which a short, rough ladder led. The
place was crammed with peat, firewood, bracken, cart gear,
staves, dairy utensils, old pieces of house furniture, sacks,
ropes, oars, fishing-nets, alpen-stocks, scythes, and tumbled
heaps of cobwebbed rustic lumber. Everything there was a
little volume written over with quaint records of lonely
mountain life, and the musty air inside seemed thick with
country story. I pored over this nook with pleasure, and
as there was not much of the landscape to be seen, I spent
most of the forenoon in roaming about that simple, but
roomy and comfortable old house. The shrubs and bushes
in the garden had got over their stormy troubles, and were
now swaying quietly in the quiet wind. About twelve,
the old gentleman from Borrowdale came forth, swathed in
warm wrappages, mounted his pony, and rode cannily
westward through the mist, with his stout guide striding
behind him. Others of the weather-bound company began
to ‘tak’ the gate.” . Among the general thaw, we, also,
bade adieu to brave old Ritson and the ‘‘ Huntsman’s Inn,”
and melted away into the west.

We had fifteen miles travel from Wastdale Head to the
station at Drigg. The first mile was a splashy walk, leading
to the lake ; after that the road was hard and good, winding
pleasantly along the open northern shore of Wast Water,
as if to afford every possible variety of view. This lake is
three miles and a half long, and half a mile broad. Its depth
152 RAMBLES IN THE LAKE COUNTRY:

is about forty-five fathoms. As we went on, the sky became
clearer, and the whole length of that solemn water lay still
before us. The entire opposite shore was over-frowned by
the dark precipitous ridge of rock called “The Screes,”
rising sheer from the lake, savage and sublime, till hovering
mists hid the summits, leaving imagination to build the
crags beyond, as lofty and as wild as it had power to soar
and shape them. But the shore along which we walked
was a different scene. On the left hand, the ripple of Wast
Water upon its pebbled shore attended us all the way.
On the right, picturesque moorlands sloped aloft irregularly
to where sterile crags were lapped in cloud. All over these
lower slopes, beds of moss, heather, and fern,—one glowing
vernal sunset,—interspersed with many-tinted rocks, covered
the mountain side with splendid hues. Now and then, a
little silver rill ran across the road, easily stridden over; and
in some places, a larger streamlet dashed beneath, in noisy
glee, bridged by the road. As we went on, some parts
of the shore were fringed with tall, thick bushes of gorse,
looking freshly green after the rain; and green mounds, of
all shapes, began to appear, with mossy rocks cropping out
beautifully upon them. The gloomy ‘‘Screes” still overawe
the opposite shore. We are drawing near the foot of Wast
Water. The wind has gone down, and murmurs of quiet
water are heard around. High up among the misty crags
we can hear the lonely bleating of wandering sheep, ‘the
plaintive spirits of the solitude.”

Much as I was pleased with this visit to Wast Water, in
spite of untoward weather, every time I turned round to
look back as we came away, I was more and moreconvinced
SEASIDE LAKES AND MOUNTAINS. 153

that the most impressive way of visiting Wastdale Head is
to approach it from the west. We lingered a few minutes
among the rich woods of Wastdale Hall, at the foot of the
lake. The whole route from this point down to the sea is
full of fertile picturesque beauty. After dining at the village
of Strands, which is a favourite halting-place for tourists
visiting Wast Water, we walked on in the evening to Drigg
Station, through a country of hill and dell, wood and water,
as rich and soft as the country we had left behind was
sterile and sublime. The village of Stainton Bridge, on this
route, is a very charming nook. We were in good time for
the train at Drigg; and rode home to Ulverstone by the
light of the moon.

 
 

“THE TIRED PILGRIM.”
MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES.
 
 

 

 

 

Hostherne Aleve.

(A CHESHIRE SKETCH.)

Though much the centuries take, and much bestow,
Most through them all immutable remains—
Beauty, whose world-wide empire never wanes,

Sole permanence ’mid being’s ceaseless flow.

These leafy heights their tiny temple owe

To some rude hero of the Saxon thanes,

Whom, slowly pricking from the neighbouring plains,
Rapt into votive mood the scene below.

Much, haply, he discerned, unseen by me—

Angels and demons hovering ever near;

But most he saw and felt, I feel and see—

Linking the “ then” and “there” with “now” and “ here,”
The grace serene that dwells on grove and lea,

The tranquil charm of little Rostherne Mere.
F, ESPINASSE.

OSTHERNE MERE was a pet theme with a young
friend of mine, and we started together towards
that place, at noon, one Sunday in June. Walk-
ing up to the Oxford Road Station, we paid our

sixpences, and got our tickets to Bowdon, which is the

nearest point to Rostherne Mere, by rail; being four miles.
from the latter place. The day was fine, and the sky clear,.

 
158 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

except where gauzy clouds floated across it with dreamy grace ;
as if they had come out fora holiday. Everything seemed
to feel that it was Sunday. The fields and groves were drest
in their best. It was the Sabbath of the year with them.
In a few minutes our fiery steed had whirled us to Bowdon ;
and we walked up the wooden steps that led from the
station. Turning to the left at the top, we struck into a
quiet road that leads in the direction of Rostherne.
Bowdon bells were ringing to church as we walked along,
surrounded by singing birds, and sunshine, and sweet odours
from cottage-gardens by the wayside. Now and then a
young sylph, of graceful face and timid mien, tripped past
us, in the garb of a lady,—on her way to church, with her
books before her; then a knot of pretty, brown-faced village
girls, with wild flowers in their hands, going the same way,
with all the innocent vivacity of childhood in their look and
gait; anon came slowly wending up the path an old couple,
bending with age,—the history of a simple life of honourable
toil written in their faces, and their attire wearing that
touching air which always marks the struggle which decent
poverty makes to put its best appearance on. The road,
which seemed to be little frequented, shortly brought us to
Ashley Hall, a picturesque woodland mansion. A fine
avenue of ancestral trees shade the walk to the porch of the
old hall, which nestles behind the present modern building.
‘The outbuildings are antiquated and extensive. The house
still wears the appearance of an abode of comfort and
elegance, blent with that quaint charm which hangs about all
fine, old-fashioned rural dwellings. | Nothing seemed to he
Stirring in or about the hall but the wind, the birds, and the
ROSTHERNE MERE. 159

trees; and the two large stone sphinxes in front of the
porch looked like petrified genii, so profound was the
repose of this green nook. Outside the house the grass was
growing over everything ; even over the road we walked on,
it was creeping. For some distance the road-side was
pleasantly soft to the foot with springy verdure, and thick-
leaved trees overhung the highway,—

That faire did spred
Their arms abroad, with gray mosse overcaste ;
And their green leaves, trembling with every blast,
Made a calm shadow far in compasse round,

until we began to descend into the green pastures of a little
vale, through which a clear river winds its murmuring way.
A widow lady stood in the middle of the path, waiting till
her little orphan lad and his sister drove a herd of cows
from the field by the water-side. There was the shade of
grief on her pale face, and she returned our salutation with
pensive courtesy. We loitered a few minutes by the gate
and helped the lad and his sister to gather the cattle, and
then went on, thinking of the affecting group we left behind
us. The wild flowers were plentiful and fine by the way,
especially that little blue-eyed beauty, the ‘ Forget-me-not,”
which grew in great profusion about the hedges. A drove
of hungry-looking Irish cattle came wearily up the road,
driven by a frieze-coated farmer, who rode upon a rough
pony, that never knew a groom; and behind him limped a
bare-footed drover, eagerly munching a lump of dry loaf, as
he urged forward a two-days-old calf by a twist in the tail,—
an old application of the screw-propelling principle, which
160 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

is very effectual with all kinds of dilatory animals, with tails
on. He was the very picture of poverty, and yet there was
a gay-hearted archness on his brown face; and he gave us
the “good day” merrily. The very flutter of his rags
seemed to have imbibed the care-defying gaiety of the
curious biped they hung upon,—with such tender attach-
ment. ‘The whole country was one tranquil scene of fertile
verdure, frequently flat for the length of a mile or two; but
gently-undulated in some places, and picturesquely wooded.
In a vista of nearly two miles, not a human foot was on the
road but ours, and every sight and sound that greeted the
senses aS we sauntered along the blossomy hedge-side, in
the hot sunshine, was serenely-sweet and rural. Skirting the
wall of Tatton Park, we came to a substantial farmhouse,
near the highway, and opening the gate, we walked up to it,
to get a few minutes’ rest, and a drink. At our request, a
girl at the door of the house brought us a large jugful of
churn-milk, which, when she had reached us a seat in the
garden, we drank as we sat in the sun. In the yard, a little
fat legged urchin had crept, with his “‘ porritch-pot,” under the
nose of a large chained dog, about twice the size of himself,
and sat there, holding his spoon to the dog’s mouth, childishly
beseeching him to ‘‘sup it.” The good-natured brute kept
a steady eye on us while we were in sight, postponing
any notice of his little playmate. By direction of the good-
wife, we took a by-path which led towards the village. The
country folk were returning from church, and among them a
number of little girls, wearing a head dress of pure white,
but of a very awkward shape. What was the meaning, or
what the use, of the badge they wore, I could not exactly tell.
ROSTHERNE MERE, 161

We found that, though the village had many pretty cottage
homes, dropped down irregularly among the surrounding
green, it consisted chiefly of one little street of rural houses,
of very pleasant appearance. Here and there, a latticed
window was open to the front, showing a small parlour,
scrupulously clean and orderly ; the furniture old fashioned,
substantial, and carefully polished ; and the Bible “‘ gleaming
through the lowmost window-pane,” under the shade of
myrtle-pots, and fuschsias in full flower. As we looked
about us for the church, a gentleman in the garb of a clergy-
man stepped out of one of the houses, which, though a
whitewashed dwelling, of simple construction, and of no
great size any way, still had something peculiarly attractive
in its retired position, and an air of superiority about the
taste and trimness of all its appurtenances. He had a book
in one hand, and leaned forward in his walk,—not from
infirmity, for he was hale and active,—but as if to give
impetus to his progress, which seemed to have an earnest
purpose somewhere. This gentleman was the Rev. Joseph
Hordern, the Vicar of Rostherne. We inquired of him the
way to the church. ‘Come up this way,” said he, in an
agreeable tone, but without stopping in his walk. “Have
you never seen it before?” “‘Never.” “Here it is, then,”
he replied, as we entered the church-field at the top of the
knoll. The sudden appearance of the venerable fane, and
its picturesque situation, called forth an involuntary expres-
sion of admiration from us. We walked on slowly, scanning
the features of the solemnly beautiful scene. The vicar then
inquired where we came from, and when we answered
“Manchester,” he went on, “Well, now, I don’t at all

7—I1
162 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

wonder, nor much object to you Manchester gentlemen,
pent up as you are the whole week, coming out on a Sunday
to breathe a little country air, and to look on the woods and
fields, but I should be better pleased to see you come in
time to attend divine worship, which would be a double
benefit to you. You might easily do it, and it would
enhance the pleasure of your ramble, for you would go
home again doubly satisfied with all that you had seen.
Don’t you think you would, now?” It needed no Socratic
effort on his part to obtain our assent to such a sentiment,
so kindly expressed. As we walked on, he brought us
dexterously to the north-west corner of the church, the best
point of view, looking down through the trees, from the
summit of the hill on which the church stands, upon
Rostherne Mere in all its beauty. There it lay, in the
bosom of the valley below, as smooth and bright as a plate
of burnished silver, except towards the middle, where the
wind embossed it with fantastic ripples, which shimmered in
the sunlight; and it was all fringed round with the rich
meadows, and plumy woods,—sloping down to the edge of
the water. From the farther side, a finely-wooded country
stretched away as far as we could see, till the scene ended
in a dim amphitheatre of moorland hills, rising up, from east
to west, on the horizon. In front of us, and about four
miles beyond the lake, the pretty village of Bowdon and its
ancient church were clearly in sight above the woods. It
was, altogether, a very beautiful English scene. And it is a
pity that this lovely little oasis is not better known to the
jaded hearts that fret themselves to death in Manchester,
and rush here and there, in crowds, to fill all the world’s
ROSTHERNE MERE. 163

telescopes ; the majority of them, perhaps, like me, little
dreaming of the existence of so sweet a spot so near them.
By the side of the mere, where the water was as placid as
glass, being sheltered from the wind by the woods on its
shelvy banks, we were delighted with a second edition of the
scenery on the margin, and of the skies above, clearly
reflected in the seemingly unfathomable deeps of the water.
The vicar had left us, and gone into the church, requesting
us, when we had feasted our fill on the outside, to follow
him, and look through the inside of the church. We lifted
the latch, but seeing him addressing a number of young
people, who sat round him in attentive attitude, we shut
the door quietly, and walking round to the porch on the
opposite side, went in, on tiptoe. Standing silent under the
organ-loft, we listened, while he impressed upon his young
flock the nature and intent of confirmation, and the necessity
for their understanding the solemn obligation implied
thereby, and devoutly wishing to undertake it, before they
could be admitted to partake of it. ‘‘And now,” said he,
‘if any of you don’t quite understand anything I am
saying to you, don’t be afraid to say so, I shall be glad to
know it, that I may make it clear to you. For you must
remember that it is not what I say to you that will be of
use to you, but what you understand of it.” He then con-
sulted them about the best times in the following week for
them to meet him, that he might assist such as were wishful
to prepare for the ceremony. He asked, “’Thomas,” and
“Mary,” and ‘‘ Martha,” how four o’clock would suit them
on certain days, and when they whispered that “ half-past
seven would suit them better,” he replied, ‘“‘ I dare say it will ;
164 ‘MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

and let it be so, then.” He then repeated the pleasure it
would give him to meet them at that or any other hour on
certain days next week, to help, and examine them. It
was only changing his dinner hour a little. We walked
quietly out as he began to catechise them, postponing our
examination of the interior till a fitter opportunity.

Rostherne churchyard is a singularly retired spot. A
solemn repose mingles with the natural charms of everything
about it, increased by the antiquity of its relics. Though
near the village, it is approached from it by a gentle ascent,
from the head of which it slopes away, clean out of the sight
of the village, and is bounded on the west side by a row of
sombre old trees, through which Rostherne Hall is seen, in
the midst of woods and gardens. No other building except
the church is in sight ; and a sweeter spot for the life-wearied
body to take its last rest in could hardly be imagined.
As I walked about this quiet graveyard, which is environed
by scenery of such a serene kind, that nature itself seems
afraid to disturb the repose of the sleepers, upon whose bed
the leaves tremble silently down; and where I could hear
no sounds but a drowsy rustle of the neighbouring trees, —I
thought of Gray’s inimitable “ Elegy written in a Country
Churchyard :”—

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from her straw-built shed
The cock’s sweet clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
ROSTHERNE MERE. 165

For then no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,

Oft did the harvest to the sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team a-field !

How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke !

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ;

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead—but to the grave.

Yet e’en these bones, from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter’d muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply ;

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

This poem,—the finest of the kind in the English
language,—might, with equal fitness, have been written of
this peaceful churchyard of Rostherne village. Man, whom
Quarles calls a “worm of five feet long,” is so liable to have
his thoughts absorbed by the art of keeping himself bodily
alive, that he is none the worse for a hint from the literature
_of the churchyard :—
166 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

We walked over the gravestones, reading the inscriptions,
some of which had a strain of simple pathos in them, such
as the following :—

Ye that are young, prepare to die,
For I was young, and here I lie.

Others there were in this, as in many other burial-places,
which were either unrmeaning, or altogether unsuitable to
the situation they were in. ‘There were several half-sunken
headstones in different parts of the yard, mostly bemossed
and dim with age. One or two were still upright ; the rest
leaned one way or other. These very mementoes, which
pious care had set up, to keep alive the memories of those
who lay mouldering in the earth below, were sinking into
the graves of those they commemorated.

At the outside of the north-east entrance of the church,
lies an ancient stone coffin, dug up a few years ago in the
graveyard. Upon the lid of the coffin was sculptured the
full length figure of a knight, in a complete suit of mail, with
sword and shield. No further clue has been obtained to
the history of this antique coffin and its effigy, than that it
belonged to one of the Cheshire family of Venables, whose
crest and motto (“Sic Donec”) it bears. The church
contains many interesting monuments, belonging to this
and other families of the old gentry of Cheshire. Several
of these are of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
But the finest and most interesting monuments in the
ROSTHERNE MERE. 167

church, as works of art, are those belonging to the Egerton
family, of Tatton Park. At a suitable time, the sexton
occasionally takes a visitor up to the gate which separates
the Egerton seat and monuments froin the rest of the church,
and, carefully unlocking it, ascends two steps with softened
footfall, and leads him into the storied sanctum of the Lords
of Tatton; where, among other costly monuments, he will be
struck by the chaste and expressive beauty of a fine modern
one, in memory of a young lady belonging to this family.
On a beautiful tomb, of the whitest marble, the figure of a
young lady reclines upon a mattress and pillow of the same,
in the serenest grace of feature and attitude: and “the
rapture of repose” which marks the expression of the
countenance, is a touching translation, in pure white statuary,
of those beautiful lines in which Byron describes the first
hours of death :—
Before decay’s effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.

At the back of the recumbent lady, an exquisite figure of an
angel kneels, and leans forward with delicate grace, watching
over the reposing form, with half-opened wings, and one
hand slightly extended over the dead. The effect of the
whole is exceedingly beautiful, chaste, and saddening. The
monument is kept carefully covered with clean white hand-
kerchiefs, except when the family is present, when it is
uncovered, until their departure. Before I was admitted to
view this beautiful memorial, I had heard something of the
story which it illustrates, and I inquired further of the sexton
respecting it. The old man said that the young lady had
been unwell only a few days previous to the evening of her
168 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

death, and on that evening the family physician thought her
so much better, and felt so certainly expectant of a further
improvement in her health, that he directed her attendants to
get her to repose, and then they might themselves safely
retire to rest for a little while. They did so; and returning
soon found her still lying precisely as they had laid her, and
looking so placid in feature, that they did not know she was
dead, until they came to find her quite cold. ‘The monument
represents her as she was thus found. As I stood looking
upon this group of statuary, the evening sun shone through
the southern windows of the old church, and the sexton,—
who evidently knew what the effect would be,—lowered the
crimson blind of the window nearest the monument. This
threw a soft rich crimson hue over the white marble tomb,
the figures, and the sculptured drapery, which gave it an
inexpressibly rich appearance. So white and clean was
the whole, that the white handkerchiefs which the sexton
had taken off the figures, and laid upon the white basement
of the tomb, looked like part of the sculpture.

The church is dedicated to St. Mary. It is proved to
have existed long prior to 1188, The present steeple was
erected in 1741. There is something venerable about the
appearance of an old ecclesiastical building, which con-
tinually and eloquently preaches, without offending. Apart
from all questions of doctrines, formulas, and governments,
I often feel a veneration for an old church, akin to that
expressed by him who said that he never passed one
without feeling disposed to take off his hat to it.

The sun was setting westward over the woods, and we
began to think of getting a quiet meal somewhere before we
ROSTHERNE MERE. 169

went back. There is generally an old inn not far from an
old church. “ How it comes, let doctors tell; ” but it is so;
and we began to speculate upon the chance of finding one
in this case. Going out of the churchyard at the lowest
corner, through the old lich-gate, a flight of steps led us
down into a green dingle, embosomed in tall trees, and
there, in front of us, stood a promising country “ hostelrie,”
under the screen of the woods. We looked an instant at its
bright window, and its homely and pleasant appurtenances,
and then, with assured minds, darted in, to make a lunge
at the larder. ‘A well-conducted inn is a thing not to be
recklessly sneered at in this world of ours, after all,” thought
I. We sat down in a shady little room in front, and desired
the landlord to get us some tea, with any substantial
stomach-gear that was handy and plentiful. In a few
minutes a snowy cloth was on the table, followed by “neat-
handed Phillis,” with the tea things. A profusion of strong
tea, and toast, and fine cream, came next, in beautiful china
and glass ware; the whole crowned with a huge dish of
ham and poached eggs, of such amplitude, that I began to
wonder who was to join us. Without waste of speech, we
fell to, with all the appetite and enjoyment of Sancho at
Camacho’s wedding. The landlord kept popping in, to see
that we wanted nothing, and to urge us to the attack;
which was really a most needless though a generous office.
After tea, we strolled another hour by the edge of the
water, then took the road home, just as the sun was setting.
The country was so pleasant, and we so refreshed, that we
resolved to walk to Manchester, and watch the sinking of
the summer twilight among the woods and fields by the
170 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

way. Our route led by the edge of Dunham Park, and
through Bowdon, where we took a peep at the church, and
the expansive view from the churchyard. ‘There is a fine
old yew tree in Bowdon churchyard, seated around. The
road from Bowdon to Manchester passes through a country
which may be truly characterised as the market-garden of
Manchester. We went on, through the villages of Altrinc-
ham, Sale Moor, and Stretford, thinking of his words who

said,— .
One impulse from a vernal wood
Will teach thee more of man,
Of moral evil, and of good,
Than all the sages can.

It was midnight when I got to bed, and sank into a
sound sleep, to wake in the morning among quite other
scenes. But while I live, I shall not easily forget “the
tranquil charm of little Rostherne Mere.”

 
 

it Old Hest (Beveriley.)

Chiari Rar

A pleasing land of drowsyhead it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,
And of gay castles in the cloud that pass,

For ever flushing round the summer sky ;
There eke the soft delights that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures ever hovered nigh ;
But whate’er smack’d of ’noyance or unrest,

Was far, far off from this delicious nest.
THOMSON.

=== S]UCH has been said about the beneficent influence
of change of scene upon the invalid,—especially
of such change as can woo the mind from over-
strained habits of thought to something new and
agreeable to the natural disposition of the patient. Its salu-
tary effect, then, is great indeed; and I experienced an in-
stance of this at the end of last April, during my first visit to
the old town of Beverley, at the foot of the Yorkshire wolds.
My little sojourn there was like a refreshing sleep, “full of
sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing ;” and I came
back from it, fresh and strong, and with a new relish to the
old life again.

 
172 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

It was seven o’clock on a lovely Sunday morning when I
left Manchester. The streets of the city were sleeping in
noiseless repose ; and a spell of quiet pleasure lay on all the
late excited scene, as we rode through East Lancashire and
across the West Riding of Yorkshire,—that picturesque land
of hill and dale,—so much changed since the days when
Robin Hood and his merry men roved its gay greenwoods
and forest glades. As the thick-chimneyed regions of
manufacture faded away from the departing train, and varied
scenes of rural beauty began to flit by the window, it was
refreshing to feel myself gradually launching from the smoky
shores of bustle into a sea of soothing greenery; where
drowsy hamlets, and half-shaded farmsteads, and little
sequestered nests of country life, lay moored in peace amidst
the quiet tide of returning verdure.

The season was “forward,” as we say in the north. It
was more like June than April; and everything from earth to
sky seemed to thrill with joyful anticipation. Warm suns,
genial winds, and soft clouds dropping fatness, had “coaxed
the timid verdure along the hills,” before the usual time.
The cautious pace of slow-returning spring had been speeded
by the impatient fulness of nature’s coming bounty; and
vegetation was, everywhere, bursting into the luxuriance of
summer time. The woods,—lately so silent,—were now gay
with flowers that love the shade; and they were beginning
to fill with that restless buzz of life which crowds the air of
summer with mysterious music. ‘The heart of the wild bird
was overflowing with delight, and he was gladdening the
fast leafing groves with sweet salutation. Once more the
buttercup and the daisy had come, hand in hand, to star the
AN OLD NEST. 173

emerald-mantled fields with simple beauty. The white
flower of the holly had opened its folds to the sun; and the
prickly furze was lighting up waste places of the earth with
golden flowers. The blossom was opening upon the haw-
thorn; and the lily of the valley, with its two broad leaves
and delicate bells of snow, was in full loveliness. And on
the dusty borders of the public way,—even between the
stones of the street, —the red-white blossoms of the medicina]
knot grass peeped out in unregarded beauty, content to
smile its little hour away, and be trodden down, or passed
unheeded by. Every breeze scattered bloom from the
pear-trees, and the apple-trees were beginning to show the
flowery promise of abundant fruit. The pasture lands were
all sprinkled with sheep, and with their milk-white lambs,
which stared with eyes full of pretty wonderment, and then
went frisking away, in a toddling kind of canter, to the
fleecy shelter of their dams, as we rattled by. Thus, hour
after hour, we sped through the spring-robed landscapes,
till the sound of ‘ church-going bells ” came pealing across
the quiet fields, from grey towers hidden by the country
green,—‘‘ like a voice from the middle ages,”—and long
before we reached the shore of New Holland, in Lincoln-
shire, where I had to cross the Humber, to Hull, a soothing
tone of pleasure had begun to refresh my mind,—like a
shower of soft rain descending upon parched ground.

The trip across {the Humber, too, was an
exhilarating feature of my journey; the salt breeze stirred
my heart with a new delight. As I drew nearer to the grand
old many-mooded sea, I felt myself inoved more and more
by its solemn witchery; and the low-lying banks of the
174 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

Humber, with the ancient towns and villages dotting the far-
stretching plains on either side, woke up a world of historic
images, amongst which the ancient sea-kings of the north,
descending upon those easily-accessible shores, in their
“nailed barks,” mingled in a dreamy way.

I met my friends on the landing place at Hull. Dinner
was already ordered at one of the principal inns; and at
once we took our way thitherwards. The week-day bustle
of the port had sunk down into sabbatical stillness. ‘The
holiday folk,—who had come across in the steamer from the
opposite shore,—were beginning to spread into sauntering
driblets, on their way into the town, gaping and gazing to
the right and left as they meandered along. A few sailors,
mostly dressed in shore-going garb, were lounging about the
quay and the streets thereby, in a lazy kind of deck-walk.
Farther on, the town looked quiet and clean. There was a
silent charm on all around. It was Sunday everywhere,
and on everything,—Sunday,—the gem that buckles in the
busy girdle of the week with peaceful beauty. There was
hardly anybody in the streets except a few straggling parties
of stolid-looking German emigrants, who crept about the
footpaths, as if they were walking in sleep, or stood in silent
knots, smoking listlessly, at the doors of their lodgings, and
giving a still more somnolent tone to the general aspect of
the town. It was Sunday! There was a strange silence in
the streets, and the shrill whistle of a railway train, in the
distance, had all the air to itself.

Soon after dinner we rode off towards Beverley. The
town stands nine miles north of Hull, in the midst of a
fertile plain, at the foot of the Yorkshire wolds. The green
AN OLD NEST. ails

country clips it round like a moat of quiet beauty, as if to
protect it from intrusion; and as one approaches the place
a drowsy stillness deepens upon the scene at every footstep.
A general hush pervades the air; and as the wind comes
nigh, it seems to sink down to a fondling tone, and kind
nature waves off from the quaint old town ‘‘ whatever smacks
of ’noyance or unrest,” like a mother watching by the cradle
of a sleeping child. . . . As we crossed this peaceful
tract of nine miles between Hull and Beverley, where
blossom from the orchard trees lay drifted upon the highway,
I felt as if I was leaving the nineteenth century behind, and
gliding into a land of slumbrous calm—a somnolent pool of
quaint-featured life left gleaming upon the shore of the past
by the receding tide of modern change ; and the tranquil spell
grew stronger as we rolled along. A little creeping sleep,
full of antique visions, came over me, and by the time that
the towers of Beverley Minster began to rise in solemn
beauty above the plain, I was far gone in a medizeval trance.

What Liverpool is to the Irish, Hull is to the German
race,—their natural landing-place in England. And it
was so centuries ago. I met with a remote evidence of this
in Beverley itself. We entered the town by a narrow street
of quaint cottages, the foundations of which were, in many
instances, evidently much older than the superstructure.
This narrow street was ‘“‘ Fleming Gate,” the quarter in which
the ancient Flemings dwelt apart when they first introduced
the woollen manufacture into England. To begin with,
this smacked very strongly of the eld. These ancient towns.
are full of interesting relics, which illustrate the bygone
events and manners of the land. They peep out in many
176 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

shapes and ways. They seem to flavour everything around ;
and they catch a stranger’s eye far more quickly than the
eyes of those who have been born amongst them; to whom
they have become so familiar as almost to have lost their
significance.

Our way led close by the cathedral, and I strained my
neck through the window, trying to take in as much of the
building as possible in such a glance; but I was too pent-
up to see anything more than fleeting patches of the
lower details, so I leaned back in my seat, and quietly took
what came in view; inwardly resolving to pay the beautiful
old pile a careful visit as soon as possible. . . . Being
Sunday, there were very few people in the streets. It was
the hour between the end of dinner-time and the beginning
of “service-time.” The old town was as still as a resting
wheel ; and the noise we made in rattling along, rang with
a lonely distinctness, among the quiet houses, as if there was
nothing astir in all Beverley, except ourselves. It looked
like riding through a dream; and as I peeped out, on this
side and that, to see what the place was like, here a quaint
gable, and there an antique window flitted past; and I felt
more and more that I was surrounded by things steeped
in the memories of days gone by. It was a pleasant thing,
too, when we pulled up at the front of the “ Beverley Arms,”
where I could rest awhile, after my long journey, and settle
down to chew the cud of antiquarian fancies that were
beginning to crowd upon me. And I found that hostelry a
pleasant resting-place. For cleanliness, order, bounty, and
genial comfort, it is indeed a rare nest. Its situation, too,
was attractive to me, for it stands immediately in front of

 
AN OLD NEST. 07

St. Mary’s Church,—a grand old building of mixed Gothic
architecture ; and though it is in the town, it is in a serene
and pleasant nook of it, where one can hear the rustle of
trees, which are in sight, and can smell the country gardens,
which are not far off. There I rested to my heart’s content.
In the evening I went to service in the cathedral; but I
had so little chance of seeing the building to advantage on
that occasion that I will return to it again.

As I have said before, it was lovely weather, and enticing
as my quarters were, I could not settle down to anything
like a healthy lounge till I had shaken hands with the town
itself. So, on the morning after my arrival, I sallied forth,
with a mind in genial trim for a ramble among the grass-
grown aisles of the past; and it was a favourable day for
such a stroll, for the very sky had a meditative appearance.
The wind was refreshingly cool, and it came in soft, fitful
puffs, which seemed to pause, and loiter round, and lean
against the walls, here and there, and then fall fast asleep,
one after another, as if their sole business was to fan the
repose of the old town, and sweeten its quiet streets with the
odours of spring, and then lie down and snooze out the rest
of the day. And now and then a cloud,—white as the down
upon an angel’s wing,—as it sailed with placid grace athwart
the sun, trailed its dreamy shade across the market-place
with a soothing caress that deepened the quietness around.
Everything in sight seemed to be steeped in a strange
soporific influence. The people on the streets looked as if
they had all been wakened too soon, and were thinking of
going to sleep again. It almost made one afraid to set his
feet down, for fear of disturbing something. So profound

7—12
I 78 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

was the stillness that I could hear somebody lazily stir the
fire, and then lay the poker down, in a cottage, as I crept
by. ‘The soft enchantment began to make me drowsy, too ;
and I had to nip myself to keep my eyes open, —like a man
listening to a long sermon on a hot summer day, after a
plentiful meal. I felt almost too lazy to remember anything ;
but somehow it brought to mind what the poet says of the
voyagers who came at length to a land “ where it always
seemed afternoon.” It was, indeed, a spell-bound spot.
And then, as I meandered ‘‘ with wandering steps and slow,”
about the streets I caught many a charming glimpse of the
Minster, from different points of view, for the beautiful old —
edifice overshadows the whole place with its solemn dignity,
steeping the town in its sacred, historic spell, and suffusing
all the air with an antique calm, as it stands, in the midst of
its ancient graveyard,—

Like a mother, waiting
Till her children come from play.

There was something dreamily-delightful about the whole
scene,—the clearness of the air, the quietness and cleanli-
ness of the streets, the peeping bits of quaint architecture
here and there, the cosy old rookeries nestling about the
Minster, redolent of the humours of generations long since
mowed down by Time, one after another, like swathes of
grass; the general appearance of slow-grown comfort ; the
contemplative sky that canopied the scene with soft beauty,—
like a cradle-cover; and the tranquil charm that enfolded
all. . . . I lingered in the market-place a little while.

It was as still as the middle of an old cloister. The very
AN OLD NEST. 179

stones of the pavement leaned sleepily against one another,
pillowed by the grass which grew between. And as I gazed
around, with half-shut eyes, a dog came rushing out of a
butcher’s shop, followed (1 can hardly say pursued) by the
butcher himself, who was evidently too fat and too easy-
minded to run far, especially with any furious purpose.
The dog thought so, too; for as soon as it had got out of
slinging-distance, it turned round and barked in his face
with a visible relish of the fun of the thing; whilst the
butcher stood still at his own threshold, wiping away the
dew from his not-too-solid flesh,—for he was a man naturally
inclined to “‘the melting mood.” The solitary din recoiled
from the walls around, which seemed to rub their eyes and
look dreamily down to see what was the matter; and then,
with a yawn, they slowly drooped their heavy lids, and went
to sleep again. And once more all was still, except the
sparrows twittering, and pecking among the scatterments of
last market day. . . . I may have, unwittingly, dropt
into Beverley at a time of unusual stillness; if not, I wonder
how the people get their living, for I could scarcely discover
anything in the shape of business going on. And still the
inhabitants look as if they didn’t care, and didn’t need to
care. Indeed, the shopkeepers seemed surprised at the
sight of a customer,—that is if one happens to succeed, by
dint of shouting and kicking the counter, in rousing such a
wight from his downy lair, in the rear of the premises.
Between breakfast and dinner time, they seem to have a
neighbourly way of sauntering from door to door, bidding one
another “good morning,” and inquiring about the progress
of population in their several households,—that is, when the
180 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

weather is fine; for, if it rains, they lean against their door-
posts, and talk to one another across the street. And on
sunny afternoons they come lounging to their thresholds,
now and then, with a slow, aldermanic air, like whales
rising to blow, and there they bask and yawn, and rub down
their well-filled waistcoats, as if they had just awakened from
a nap after dinner, and had nothing in the world to do but
to get ready for the next meal. ‘There is no visible squalor
or scant amongst them. ‘Taken asa whole, they have a kind
of endowed look; and they seem as if they had all been
born with money in the bank, and didn’t need to stint the
butter on their muffins. Each man of them bears himself,
unconsciously, as if he was the eldest son of prosperity. It
is very easy to be seen, too, that they are gifted with sound
digestion, and that they get through a great deal of it, ina
satisfactory way. They are a solid, rotund, respectable,
canny, old-fashioned race ; broad-fronted and_ broad-
bottomed, and as sleek-skinned as moles; and they open
their mild eyes in a quiet way, like well-fed kine chewing
their cud ; as if they had no idea of ever seeing anything of a
disagreeable nature during the smooth-gliding term of their
natural lives. They hardly seem to know that there is any
world outside of their own garden-girdled town ; or, if they
do, they seem as if they didn’t care about having anything
to do with it. These smooth, self-contained pets of fortune,
with good living oozing from every pore of their drum-tight
skins,—they are too fat to laugh boisterously; but one
massive smile seems to clothe them from head to foot, like
a suit of invisible mail; rendering them impervious to.the
manifold troubles that beset less lucky humanity, on its way
AN OLD NEST. I8I

through this work-a-day world. Oh, ye happy-hearted
lotus-eaters of the flowery wold ; may your handsome shadows
never grow less !

And thus I wandered about the old town of Beverley for
the first time, pleased with what I saw, and feeling myself
from hour to hour still more refreshed by the quiet change.
And I lost no time in extending my acquaintance with the
local annals ; for an old friend lent me a copy of Poulson’s
admirable history, and I sat down to pore over its pages
“‘between whiles ;” and thus I am enabled to give a few short
notes on the subject, which may not be altogether out of
place in another chapter.

 

CHAPTER Il:

The ancient hamlet seemed asleep
Beneath the starry sky ;
A little river, sheathed in ice,
Came gliding gently by ;
The old church in the graveyard,
Where “the rude forefathers lay,”
Stood, like a mother, waiting
Till her children came from play.
WILLY’S GRAVE.

EVERLEY,—anciently Beverleg-a, Beverlacus, and
Beverlac, ‘‘the lake of bevers,”—for so some
antiquarians, probably following monkish tradi-

 

tions, profess to derive the name of the town; and,
in order to give a colour to this theory, it has evidently been
182 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

necessary to plunge into the mist of pre-historic times, and
invent, or suppose,—for I cannot find that they give any
stronger warrant for it,—they invent or suppose an extra-
ordinary rise of the Humber which deluged the whole of that
part of the country, leaving a lake at or near to the place
called Beverley, which lake became a great haunt of
beavers. ‘The thing is not utterly impossible, but it is not
very likely. There is no lake there now; and the country
around looks as level as a bowling-green. Other writers,
however, derive the name from Ped-war-llech, the ancient
Petouaria, marked, as other British towns seem to have been,
by “four stones.” Towns of “tour stones” are mentioned
repeatedly in the old romances of King Arthur. In this
instance, the ‘‘four stones” of Beverley were stones of
sanctuary. So saith Poulson’s history of the town. This
ancient privilege of sanctuary seems to have been granted
or confirmed to Beverley by King Athelstane, after the great
battle of Brunanburg, hy which he became monarch of all
England. There is now in Beverley Minster a massive
Saxon chair, or seat, hewn from one block of stone, called
‘“‘the mercy seat,” or “chair of sanctuary,”—one of the most
ancient and interesting relics in all the town. This “ Frid-
stool,” or ‘‘Freedstool,” is connected with the ancient
privilege of sanctuary, appertaining to the monastery at
Beverley. The criminal who fled for sanctuary thither was
free from all danger incurred by his crime so long as he was
seated in this chair. In the ninth year of Richard the
Second, Sir John Holland, afterwards Duke of Exeter, the
king’s half-brother, having slain Lord Ralph Stafford, in
the neighbourhood of Beverley,—around which place the
AN OLD NEST. 183

-king’s army was quartered, whilst on its way to Scotland,—
fled to the sanctuary at this place, and did not leave it
until he had obtained the king’s pardon. So saith old
Froissart, the chronicler. Leland, who saw this ancient
“Freedstool,” describes it as bearing the following inscrip-
tion :—-“‘ Hzec sedes lapidea Freedstool dicitur, 7.e, Pacis
Cathedra, ad quam reus fugiendo peruenieno omnimodam
habet securitatem.”

These eastern shores of England endured more of the
warlike ravages of the Danes than the rest of the kingdom;
and Beverley shared the common fate of that quarter in
those wild times. In 867 the church and monastery was
destroyed by the Danes, and the town was raided again
and again by the same fierce warriors. In 1188 the town
was burnt to the ground. The two great patrons of the
place, in Saxon times, seem to have been King Athelstane,
and Saint John of Beverley, the founder of the Minster; and
the effigies of the famous Saxon king, and the equally
famous Saxon prelate, appear again and again, in stained
glass and sculptured stone, upon its venerable walls and
windows. Coming down to later times, Beverley was held,
during the civil war, alternately by parliament and by king.
The North Bar is a fine relic of the ancient walls of the
town, and the remains of “The Grey Friars’ Monastery ”
are full of interest to the antiquarian. The most remarkable
features of the place, however, are its two noble old
churches,—the Minster and St. Mary’s Church. The
Minster is reckoned amongst the most beautiful of all the
cathedrals of England, and its history is almost the history
of the town itself.
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Beverley Minster stands upon slightly elevated ground,
the site of a series of ancient churches, stretching far back
into Anglo-Saxon times. Indeed, the local historians say
that the town was founded by Lucius, a British king, in the
reign of Aurelius Commodus, and that it is the Petouaria
mentioned by Ptolemy. The same dim kind of tradition
ascribes the foundation of the first Christian church upon
this site to the same British king. Be that as it may, the
authenticated history of Beverley Minster begins with ‘‘ Saint
John of Beverley,” a Yorkshire monk, born at Driffield,
about the year 640,—the middle period of the Saxon
Heptarchy. This must have been a remarkable man in
those days, as the leading features of his life and character,
given by the “‘ Venerable Bede,” distinctly show. He was
born about forty years after the advent of St. Augustine.
He received his first instructions under the Abbess Hilda,
at Whitby. He was sent to Kent to study under Theodore,
Archbishop of Canterbury. Returning to Whitby after the
death of Hilda, he left that famous abbey, and wandered
over the wild north of England, preaching and teaching.
He founded a school, to which his reputation attracted many
scholars, among whom was the celebrated Saxon historian
Bede, who was ordained to the priesthood by his hand.
Bede tells all this himself, at the end of his ecclesiastical
history of those times. “He became Bishop of Hexham, and
afterwards Archbishop of York. After his elevation to
York, he chose the quiet country at Beverley as the place of
his retirement. Here ‘he found a church existing, which he
beautified and enlarged, and he also founded a monastery,
over which he placed his friend and deacon, Bercthun.
AN OLD NEST. 185

He often visited this monastery, and in 718, feeling the
approach of old age, he resigned his archbishopric, and
retired thither, to pass the remainder of his days in peace.
He died there, in the year 721, and there he was buried.
He was canonised by Pope John XX., in the year 1037.
“In England, during many centuries, the name of ‘Saint
John of Beverley’ was held in the highest reverence, and the
fame of his supposed miracles was very widely spread. His
sacred banner was carried in front of the army of King
Athelstane, at the battle of Brunanburg ;

¢; and afterwards the

cry of ‘St. John of Beverley!’ nearly as often as that of ‘St.
George!’ particularly in the English wars against the Scots,
gave courage to the soldier in the hour of battle.” Such are
the leading features in the life of Saint John of Beverley,
gleaned by the local historians, chiefly from what is said by
“The Venerable Bede” of his celebrated friend and tutor.
In 1664 a vault was found in the present Minster, in which
was a sheet of lead, containing ashes, beads, brass pins, and
iron nails, and the following inscription, in Latin, on a leaden
plate :—“‘In the year from the Jncarnation of Our Lord 1185,
this church was burnt in the month of September, the night
after the feast of Saint Matthew the Apostle; and in the
year 1197, the 6th of the Ides of March, there was an
inquisition made for the relics of the Blessed John, in this
place ; and these bones were found in the east part of this
sepulchre, and here deposited ; and dust mixed with mortar
was found likewise, and re-interred.” These relics were
re-interred in the middle aisle of the nave, where they had
been taken up, with this addition to the ancient inscrip-
tion :—‘* The same relics having been taken up, and replaced
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in the same situation, were honoured with an arched brick
vault, the 25th day of the month of March, 1726, when the
checkered pavement of this church was first laid.”

It was far on in a quiet afternoon when I went to visit
Beverley Minster, ushered by a friend who felt the solemn
interest of the place ; and the very approach to the building
seemed to subdue the mind to a more meditative tone,—
so subtle is the influence of these grand religious piles,
which have grown out of the natural veneration of man for
the Almighty Unseen. We lingered a few minutes in the
graveyard, amongst moss-grown records of mouldering
humanity, which lay scattered around us,—like bits of
wreck upon the shore of a boundless sea. ‘The town itself
was quiet; but this spot was as still as the dead, except
where the wind played with the grass between the grave-
stones. There was nothing else astir in this solemn ‘“‘ God’s
acre,” sown with the relics of mankind; no other sound
disturbed the stillness of the stately Minster in its midst,—
that ancient ‘“‘temple of silence and reconciliation, where the
enmities of twenty generations lay buried,”—save the cawing
of daws among its hoary pinnacles and buttresses. Wander-
ing in that ancient graveyard, where all sorts and conditions
of men lie mouldering together in common decay, after their
sand-glasses have run down, it made one think how frivolous
are the “fuming shows and vanities of man.” This is the
dusty spot to which our yesterdays must lead us all. Here—

The slanderer lies the slandered near,
The coward by the bold;

The foolish and the wise are here,
The fiery and the cold;
AN OLD NEST. 187

Here kindly nature greens the turf,
Where nameless paupers sleep ;
And the lordling rots beside his serf,

Down in this wormy keep.

The knave has stolen to earth at last ;
The drunkard’s had his fill ;
The glutton is the worm’s repast ;
The liar’s lying still ;
The soldier dreams no more of strife;
The monarch’s reign is past ;
The wretch who crawled his way through life,
Is over-crawled at last.

Here, sheltered by the kindly ground,
The outcast’s woes have end ;

Where daisies gem the grassy mound,
He finds, at last, a friend ;

And there, above a patriot’s bones,
To whom they grudged a crust,

They’ve raised a pile of graven stones
To celebrate his dust.

Addison tells us, in the Spectator, that when he was in a
serious humour, he often walked, by himself in Westminster
Abbey, ‘‘ when the gloominess of the place, and the use to
which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building, and
the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the
mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness
which is not disagreeable.” And he says, “When I look
upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies
within me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every
inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of
parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion ;
when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider
the vanity of grieving for those we must so quickly follow ;
188 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

when I see kings lying by those who deposed them; when
I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men
that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I
reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competi-
tions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the
several dates upon the tombs of some who died yesterday,
and some six hundred years ago, I consider that great day
when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our
appearance together.”

The exterior of the Minster was impressively beautiful,
with its fine old sculptured incrustations, here mouldered
with age, there broken away by the hand of the spoiler,
leaving eloquent gaps and empty niches,—none the less fine
for that; and Tire,—the destroyer of the living and the
reviver of the dead,—had cushioned those old walls with the
wonderful hues of age and decay. ‘The changeful weather-
stains and delicate moss-growths of centuries had laid tinge
upon tinge till its exquisite details had become wealthy in
tones of marvellous beauty. A “petrified poem,” indeed,
this was,—a rare piece of work from the hand of man,—a
carved gem of thought; a sculptured flower; a sacred
picture upon which Time, the finest colour painter of them
all, had wrought for ages, with patient, tender, oft-returning
touch,—as if it was a thing he loved to work upon. This
“‘unravished bride of quietness and slow time,” the glory of
all the scene,—the old town, the green fields, the new-born
flowers of spring, and the whole country around, seemed to
look up to it, with reverent gaze, impressed with its solemn
loveliness. This grand old fane, consecrated by the highest
hopes of man, and by the sacred usage of centuries,—the
AN OLD NEST. 189

very daws cawing about its towers and pinnacles seemed
like winged fragments of antiquity, which had grown old
with the edifice they haunted. . . . But when we
entered the building, all within was profoundly still, and the
grand gloom therein was crowded with the most sacred
memories of humanity. I have beheld great cities at dawn
of day, when the sleeping scene was clothed in the beauty of
the morning, and “all that mighty heart was lying still,”—
I have roamed the wild hills at evening, when the soft
twilight sank down upon the lonely moors,—but a fine old
church, when there is no stir of human sound within, has a
solemn heauty all its own. It is one of the grandest,
gravest, loveliest places in all the world. Speech seems an
intrusion in the awe-struck silence that pervades such a spot ;
nay, the very offices of religion seem to disturb a devotion
more profound than they. Yet the suppressed, the breath-
less, the sacred stillness within that hoary monument of.
man’s best thoughts is filled with suggestions that soothe
and elevate the mind; and silence seems haunted by whole
centuries of holy anthems, and yearning prayers,—the
natural outcome of man’s sense of dependence in the
presence of the unseen Deity, ‘‘ who sitteth in the highest
heavens, in silence.” Like the sea-shell, which, to the
listening ear, seems to swell with the murmurs of the ocean,
so the divine stillness within, surges with the holiest
associations of twenty generations of mortality on its way
from the cradle to the grave. I have often admired the
passage in which Charles Lamb says, “ Wouldst thou know
the beauty of holiness?—go alone on some week-day,
borrowing the key from good Master Sexton, traverse the
Igo MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

cool aisles of some country church; think of the piety that
has kneeled there,—the congregations, old and young,
that have found consolation there,—the meek pastor,—the
docile parishioner. With no disturbing emotions, no cross
conflicting comparisons, drink in the tranquility of the place,
till thou thyself become as fixed and motionless as the
marble effigies that kneel and weep around thee.” And so,
as we trod the stately aisles of this ancient Minster, our
vcices sank to a softer tone; and the faint hum of the street
outside sounded like murmurs of life from some ruder world.

With the exception of the choir-screen, there are few
incongruities to destroy the antique unity of effect in
Beverley Minster. The groinings and traceries, in some
parts of the building, are wonderfully fine,—with floral
wreaths here and there, so delicately sculptured that one
might almost expect to hear them rustle. These beautiful
details are occasionally mixed with grotesque devices,—
the nightmares of the medieval mind. The famous
“ Percy Shrine” is one of the most beautiful objects in the
Minster. Leland, speaking of his first visit to the place,
says :—‘‘ There be three tombs most notable on the north
side of the quier, yn on one side of them under a chapel arched
over is buried Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and his son,
father of the last earl. In another is buried Eleanor, wife to
one of the Lord Percys, and in another of white alabaster,
Idonea, wife to one of the Lord Percys ; under Eleanor’s tomb
lies buried one of the Percys, a Preste.” The Percy chapel
contains the monument of Henry, fourth earl of Northum-
berland, who was slain at Cock Lodge, near Thirsk, on
the 28th of April, 1489. ‘‘ There are two figures on each
AN OLD NEST. IQI

side at the entrance to the choir, intended to represent,—
one the founder (Saint John of Beverley), and the other the
benefactor of the church (King Athelstane).” The same
personages are also to be seen in a painting on wood over
the door of the south transept, where King Athelstane is
represented as offering to St. John a charter of privilege in
the following words :—

Als fre make I Thee
As Hart can think or Eye can see.

After the fine carved work of the choir, and the antiquated
tombs, the most notable objects in the place are, the ancient
Saxon “sanctuary chair,” or “mercy seat,” hewn from one
block of stone; the beautiful chapel of the Virgin Mary,
behind the altar screen; and the magnificent west window.
As I have said before, my quarters were at the ‘‘ Beverley
Arms,” in front of St. Mary’s Church, a fine building of
mixed Gothic architecture. On the second floor of the inn,
I occupied a sitting-room, facing the church, and I could
not help thinking that the shadow of the grand old fane
influences the hostelry with something of its own dignity.
It seemed to affect the language and deportment of the
customers who visited the house, and of the servants who
attended to them. The waiters whispered, with a reveren-
tial air, as if it was close upon service-time, and the organ
was just about to strike up; and their softened footsteps
seemed subdued by a sense of something fine in the neigh-
bourhood. The “Beverley Arms” might have been a vestry
of the church; for they waited upon one with a kind of
solemn assiduity, as if he was an abbot of the olden time.
192 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

Indeed, there was an air of cloistral calm about the whole
place. It was like sitting in an old monastic refectory ;
and the landlord himself had something of the quaintness
and subdued geniality of an ancient cellarer. It was a rare
pleasure to sit by the open window of that upper room, in
front of St. Mary’s Church, watching the creaky motions of
an aged man, who was mowing the grassy spaces between
the grave-stones, in the churchyard. The building, the
. graveyard, the old mower, and the quietude around, were
all in fine harmony. It was an exquisite picture; and the
effect was heightened by the cloud-checkered sunshine
playing beautiful changes of light and shade among the
buttresses, and pinnacles, and elaborately-wrought window-
recesses of the church. That old mower was evidently
drawing near to the edge of the great forest, into whose
shade all things human disappear, to return no more. His
white hair streamed in the wind as he slowly swept down
the grass above the dwellings of the dead, ‘All flesh is
grass.” The mower, the moss-grown gravestones, the grave-
grown grass, the fitful sunshine at play upon the old build-
ing, the scattered blossom, the quiet-waving trees, and the
sighing wind,—whose soft cadences came distinctly upon
the ear in the stillness around,—it was altogether a beautiful
and a touching scene.

My short sojourn at the old town of Beverley left many
pleasing pictures upon my memory ; and it was a beneficial
change to body and mind, And it was not until I got to
the railway station, amongst the bustle of trains, and
tickets, and trucks, and corduroy-clad porters, that I felt that
I was waking to the life of the nineteenth century again,
 

 

 

On the Dart,

“ By breezy hills,
And soft retiring dales, by smiling lawns,
Bold headlands dark with umbrage of the groves,
By towns and villages, and mansions fair,
And rocks magnificent, the potent rush
Of the mysterious ocean hath impelled
Our bark to-day.” - CARRINGTON,

E are sitting at breakfast, in the front room of the
inn, close by the half-open window, which looks
right upon the bay, or harbour, which Gilpin calls
“the fair bright bay of Dartmouth; ” and of which

he says, “ The bay which the river Dart forms at its mouth is

one of the most beautiful scenes upon the coast.” It 1s, indeed,

a charming sight this bright morning, as we sit at breakfast

in the quaint old hostelry, gazing upon the shipping rocking

upon the sunlit water, fresh in from the open sea, which
heaves and rolls outside the mouth of the river, within gun-
shot of where we are sitting. But my friend is in a hurry
to see as much of Devonshire as possible in as little time as
possible. He has “done” one half of the country in three
days, and he is bent on finishing the rest, at a gallop, before
the week is over. ‘Well; what d’ye say?” says he; “will
ye go?” But Iam too lazy, and contented with the scene

iis)

 
194 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

Iamin. “No. The Dart is beautiful enough for my short
holiday ; and I would rather not try to see any other part of
the world, just now.”  ‘“* Well, then,” says he, jumping up ;
“T’m off to the boat! The train starts from the other side
in five minutes!” And away he rushes down to the pontoon,
wiping his mouth, and brushing the crumbs from his beard
as he goes. . . . And now, I am finishing my breakfast
in peace, all alone, with the bright harbour of Dartmouth,
and its fertile greén hills, sloping softly down, rich in verdure
from the summits to the water’s edge, all before me. Sailors
and hotel-loungers, and motley stragglers, are lounging
about the outer ledge of the halfopen window, and all the
morning life of the little seaside town comes surging by in
the sunshine. The staid old waiter and I seem to have
all the place to ourselves; and he brings me a pot of
Devonshire cream. . . . Oh, reader, I never tasted
cream till I came down here; and I shall never forget it,
now, the longest day I have to live! There is nothing like
it anywhere else in all the wide world. . . . Butthe
-door opens, and a stout, middle-aged gentleman, with bushy
grey beard, steps in and looks round, and then retires,
closing the door behind him. He has no sooner disappeared
than the old waiter glides in again, with an air of importance,
and says, ‘‘Did ye see that gentleman, sir, that looked in,
just now?” “Yes.” ‘'That’s Sir Samuel Baker, sir, the
-great African traveller.” I jumped up, and looked out. There
he was, walking briskly along the pier,—a strong square-
built, hardy, English-looking man, about five feet seven in
height, with a quiet, frank countenance, and a thick grey
beard. ‘ And now, look yonder, sir,” said the old waiter,
ON THE DART, 195

pointing to the landing-place, in front of the hotel ; “d’ye see
that gentleman coming up the steps from the boat?”
“Yes.” ‘‘That’s the Right Honourable’ Thomas Milner
Gibson, sir. He came in here last night in his yacht, ‘ The
Resolution,’ sir.” And there he stood before me on the
pier ; the same lithe, graceful figure, nearly six feet high, and
“as straight as a pickin-rod,” still. There he stood,—
fresh from the breezes of the Channel,—the hero of many a
stout political fray,—the true-hearted patriot, and the man of
brilliant gifts. ‘‘ The snowfall of time” lay thick upon his
brow, but his face wore the same genial smile, and his eyes
seemed as bright as in the old time. I could not help hoping
that his days might yet be many in the land, and that he
‘might rejoice in them all. . . . As/JI sit by the halfopen
‘window I can see and hear all that is going on outside.
The fishermen’s wives come by, one after another, crying
“Cockles) sandy wed iviullen” and. Fresh’ Ray! 74 im
different tones ; and the landlady sends one of the servants
out to “see what Sally has got, this morning,”—and the
‘folk from Dittisham, who have come down the river with
- boat-loads of fruit, wander about the streets with baskets full
of plums and apples. I hear it all, as I sit at breakfast; and
I hear many a bit of straggling talk going on, close by the
window. ‘‘ Not much cider this year, Henry.” ‘“ I doubt
not. . . . Wehadtoo many wet days.” .“* Wet days?
It’s not the wet days, it’s the wet zeeks that did it!” ‘We
had a great deal o’ wet this time, sure-ly ; and I doubt the
wheat’ll suffer through it.” “ Well; fi don’t know. | I hear
that a good many o’ the farmers up.our way got their wheat
- put into ‘ wind-ricks’ in that catchy weather ; and they won’t
196 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

take much harm. But we may have a run o’ fine weather
for the late harvest, yet.” ‘Well; I hope so. What,
they'll be finished in the Isle o’ Wight by this time ?”
“No doubt. They’re always a fortnight earlier in the Isle
o’ Wight than we are on the Dart.” . . . The two
glided away, out of hearing, along the street. The next
thing that comes under the window is the stout Irish
gentleman who is staying at the hotel; and who is known
amongst the waiters as “‘Number Thirty-one.” He is
bargaining with an old boatman for a frisk on the river. The
boatman asked whether he would like to go up the river as
far as the village of Dittisham, or out to the old castle, at the
mouth of the harbour. ‘ Begorra,” says he, ‘‘I don’t care
where ye take me, old boy, if ye’ll only keep on the top o’
the water. D’ye see the size o’ me? I’m a divul for sinkin’
when I once begin; an’ I understand there’s no stoppin’
place between the top an’ the bottom o’ the river Dart.
An’ J’d rather come home and have fish to my dinner,—
than lave myself in the water to be a dinner for fish; so
keep on the top as well as ye can, my buck, av ye plaze.”
“Oh; no fear o’ that, sir,” says the old boatman. And away
they go. . . . But the weather is beautiful, and the day
is running by ; and, through the kindness of a good Lanca-
shire friend of mine, whose fine yacht, ‘The Derwent,”—
one of the most notable vessels on the coast,—lies rocking
in the sunshine, yonder, in front of the hotel, I have a
chance of seeing the whole navigable course of the Dart,
from its mouth up to the ancient town of Totnes. A rare
treat, and not to be neglected; so I sally forth into the
sunshine, full of pleasing anticipations. And now,—who
ON THE DART. 197

is this that bears down upon me from the distance, with
rolling gait and genial smile. It is my good friend Mustapha
Rodwell, R.A., who has come over from Torquay to join
me in the trip. ‘‘ What, ho!” cries he.
Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame;
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are staid for.
In a few minutes our pleasant little company is all on deck ;
and away we go down the stream; so that we may begin
our trip from the very mouth of the river upwards.
Beginning our upward course from the open sea, where
the entrance to the harbour is almost hidden by the over-
lapping shores, we first come to what is called “The
Narrows,” where the river is only 250 yards wide; and here,
standing opposite to each other, upon the rocky, yet well-
wooded shores, “like twin guardians of the harbour,” are
the moss-grown remains of two old castles, erected in the
reign of Edward the Fourth. The ruins of the castle and
church of St. Petrox, backed by the wooded steep on the
western side, look beautifully picturesque. Passing a
charming creek, called ‘‘ Warfleet,” we come to the ancient
village of Kingsweir, of which it is said,
Kingsweir was a market town
When Dartmouth was a furze down,
On the opposite side is the quaint old town of Dartmouth.
Low down by the shore lie the wharves and warehouses of
the old town, with “‘lofty houses, having carved panelling
and ceilings, with oaken staircases with ornamental balusters,
once the palaces of her merchant princes, but now let out
in flats to the poor.” The town rises, tier above tier,
198 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

clothing the sides of the thickly-wooded hills with ancient
houses, quaint little courts, and stairs, and winding
passages, with the venerable tower of St. Saviour’s Church
overtopping the lower part. At this point the scene on
each side is very striking. <A little beyond the town we
passed the great naval training-ship, the Britannia, with her
consort, the Hindostan. The Britannia was formerly known
as the Prince of Wales (720 guns), and replaced the old
Britannia, broken up in 1870. She is connected with the
Hindostan by a gangway. Here the future officers of the
English navy undergo careful training. Passing this great
floating college, which seems to stand as high out of the water
as one of our largest Lancashire factories, verdant hills line ©
the sides of the stream all the way, richly green to the water’s
edge; and we pass one beautiful creek after another, where
the artist and the lovers of nature love to linger for a whie
And yonder, upon a commanding green eminence, over-
looking the stream and half hidden by rich woods, stands
Greenway House, associated with the name of Sir Walter
Raleigh, and the birth-place of Sir Humphrey Gilbert, ‘‘ who
set out to discover the remote countries of America, and to
bring off these sa/vages from their diabolical superstitions to
the embracing of the gospel.” A little beyond this, upon
the opposite shore, we come in sight of the pretty village
of Dittisham, so famous for its plums. The village wanders
up the green hill-side, peeping out here and there, from its
groves and gardens. Behind the village, “Beacon Hill”
rises six hundred feet. In former times this beacon was used
to give warning when hostile ships from the opposite coast of
Brittany were discovered in the offing, when—
ON THE DART. 199

Swift to east and swift to west, the warning radiance spread.
For o’er the deep the invader saw, along each southern shire,
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire.

Dittisham is a place of great resort for pleasure, in these
parts ; and, there, it is no less noted for its fruit, than for the
fresh shrimps and cockles taken from the river. The village
is a pretty picture from our deck; and, as we glide away
from where the plums of Dittisham hang down into the
Dart’s translucent wave, our eyes linger upon the scene.
And still the bright green hills, and rich woods, cling to us
all the way, with many a lovely creek between, wandering
sweetly up into the fertile land. A little beyond Dittisham,
we are in sight of Sandridge, an Italian villa, built by the
first Lord Ashburton, on the site of an older mansion.
This is the birth-place of John Davis, the celebrated Arctic
voyager, whose little ships, the ‘‘ Sunshine,” of fifty tons, and
the “‘ Moonshine,” of thirty-five tons, sailed from Dartmouth
on June 7th, 1575, and discovered the passage between
Greenland and North America which bears his name. And
still a succession of richly-wooded valleys, with hill beyond
hill rising in the distance, green to their summits, glide
behind our onward way. Passing a deep inlet, called
“Bow Creek,” which admits vessels of one hundred tons
burden, and the quiet little fishing hamlet of Duncannon,
we come in sight of the magnificent woods of Sharpham,
which in a fine semicircular sweep bound the western side
of the stream. The whole of the steep hill-side is densely.
covered with fine oak foliage; and it is certainly one of the
grandest masses of woodland I ever saw. The branches
at the foot of this grand woodland steep hang down into the
200 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

river. Soon after leaving Sharpham Woods the stream
begins to take a straighter course, and we get a fine view of
the tower of Totnes old church, overtopping the houses of
the town upon a steep, with the wild peaks of Dartmoor in
the distance. The river narrows as we approach Totnes,
and the shores are haunted by the heron. And now here
we are at the foot of the bold eminence upon the slope and
summit of which stands the old town of Totnes, or ‘The
projecting Headlands.” We have little more than half-an-
hour for a peep at the town before the turn of the tide calls
us back again. We have just time to walk up the steep main
street, and to get a peep at the fine old church, and the
ruins of the castle. The steep main street is wonderfully
clean, and quaint in appearance. Many of the houses are
ancient, with carven projecting upper stories, supported by
pillars. Down one side of the main street a stream of clear
water runs along a clean stone channel, close by the foot-
path. The whole town has a sweet, sleepy, and antique
appearance ; and there does not seem to be much going on.
I can almost believe one of the natives who said to me, as
he pointed to the main street, “If you were to fire a gun
down that street, sir, any time after eight o’clock in the
evening, you wouldn’t hurt anybody.” From the look of
the place I can almost believe it; although I understand
that there is a large woollen manufactory here; and the
fishery is good ; and the neighbourhood abounds in chocolate
and madrepore marbles; and the country around is fertile
and highly cultivated. We found the church a fine old
edifice of red sandstone, erected by Bishop Lacey, 1432.
It contains an ancient pulpit, richly carved ; and an ancient
ON THE DART. 201

screen, in quaintly-carved stone-work. Behind the church
stands the old Guildhall, a very curious building. We had
no time to visit the grand old castle of Berry Pomeroy
about three miles off,—we had just time to see the ruins
of Totnes Castle, at the head of the town, built by Jud
Hall de Totnes, in the time of the Conqueror. As we
hurried back, to catch the turn of the tide, I looked again
towards the bleak hills of Dartmoor,—which is, even now,
the wildest waste in all England,—and J longed for a ramble
among its weird glens and craggy tors. Our return trip,
down the river, was full of fresh interest ; for, all the way,
the scenery presented new pictures, seen from an opposite
point of view. The Dart is one of the most beautiful rivers
I have ever seen. It has been called “The Rhine of
England ;”. but, with the exception of the castle-guarded
“narrows ” at the mouth of the river, it is wholly unlike that
far-famed historic stream. The Dart is like itself, and
nothing else. It is lined all the way by richly fertile rolling
hills, noble old woods, and beautiful creeks ; and is, perhaps,
the most charming river of its kind in England.

The remainder of my brief holiday was spent in a trip out
to sea; a visit to Torcross, and ‘“‘ Slapton Lea,” a curious
fresh water lake a few miles west of Dartmouth; and to
rambles about the quaint nooks of the old town, which
abounds with interest for the antiquary, and the lover of the
picturesque.

I came away from Devonshire too soon for my liking ; and
with a strong desire to revisit that beautiful and interesting
part of my native ]and again as soon as I can.
 

 

aw Green Nook of Old England,

 

CLAP ERI:

‘Grey Ipswich at the head of Orwell's tide,
Where Wolsey lived, and many a martyr died.”

ND now J am at the ancient borough of Ipswich,
the chief town and port of Suffolk. Ipswich,
anciently Vppesweche, takes its name, not from
the beautiful estuary of the Orwell, at the head

of which it stands, but from the little river Gipping, which

runs into that estuary. Although the county of Suffolk is
mostly a fertile plain,—fertile with a fertility which is surpris-

 

ing to northern eyes,—as it approaches the sea, it begins to
dance, as if it were delighted to meet with the ocean ; and this
undulant character of the land becomes exceedingly
picturesque as we draw near to that antique nest called
Ipswich. . . . It was ten o'clock at night when I
reached the station; regretting that, in the shadowy hour
between sunset and moonrise, I had missed sight of the old
town of Bury St. Edmund’s,—the resting place of the brave
Saxon King Edmund—St. Edmund the Martyr, so called,—
who fought to death against the insurgent Dane. The full
A GREEN NOOK OF OLD ENGLAND. 203

moon was aloft in a cloudless sky. Standing upon the
platform, outside the station, I could see the wandering,
straw-coloured lights of the town, about a mile off, lapping
round the head of the river Orwell, in an irregular semi-
circle. And in the rear of the town, the wooded hills,—for
there are hills here, rising to three or four hundred feet
above the sea,—the little wooded hills, and swelling, park-
like uplands, rich in the bright foliage of spring, closing in
the straggling town, and the winding moonlit Orwell, in a
kindly way, like natural guardians of the scene against the
duller world outside.

My quarters were on a green knoll, about a mile beyond
the opposite edge of the town, overlooking a thickly wooded
dell. My friend and I stepped into a cab, and here I may
remark, in passing, that both the cab and, more especially,
the cab-man, were marked by the same generic character-
istics which distinguish our own darling charioteers of the
nipping north. ‘The streets of the town wind and wander,
sometimes very narrow, sometimes a little wider, making
charming pictures, in quick succession as they go. As we
rolled along in the moonlight, between over-hanging storeys,
rich in carven oak, black and worn with age, with here and
there a tree gushing over a wall, or a great garden peeping
into the main street, my friend pointed out several points of
special interest, of which I caught partial glimpses as we
hurried by. “That,” said he, pointing to a hoary, ivy-
crowned relic fronting the street, ‘‘That is Wolsey’s Gate ;
the sole remnant of the college founded here by the great
Cardinal. After Wolsey’s fall the rest of the college was
razed to the ground by order of Henry the Eighth.” This
204 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

quaint gateway is all that was saved from its destruction ;
and rich in hoary eld, it stands yet by the wayside, like

“ One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,
To mark where a garden has been.”

A little farther on, we came to a grand old pile, in the front
of the street, encrusted all over with floral and heraldic
carvings, in dark oak. ‘‘That is ‘The Ancient House,’”
said he, “known also by the name of ‘Sparrow’s House.’
King Charles lay concealed there after the hattle of
Worcester. There, too, in our own time, Charles Keene,
the great Punch illustrator, was bred and brought up by his
uncle.” I snatched a glance at the antique pile as we flitted
by. ‘And there,” said he, pointing to a great hotel, in the
heart of the town, “there stands the old ‘White Horse,’
the scene of Pickwick’s adventure with the lady in the yellow
curl papers.” ‘Thus, in the hurried roll of the wheels, we
peeped out to the right and left, at first one, then another,
point of interest in the streets, until we came into the green
country, beyond the town. And here, in a quiet spot,
where the road began to climb between two wooded hills»
he suddenly stopt the cab. ‘‘Hush!” said he, “ That’s the
nightingale!” And it was so! I had lived in this world of
ours for more than fifty years, and had read the wondrous
strains of poesy inspired by the nightingale’s song, but now,
—for the first time in my life,—I stood in the moonlight, in
a land where all was new to me, listening to the liquid
melody of that matchless minstrel of the night!

Slowly and softly we walked up to the house, stopping oft
to listen by the way. And often, as we sat in the house
A GREEN NOOK OF OLD ENGLAND, 205

that night, we rose, and came forth into the garden, at the
head of the knoll, to hear another strain of that fond
complaining lay. With drunken ears we retired at last to
read Milton’s sonnet :—

“ O Nightingale that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hopes the lover's heart dost fill,

While the jolly hours lead on propitious May,

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill,
Portend success in love, O, if Jove’s will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay.

Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year has sung too late
For my relief, yet had’st no reason why.
Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.”

As we parted on the stairs, my friend said, “To-morrow
we will have a sail down the Orwell.” And the nightingales
sang me to sleep that night!

 
 

 

 

CHAPTER IL

TIMELY knock woke me up from sleep; and I
looked out at the chamber window. The sky
was of a Cambridge blue, with, here and there, a
daffodil tinge, and, here and there, a little gauzy

cloud, sailing quickly into the south-west. I dressed, and went

forth into the garden, at the head of the knoll. And now, I

 

learnt that the nightingale sings by day as well as by night,
and that it is not so shy a bird as some writers have said.
There, in the bosky dell below me, through which the high-
way runs, I hear the nightingale singing still,—singing loud
and clear, in a strip of woodland hard by the wayside ; and,
at every pause, another nightingale, in the opposite grove,
repeats the lay, “‘just note for note, and adds some strain
at last,’—-some melting cadence, never heard before. It
was, indeed, a delicious tournament of song. . . . Oh,
winged pilgrim of the woods of spring,—melodious inter-
preter of the love that lies at the heart of all created
things,—sing on, till every drooping soul on earth springs
up again, with hope renewed! . . . Now, in the broad
sunlight, the scene I had passed through on the previous
night, lay before me. Looking westward, across an inter-
vening tract of field, and grove, and bloomy orchard, the
A GREEN NOOK OF OLD ENGLAND. 207

half-seen towers and spires of Ipswich peeped up from their
low-lying nest, at the head of the river; and, immediately
beyond, shapely green hills bounded the scene. In every
other direction, the view was shut in by wooded heights and
fertile uplands, al] glittering gay in the crisp, new verdure of
spring, upon which a shower in the night-time had left its
pearly tribute of beauty. It was a charming landscape,—
charming in its variety of interesting feature,—charming in
what was seen, and in what was suggested,—charming, too,
in the richness and freshness of its fertility. There was
also, to me, a wonderful sweetness and purity in the
atmosphere. As I stood upon that flowery knoll, snuffing
the “caller air,” as it it were some rare vintage of ethereal
wine, I began to think of the importance of that viewless
element which men consume, perforce, every moment of
their lives. Of all adulterations in this world of adulteration,
the adulteration of the common air,--“‘ the breath of life,”—
is the most wide-spread, the most constant and insidious in
its influence. When I return from the middle of England, I
can taste Manchester long before I reach it ; and I can see
-the vegetation become more and more stunted and sickly as
I draw nearer, That which is poisonous to vegetable life
cannot be good for man. The rivers, too,—will the rivers
of Lancashire ever be clear again? I know the Irwell, and
I have seen the Orwell. There is a slight difference in the
vowels,—but the difference in the waters is tremendous.
The one is a pestilential ditch,—the other is a perpetual
delight. Strong old Lancashire, where the problems of
-political and social life are wrought out in such a brave,
open, and independent way, between man and man, will it
208 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

ever again know the priceless blessing of pure air? With
all its wealth, and energy, and ingenuity, will it ever be able
to clear the atmosphere of those poisonous elements which
its inhabitants are forced to take in with every breath they
inhale? Perhaps, in two thousand years or so, when our
coalfields are exhausted, and our trade is gone, and the
old region of manufacture has become a hideous waste,
the smokeless ruins of its once tall chimneys may bathe
their weed-grown summits in the clear air of a noiseless
solitude. . . . But, I am at Ipswich.

The Professor and I had been joined by an artist friend
of ours, who had run down from London; and, after break-
fast, we started towards the town, for a trip down the river
Orwell. Our way led through the oldest part of the old
town, which clips the water-side. Here we wandered awhile
about the winding, and, sometimes, very narrow streets,
from one historic nook to another, between rows of antique
houses, with high-pitched roofs, and over-shot upper stories,
rich in strange sculptured devices, dimmed by age,—here
we wandered, gazing at floral, and sometimes grotesque
carvings, upon beam, bracket, frieze, and post,—all seem-
ingly of dark oak, and all worn and mellowed in tone by the
weather of centuries. We lingered often on the way, trying
to spell out dim old dates and names that carried us back
to the days when Shakespeare was wandering among the
green lanes and woods of Warwickshire, a contemplative
boy ; and probably an incomprehensible creature to the
people about him. We might have been sauntering to and
fro with old Froissart, in the streets of some ancient con.
tinental town ; we were lapped,'for the time, in a medizval
A GREEN NOOK OF OLD ENGLAND. 209

dream. Many of the houses in this quarter bore dates more
than three centuries old; and, amongst piles of gloomy
warehousing, we came, here and there, to a fine old building
which, though converted to other uses now, had evidently
been the residence of some wealthy merchant, or other
person of importance, in the olden time. And, now and
then, we spied, through barred gates, coils of rope, anchors,
blocks, spars, and other ship-gear, lying about in the yards
beyond. The signs of the inns, too,—“The Neptune,”
“‘ The Ship,” “The Sailor’s Home,” and such like,—all that
we saw, smacked of the sea and sea-life; except that in this
lowest part of the town we saw very little of the filth which
is common in such places.

At the quay we took a boat. The tall, stalwart, sea-
browned owner of “‘The Nancy,” looked well in his blue
guernsey, as he trimmed his little vessel for the trip. He
grasped the oars with great, brown, sinewy hands, and
away we went down the river. Warehouses, masts, and
docks, with the many-towered town, gently sloping up in the
rear, glided quietly away behind us. And now, I saw that
Ipswich has a few tall chimneys, akin to our own, amongst
which are those of Messrs. Ransome, Sims, and Head,
perhaps the greatest agricultural implement makers in the
world. The upper part of the river is comparatively narrow,
being only about fifty yards wide at the port. This narrow
part is finely embanked on each side; and the water is
clearer than is usual in a sea-port. The whole length of the
Orwell, from its head at Ipswich, to the open German Ocean,
near the ancient port of Harwich, is little more than sixteen
miles. In half-an-hour, we began to emerge from the

7—14
210 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

narrow upper part of the river. Our boatman stepped his
mast, and loosened sail. The white sheet swelled to a
favouring wind; and, as we scudded along, the river
gradually expanded, between swelling uplands, rich in park-
like scenery of great beauty. Our boatman had leisure
now for a little chat. “Is there much smuggling going on,
now ?” said my friend, who knew the man well. ‘“‘ Oh, no,
sir,” replied the boatman; “‘it’s getting too hot for them,
now.” ‘But, there have been some seizures made lately, I
believe?” ‘Well, the last seizure was only a ton of tobacco ;
the one before that was about ten ton,—and a few bales of
silk. But that’s nothing, I believe, to what was carried on
in Will Laud’s time. He was a smuggler.” ‘You knew
him, I believe?” “I knew him well, poor fellow.” We
now entered upon ‘‘ Downham Reach,” the finest expanse
in the Orwell estuary. It was high water, too; and we saw
it at its best. From shore to shore, it seemed to me more
than a mile in breadth ; and it reminded me of the finest
part of Windermere. Its sloping banks are clad with grand
old parks, rich in noble trees, and glades of great beauty,
well stocked with deer. On the northern shore there is a
fine heronry,—a rare thing in these days,—and, here and
there, we saw a heron stalking in the shallows, or flitting
along the water, with spiky legs outstretched behind.
Above the trees, on the southern bank, rises an ancient
tower,—“ Freston Tower,” which gives name to one of the
novels written by the Rev. Richard Cobbold. The scene
of the story is laid here. In a green, sheltered nook, on the
opposite shore, an ancient farinstead, called “ Priory Farm,”
peeps out from embowering shade. At this farm, the
A GREEN NOOK OF OLD ENGLAND. 2Ir

famous Margaret Catchpole resided as a domestic servant.
She is the heroine of the Rev. Richard Cobbold’s well-
known novel, called ‘‘ Margaret Catchpole, or The Suffolk
Girl,” and her strange adventures, as recorded in that book,
are, I understand, strictly founded upon fact. We were
now drawing near to the old village of ‘‘ Pin Mill,” where
the steamers call on their way up and down the river,
between Harwich and Ipswich. ‘Pin Mill” nestles in a
pleasant nook of the southern shore, under shade of the
ancient woods. A storm of rain came before we got to the
landing-place. We made haste out of the boat, and ran for
shelter into the old “Butt and Oyster” Inn, the bay
windows of which overhang the water, and command a fine
view of Downham Reach.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER III.

“ Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place;

The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, ’

The varnished clock that click’d behind the door ;

The chest contrived a double debt to pay,

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ;

The pictures placed for ornament and use,

The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose.”

GOLDSMITH.

HE village of “‘ Pin Mill” stands upon a gentle
eminence, about a quarter of a mile from the
Orwell shore. The woods are thick about it ;
and a gardened cottage, here and there, straggles

down the slope to the old inn at the water-side. The river

front of ‘“‘ The Butt and Oyster” overhangs the stream, when

the tide is at full. Dripping wet, we ran up from the boat,

and in at the open door, which is on the landward side,

overshaded by a wooded knoll; and there we found our-

selves in a large room, quietly furnished, in rustic style, with

a few old-fashioned things, all well worn, and all very clean.

“The parlour splendours of that festive place” were,

 
A GREEN NOOK OE OLD ENGLAND. 213

certainly, of the simplest kind. Upon the walls hung a
little case of stuffed birds, and a few rude pictures of rural
scenes and sea-pieces; and, amongst the rest, there were
two engravings representing episodes in the life of John
Wesley,—one was “‘ Wesley and his friends at Oxford,” the
other his rescue, when a child, from the burning of his
father’s house, at Madeley. These last, though slightly
discoloured with damp, had evidently been more cared for
than the rest. At first, they seemed strange things to find
in such a place; but when we came to look around, the
companionship did not appear forced, or unhealthy, after
all. The whole house relished of thorough cleanliness and
innocent intention. There was no veneering, nor pretence
about it. Every nook of the place was sweet as the flowers
of spring. It was akin to the green fields and the open air.
There was nothing coarse, however simple; there was
nothing slangy,—that prevailing abomination of the times ;
there was nothing meretricious in the bits of ornament,
‘ranged o’er the chimney, glist’ning in a row.” Altogether,
“The Butt and Oyster” had a homely, wholesome look ;
and the ale was good. It tasted, principally, of malt and
hops ; which was a point in its favour. The boarded floor
was new washed and sanded; and the only company we
found in the room was a hen and her chickens, who, like
ourselves, had wandered in at the open door, out of the
rain; and they didn’t seem at all disturbed when we entered
the place with arun. In an adjoining apartment, however,
we saw through the open doorway, two or three sea-faring
men, with a little company of folk from the village, quietly
discussing the build of a brig, which lay at anchor ahout
214 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

half-a-mile from the house. We had scarcely got seated by
the bay window, against which the “million-fingered” rain
was still pattering furiously, when two lads came running in,
followed by three country-looking men, clad in the garb of
decent artisans, out for a holiday. Each carried a handker-
chief, full of fresh-gathered herbs; and I noticed that the
faces of the men had that serenity of tone which is so
characteristic of the countenances of natural lovers of
science. Both in appearance, and in demeanour, they
reminded me of our own botanists in humble life, with
whom I have had the pleasure of roaming the summer
woods in years gone by. Shaking the rain from their
clothing, they sat down at a side table; and, calling for a
jug of ale, they began to eat crisp water-cresses with the
bread and butter they had brought with them; and very
heartily they seemed to relish that sweet and simple repast.
Meanwhile, they opened one or two of the handkerchiefs,
and quietly examined the specimens gathered in their
ramble. Now, to my friend, who is not only a learned
man, but also a natural enthusiast in such matters, this was
altogether irresistible. With a courteous approach, he took
up one specimen after another, descanting upon each with
so much knowledge, and with such simple fervour and
beauty of diction, that the botanical wanderers began to sit
still and listen, with glittering eyes, and with the _half-
chewed bread and butter visible between their arrested jaws,
evidently wondering what manner of man this could be,
upon whom they had fallen so unexpectedly. And thus the
next half-hour sped pleasantly by with the simple-hearted
lovers of nature.
A GREEN NOOK OF OLD ENGLAND. 215

The tide was beginning to return to the sea. We could
hear the water lapping against the wall beneath us. The
bay window, in which we sat, commanded, perhaps, the
finest water-expanse, and the most beautiful shore scenery,
on the Orwell estuary. From this point, ‘ Downham
Reach ” looks like an inland lake, or an arm of the sea,—
which it really is, being only about eight miles from the
open German Ocean. JBehind us was ancient “ Freston
Tower,” rising above the woods and glades of Wolverston
Park; but the opposite shore, in all its rich variety of vernal
beauty, was in full view. In gentle, irregular slopes, here
and there, richly wooded with noble trees, it rises from the
water-side ; and a great part of the landscape consists of
two of the finest parks in the county of Suffolk,—Orwell
Park, formerly the seat of Admiral Vernon, the victor of
Porto Bello, and now the seat of Colonel Toniline, M.P.
for Great Grimsby,—and the adjoining park, in which stands
Broke Hall, the ancient residence of Admiral Broke, who
fought the Shannon against the Chesapeake, at the close of
the American War; and now one of the seats of Sir George
Broke-Middleton, Bart. . . . The rain had ceased;
the sky was clear again; and we went back to the boat.
Steering aslant the reach, with the intent of skirting the
opposite shore on our way back to town, we came in front
of a green slope, all ablaze with golden-blossomed gorse,—
“the blossom’d furze, unprofitably gay,”—at the head of
which two straggling lines of pollard oaks marked the
borders of some ancient road. Pointing to these, my friend
informed us that between these trees ran the old lane,
called “‘Gainsborough’s Lane.” By this name it is known
216 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

here, even by people who know nothing of the origin of
the name. This was the great artist’s favourite rambling
ground, and the scene of his famous picture called “The
Market Cart.” We proposed, at once, to land at the foot
of the slope, and walk back to Ipswich, by way of ‘‘ Gains-
borough’s Lane.” Running “The Nancy” aground upon
the shallow beach, our boatman took us in turn upon his
back, and carried us through the water to dry land. ‘Then,
waving his hat, he went his way, glad to have the boat
lightened for his long pull homeward against the ebbing
tide. After a few minutes’ climb up the flowery brow, we
passed through a ragged gap ; and there we were, in “ Gains-
borough’s Lane.”

Amongst the most charming features, peculiar to English
scenery, are its wild hedgerows and green lanes. Who that
loves the country can ever forget the green lanes of Old
England,—the tired wayfarer’s resting place,—-the truant
school-boy’s free park, and hunting ground? Of the many
country lanes that I have seen since I was a lad, “ Gains-
borough’s Lane” is certainly one of the most beautiful. Far
from the bustle of common resort, it is sweetly and shadily
secluded,—a quiet green spot, in a quiet green country;
and all that is seen from it is of a charming kind, especially
on the southern side, which overlooks the Orwell. Frorn
that side of the lane the view was very beautiful. Oft, in
the course of our walk, we turned to take another peep at
“ Downham Reach,” through the trees, and as oft we cried .
“Windermere!” And certainly, it reminded me, again and
again, of that part of the Queen of the Lakes which is seen
from Low Wood, where the water is broadest, and the
A GREEN NOOK OF OLD ENGLAND. 217

scenery upon its banks is richest. And we agreed that,
after all, the most exquisite views of the Orwell we had yet
seen were the glimpses we got of it through the trees from
‘“‘Gainsborough’s Lane.” That part of the lane which we
travelled was more than half-a-mile in length; and there was
a graceful bend in it, where a green elbow of waste land,
overshaded by tall trees, was lighted up with great gorse
bushes, in full flower. It must have been very beautiful
too, beyond what we saw; for, in the eastward direction,
gently declining,

The brown pathway, there, with careless flow,
Sank and was lost among the trees below.

One of the most picturesque features of this old lane was
the trees that grew out of the hedges, on each side,—trees
of different foliage, here hanging thickly-green, over the
travelled way, there shooting aloft into the sky,—amongst
which were many fine pollard oaks, which must have taken
_ centuries to grow. These, I think, unmistakably mark the
antiquity of the road they line. The Jane was unusually
broad; and on each side of the pathway, the great, sprawl-
ing, irregular borders, under the trees, were overgrown with
a tangled wealth of wild plants, and flowers of the season.
Along the hedge-rows, the white blossom was peeping from
the thorn; the lark was aloft in the sky; and wild birds
rained down music from the boughs which overhung the
path. Slowly sauntering, we took our way through the
lane, and across the upland, to our own nest, upon the
wooded knoll, near Ipswich town.
 

 

 

nee

ZILLA

WIN es

 

 

Suint Catherine's Chapel;

OR
Ghee Dretty Aslan Bay.

O blest retreat and sacred, too!
Sacred as when the bell of prayer
Tolled duly on the desert air,

And crosses decked thy summits blue.

ROGERS,
aJHLE shores of the Isle of Man are remarkable for
| their variety of indentation, especially at the
southern end of the island. There its most .
interesting scenery may be found ; bold, rugged
headlands, beautiful bays, and savage ravines, where the wild

 

ocean churns and thunders in majestic fury. But from the
ruin-crested rock of Peel,—so rich in venerable memorials of
the past,—all round the shores of “the fairy isle,” there is
not a more charming spot than Port Erin, a little crag-
defended bay at the southern end of the island, about five
miles west of Castletown. The outer shores of this part of
the island are wildly fantastic; the mountains cluster
grandest there, and the inland scenery is fertile and
picturesque. Bold and rugged as the entrance to Port
SAINT CATHERINE'’S CHAPEL. 219

Erin is from the sea, all is quiet, and sweet, and sheltered at
the head of the bay. The contrast is striking, and pleasing
to the mind. The little fishing hamlet looks out contem-
platively between those wild, flanking rocks, at the entrance
across the blue waters, to where the mountains of Morne
and Wicklow, in Ireland, show their faint outlines in the
west. The bay, from the point where the headlands,—Brada
on the north side, and The Cassels on the south side of the
entrance,—front each other, like sentinels placed to guard
the little nest beyond from all ravage of the sea, is about
half a mile across, and about a mile inland. From that
point up to the hamlet at the head of the water, Port Erin
is a pleasant seclusion, sweetly retired, even on the land-
ward side, from bustle of any kind, except such as the sea
makes when a strong west wind brings Neptune’s white-
maned horses into the little bay in full career. Then,
indeed, Port Erin wears an aspect of a nobler and more
spirit-stirring kind. But, even then, when the spray is
flying over the thatched roofs of the fishermen’s cottages,
low down, near to the beach, the briny tumult is mere
child’s play in a nursery nook, compared to the roaring
majesty with which the billows of the Atlantic wilderness
rage among the creeks, and chasms, and craggy headlands
outside. At such a time, the thunders of the sea in the
Sound, which divides the Calf Island from the main land,
and amongst the storm-worn headlands that overfrown the
ocean immediately beyond the entrance to Port Erin, come
upon the ear of the listener, in his pleasant shelter at the
head of the bay, like the boom of distant war, But when
the wind is still, the clear tide fondles up the beach at the
220 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

foot of the village, as if it was glad to see that quiet nook of
Mona’s Isle once more. Lipping the delicately-mottled
strand with liquid grace, it creeps lovingly up towards Port
Erin’s green shore. Full of beautiful sounds, and hues, and
motions, it comes, with tender caresses, croodling its dreamy
sea-song ; and, as it rises in gentle sweeps nearer and nearer
to the cottages where fishermen dwell, at the foot of the |
villaged slope, it flings fresh shells upon the sand with every
surge,—like a fond traveller returning home laden with
memorials of his journey, which show that he has been
thinking of those he loved, when far away.

But let us sit down upon some pleasant “coigne of
vantage” at the head of the bay, and look at the quaint
little village there. The hotel, called the ‘‘ Falcon’s Nest,”
looks right out to sea from the head of the bay. It crowns
a green slope of grass-bound sand, which rises [from behind
an irregular line of old thatched cottages upon the beach,
not far from the head of the tide. There is a green terrace
in front of the hotel at the head of the slope, where I have
many a time sat and looked about me with delight upon a
summer’s day. At one end of the terrace there is a sun-
dial; at the other a rusty old cannon,—a relic of the Spanish
Armada. It was found in the water below Spanish Head,
hard by Port Erin, where part of that famous armament
“came to grief.” Great piles of fantastic sea-worn rock,
partly overgrown with greenery, stand, here and there,
upon the terrace; and ornamental seats are placed there,
for the use of visitors, when the weather is fine. The
chimney tops, and thatched roofs of fishermen’s cottages,
greened over with wind-sown verdure, peep up at the foot
SAINT CATHERINE’S CHAPEL. 221

of the slope, which is crowned by the terrace. It is very
pleasant to saunter about there on a fine summer’s day,—
Or on any other day,—to one who loves nature in all her
moods. It is, perhaps, better still to sit down, and look
lovingly upon the scene. The witchery of peace is on all
around, when the wind is still; the smoke from cottage
chimneys rises idly into the pure air, —idle as Ludlam’s dog,
that leaned against a wall to bark. It rises, here and there,
in lazy blue rings,—lounging curls of fat blue smoke, that
seem over-fed, and “done up” with pleasant lassitude, as
if they had just finished a good dinner; and would rather
have a nap before going out. The cottages of the village
are picturesquely strewn about, as if they had been dropped
through holes in a sack, by somebody who happened to be
flying over the place. But they chiefly cluster on the south
side at the head of the bay, about the bottom of the hill;
not far from high water, They then straggle up the
southern hill-side,—like school children out for a_holi-
day,—one on this shelf of green land; another in a nook of
the hill; another on the nose of a breezy bit of crag ; others,
in and out, dotting the sides of the mountain road, which
leads through the hamlet of Creag-y-N’eash, in the direction
of Spanish Head, and The Chasms,—the most remarkable
bit of coast scenery in all the island. About the middle of
the scattered village, a whitewashed chapel stands, in a
little patch of ground, enclosed by low walls. It stands
there, sweet and simple, by the side of the mountain road ;
about one hundred feet above the head of the tide ; and it is
a pleasing feature in the scene. The village is all under the
eye from the place where I am sitting, and the quiet play of
222 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

outdoor life going on there is novel, and dreamy-looking.
The whole scene is picturesquely varied. The wild mountain
tops, clustered in the direction of Fleshwick, as if in solemn
council; the dark, craggy headlands at the mouth of the
bay, with the blue sea heaving between; the smooth beach,
where the clear tide is singing and surging up; the quiet,
wandering village ; and the green plain, rolling away between
the hills, in picturesque undulations, landward. Port Erin
is enchanted ground! There are secluded nooks about

it, that seem as if
Some congregation of the elves,
To sport by summer moons, had shaped them for themselves,

The village is all under the eye. Down in the lowmost .
part, where the cottages are nearest to the water, a blue-
clad fisherman leans against his door cheek, smoking, and
gazing dreamily out to sea. I wonder what the old man
is thinking of. In front of another cottage, a stout matron,
with browned face and brawny arms, is hanging up strips of
conger eel, to dry in the sun; whilst a little barefooted lass,
about five years old, staggers about the doorway, under the
weight of a fat baby. A little below the sun-dial, which
stands at the end of the green terrace, upon which I am
sitting, a knot of Manx fishermen are lounging upon the
grass, around a pitcher of the thin Manx ale, called ‘‘jough.”
Now they are very merry, and they laugh and chatter in
full chorus, with great glee. Now their mirth subsides; and
they draw around an ancient mariner, who is telling a tale of
an adventure he had with the fairies, as he came over the
mountain from Fleshwick Bay, one night. It is wonderful
how firmly these islanders believe in fairies. Scratch deep
SAINT CATHERINE’S CHAPEL. 223

enough into any Manxman, and you will find fairies,
dancing by moonlight, amongst a world of other weird
imaginations. But we will let the old seaman go on with
his story. The village is all under the eye; and it is such
a homely spot, that if one stays a few days there, and is at
all disposed to be communicative, one begins to know
everybody ‘by headmark,” as the saying is,—“ Billy this,”
and ‘‘ Johnny that,” and “‘Neddy Omragh;” and the old
wanderer from the neighbourhood of Pool Vash, who
invariably recites a little epitaph he wrote upon some
notable person in that quarter a few years ago; and who
invariably expects something for reciting it. One begins to
know the village folk ‘‘ by headmark,” as I have said before,
and they stop and salute you kindly, and chat about the
weather, the fishing, the crops, and such like; and there is
something very homely and pleasant in feeling one’s self
thus linked in a kindly way to the rest of the human race
WiHereVvelaticy 20...» Lhe village isi all under the
eye; and Port Erin is enchanted ground. The voices of
nature are not drowned there in a roar of human tumult.
It is true that the unceasing murmur of the tide fills all the
air with its wild under-song, but its influence is so fine and
unobtrusive, that every sound of life in the little village
comes upon the untroubled sense distinctly framed in the
quietude which pervades that dreamy nook of Mona’s Isle,
when the wind is low. . . . Let us look around, and
be silent ; that one may hear what is going on. Behind me
is the cheerful hotel, the Falcon’s Nest. The landlord
stands upon the doorstep, giving directions about the
stabling of certain horses which have come up from Castle-
224 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

town. The horses are taken round to the stables; and the
landlord goes back into his nest. Snatches of the old man’s -
fairy tales come upon the wind, when it blows, towards me.
I hear broken bits of his story, while his mates stand
listening around him, in silent wonder :—

“*T was not thinking about nawthin’, when I think I hear
somethin’,—an’ I look,—an’ there was a little fellow close to
my leg. He was dressed in green an’ red, with silver
buckles on his shooce. He wass about the sice of eight
yearce. I make a grab to get howlt of him,—so,—an
then,—I,—get a handfull of wind. I cannot see nawthin’,
He is gone. . . . Iwass wan day makin’ a hedge. It
was up in Brada. There wass nobody but myself. It wass
wonderful! Up in the air, I hear them, shouting and
laughing. I know in a minute it is the fairies. I hear them
before, in the same place. They wass hunting. I hear the
cap’en o’ the fairies. He give a shout,—an’ all was silence.
Then the noice begin a-gain,—like people in a fair. I
hear them so well as I do see my hant. They wass hunting.
They have horses, an’ dawgs. I hear them very well. The
whips wass cracking, an’ horns wass blowing,—an’ I hear the
little dawgs going wif! wif! wif! It wass wonderful! Then
the cap’en give a shout a-gain,—an’ all wass silence. Then
there wass music. It wass so fine that I cannot hear it.
But, I feel there wass music playing up in the air.

I know it is the fairies ; and I say, ‘I think it is time to he
going home.’ So, I come a-way. . . . Another time,
when J wass coming down from Craig-y-N’eash, it come on
dark, all at once,—so dark as pitch. I look at my side.
There wass a little fellow. He wass just here (laying his
SAINT CATHERINE’S CHAPEL. 225

hand upon his hip). He wass about so big as my leg. I
know it wass a fairy. It was not a body at all. He come
to stale my boots.” And so on. But we let the old man
finish his tale. . . . I can now hear the footfall of a
lonely traveller, as he stumps along the road behind me,
stick in hand. He is a stout, old, weather-beaten Manxman,
with grey hair; and he is dressed in coarse blue woollen
cloth. I can hear every footfall as he works his way along
the silent road towards the mountain side, in the direction
of Fleshwick Bay; and, now that I turn round to look at
him again, I see that the old man is wiping his forehead,
as he stumps along, stick in hand. I can hear women talking
at their doors below the slope, and upon the cottage-
sprinkled hill-side, in the direction of Creag-y-N’eash. I
can hear the prattle of little bare-legged lads, who are sailing
their tiny, chip-built ships, and clamorously discussing their
relative qualities, as they watch how they fare among the
eddies and rapids of the stream which runs down the green
crease about the middle of the village. I can hear the
cackle of a large family of very clean and very fat ducks, as
they waddle and paddle, and splash the water about, and
open their wings, and wag their dumpy tails with delight,
upon the slushy margin of a pool, where the same streamlet
has been dammed up, for their. especial pleasure. I can
hear the opening and shutting of cottage doors, in different
parts of the village ; and I can hear something of the wild
fringe of an old Manx song, which a fisherman is crooning,
as he saunters along the strand towards his boat, which
lies, high and dry, in a sheltered nook, under the craggy
cliff, at the south side of the bay. I can hear the call of the

hme 5
226 MISCELLANEOUS ‘TRAVEL SKETCHES :

Manx shepherd to his dog, upon the dark mountain side,
towards Brada Head. Each sound is distinctly framed in
the pervading quietness of the scene, At an open bow-
window of the hotel behind me, two elderly gentlemen sit
talking together, and evidently enjoying what little breeze
there is from the sea. I have got it into my head, somehow,
that they are men of learning. One of them is a stout,
hearty-looking gentleman, who wears a black velvet skull-
cap; and likes to dine in his own room,— because he has
a good deal of writing to do.” I wonder what he is writing
about. He is talking in a sonorous tone of voice, to a
dignified old friend of his, whose manners at table, I have
noticed, always evince the self-possession, the graceful,
quiet action, and kindliness which marks a_ cultivated
gentleman. He is tall and thin; and his noble aquiline
nose sustains a pair of gold spectacles. Perhaps the black
velvet skull-cap and the gold spectacles have something to
do with my notion that they are learned men; but I believe
I am right, nevertheless. They are talking about the history
of the island, and about the geology of this part of it;
especially about the mines at Brada Head. I begin to
think they have some interest in those Brada mines; for
they are talking of the projected breakwater, and the
possible future of Port Erin. I can hear them plain enough.
Not that I like “ eaves-dropping ;” but there they sit, at the
open window, and they see me; and they evidently don’t
care arap who hears them. . . . At another window, a
little farther off, two sunny-haired young ladies come and go,
like wandering posies, “freshening and refreshing all the
scene” with their sweet presence. They belong to some
SAINT CATHERINE’S CHAPEL. 227

well-to-do family of cultivated people, who have come to
Port Erin to bathe themselves in quietness, and in the fresh
sea-breeze. I am sure it is so, for a noble-looking man,
considerably past the noon of life, shows himself at the
window, now and then, with two more of these pretty trailers
clinging to him. He is dressed in black, and he wears a
gold-framed double eye-glass ; and his fine countenance is
lighted up with a quiet smile, as he paces to and fro,
listening to the prattle of the two lovely young women who
have hold of him,—body and soul. It is very evident that
their prattle is music in his ears. . . . Now the mother
comes! JI am quite sure that placid, handsome, matronly
woman, in the black silk dress, is the mother. She is a
well-grown, sweet-looking, sound-constitutioned dame;
round as an apple, and clear-skinned, and quietly rosy ; and
kind-hearted, as everybody may see, at the first glance,
with half an eye. I durst bet a thousand pounds she is a
lady, in heart and thought. She has seen enough of the
world to enrich her experience ; and without hardening her
heart. She is a good, womanly soul; the kindliness of her
nature breathes through every pore; and speaks with
angelic eloquence in every line and dimple of her face. A
few silver threads may be shining in her yet abundant
auburn hair, but they only serve to give a new tinge of
dignity to her appearance. She knows something of
sorrow, too, no doubt; for who can have lived so
long in this world of ours as she has lived, without being
touched by the divine wand of that noble refiner of the
noble heart? But the clouds have long since gone; and her
smiles, now, are not smiles “that might as well be tears,”
228 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

She is, indeed, “one vast substantial smile,” from head to
foot,—a sunbeam of feminine goodness, raising the atmos-
phere of happiness around her, wherever she goes. Upon
the whole, her -lines have evidently “fallen in pleasant
places,” and,—‘“So mote it be,” say I, ‘‘to the end of a
long life yet to come.” Now she sits down by the open
window; and a handsome, light-complexioned lad, about
twelve years old, is teasing her in an affectionate way about
something or another; whilst a beautiful, sunny-haired girl,
of sixteen or so, leans over the other shoulder, and whispers,
as she smooths the old lady’s hair with tender touches,
“Mamma, dear, this!” and ‘Mamma, dear, that!” And,
oh, if there be an elysium on earth, that good old soul is in
itnow! Itisa beautiful glimpse of the smooth current of
human life.

Now I hear the clatter of horses’ feet upon the road
behind me, and a car comes up to the door of the hotel,
laden with a company of young men, who are evidently
‘‘in great spirits.” They have, very likely, come across the
island from Douglas, making a call or two on the way. If
one may measure their enjoyment by the noise they make,
they certainly ought to be very happy. They alight and
enter the hotel, whilst the car is taken round to the stable
yard ; and, in a few minutes, I hear a good deal more bell-
ringing in the Falcon’s Nest.

But who is this strange, gaunt fellow, that comes paddling
barefoot up the slope, from the low part of the village,
muttering to himself as he gazes vaguely around. It is poor
Johnny Daly, the affectionate lunatic youth, who wanders
over hill and dale, in all weathers, harmless and happy in
SAINT CATHERINE’S CHAPEL. 229

his unconscious helplessness. He is a tall, strong, young
man; but quite a child in affectionate simplicity. Poor
Johnny! He is only ‘mad nor-nor-west,” after all. If he
knows you, he either likes you well, or he doesn’t like you
at all. If he takes to you, he comes quietly up, and flutters
about you like a pet dove with a broken wing ; croodling
all sorts of inarticulate kindnesses in a touching and not
very demonstrative way; except that, now and then, as he
listens to your talk,—no matter what you are talking of, nor
how badly,—he suddenly claps his hands and _ laughs
boisterously ; as if he had just discovered a great joke in the
matter. If he likes you, he will sit down upon the grass
beside you, quietly crooning some wild fragment of old
Manx song, and looking slyly up into your face from time
to time; unless he chances to spy the landlord of the hotel,
or the owner of the one mansion at Port Erin. If he sees
either of these anywhere about, it is a thousand to one that
he will immediately leave you to your own devices and
desires, for the poor fellow knows who is kind to him a great
deal better than some of us do who think that we have all
our wits about us. Poor Johnny! He is fond of a penny,
like most of the world; and he needs it more than some
people do; although He “who tempers the wind to the
shorn lamb” has scattered a few kind hearts about the
wanderer’s way that will not see him want for any needful
thing. But I have seen people that Johnny would not
accept a penny from; and I have many a time wondered at
the curious principle of selection which seemed to lurk in
some corner of his disordered mind. I remember a little
excursion we made, one fine summer’s day, over the
230 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

mountain on the south side of Port Erin, and among the
wild cliffs, near the Sound, which divides the Isle of Man
from The Calf, It was a company of six; and amongst
them was the landlord of the hotel,—a kind-hearted and
intelligent Englishman. Johnny followed him, barefoot, all
the rugged way, with the affectionate instinct of a faithful
dog. As we returned homeward, by wandering, and some-
times dangerous tracks, along the edge of the precipices, on
the south side of the bay,—where the sea roared and dashed
majestically among lonely creeks two or three hundred feet
below, and the cormorant and seagull wheeled about the
dark crags, and screamed with delight in the breeze, half-way
down between us and the water,—our host disappeared
from the company for a little while, in search of something
among the rocks, whilst Johnny was picking his way
carefully up the prickly path aheaa. Turning round, Johnny
missed his friend; and after he had looked for him again and
again through the company, and all over the scene, he sat
himself down amongst the heather, and gazing quietly at the
blue sea, he murmured, in a plaintive tone, ‘‘ Now, he is
gone! He is-gone!" 2 1; | In asminute or tworrne
kneeled down among the heather, and, clasping his hands,
like a child at its mother’s knee, he muttered a few broken
sentences of the Lord’s prayer, and then he sat down and
gazed silently at the sea again. And we could not get him
to rise, until his friend reappeared from behind a rock;
when he instantly rose and clapped his great brown hands,
and trotted after us, with painful steps, through the prickly
bush, stopping, now and then, to laugh aloud. ;
Poor Johnny! As he comes paddling up the road from the
SAINT CATHERINE’S CHAPEL. 231

village, he hears the voice of the landlord, who is talking
to the ostler at the house end ; and away he goes, in full
trot, towards his friend, with whom he is a great favourite.
And now, mild evening begins to draw her delicate
curtains over the drowsy world. All things below the sky
are softening into shade ; and the pensive spell deepens the
charm that pervades this sleepy seaside nook of ‘‘ Mona the
lone, where the silver mist gathers.” The quiet life of the
village is sinking torepose. Barefooted lasses are fetching
water from the ancient well of Saint Catherine,—a beautiful
spring, at the foot of the sandy slope at the head of the bay ;
and an object of great veneration to the inhabitants of the
island. Lovers are stealing off to quiet nooks outside the
village ; where they can whisper unseen. Boats are coming
in from the Sound, and from the blue sea beyond. The fisher-
men haul them ashore in a sheltered shingly nook, under
the craggy southern cliffs; and then they saunter homeward
along the smooth beach, laden with fish and fishing tackle ;
some of them singing drowsily, as they saunter along. The
murmurs of the sea become more distinct, filling all the air
with a slumbrous influence. . . . Now the fisher’s wife
beats up her cottage fire, sweeps the hearth, and puts the
kettle on, to cheer her sea-beaten mate on his return from
the wild waters; and, here and there, fresh smoke is rising
again from cottage chimneys; bluer and more briskly than
in the glowing afternoon. . . . The old fisherman and
his village companions are mustering upon the grass at the
end of the terrace again. He has long since finished the
story about his adventure with the fairies among the
mountains ; and he has been carousing with his comrades in
232 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

the taproom of the Falcon’s Nest. They have brought
another pitcher of “jough ” out with them. And, listen!
They are beginning to sing, in chorus, the plaintive old
Manx song, called “ Molly Charrane!” The strange melody
floats up, weird and sweet, blending beautifully with the
murmurs of the rising tide, and waking up remembrances of
the wild history and wilder legends of ‘‘ Mona’s fairy isle.”
The broad glare of day is gone. The air is clearer ; the
green fields look greener; andthe hues of the landscape are
richer and more distinct than before. The sun has
“steeped his glowing axle” in the sea. The gorgeous hues
which linger over his track still glow upon the wide waters ;
but ‘‘ the line of light that plays along the smooth wave
towards the burning west,” is slowly retiring in the wake
of the sunken sun. Let me look out, while there is yet
light, for the eye has glorious scope to roam,in, from the
place where I am sitting. . . . At the head of the bay,—
the scattered village; and the green land,—green all along
the slopes of the hiils, and all over the fertile undulant plain
between, stretching away inland, towards Castletown. It is
a pleasant nook of seaside life, at the head of the bay. But,
as I look seaward, the flanking headlands grow wilder as
they recede, ending in scenes of savage grandeur among the
storm-worn crags which front the open sea.

The cliffs and promontories there,

Front to front, and broad and bare,
Each beyond each, with giant feet
Advancing, as in haste to meet.

The shattered fortress, whence the Dane
Blew his loud blast, and rushed in vain
Tyrant of the drear domain,

EE
: SAINT CATHERINE’S CHAPEL. 233

Those grim sentinels have seen strange scenes of storm,

and battle, and shipwreck, during their long watch over the
entrance to Port Erin. Oft has the ancient Dane steered
his “nailed bark,” laden with sea-robbers, into that little
bay ; and he has oft been wrecked upon that craggy coast.
Spanish Head overfrowned the destruction of part of the
great Armada, Many a noble ship has gone down in
the Sound between the Island and the Calf of Man.
As twilight deepens down, the breeze freshens, and the blue
waves begin to heave with life. Great white-winged ships
glide majestically by,—some near, some far off; and some
almost lost to sight in the distance. Far away, in the west,
the outlines of the mountains of Morne and Wicklow are
fading away from view. It isa bewitching hour! It is a
bewitching scene! But now the Irish mountains have
. disappeared in the shade; and the distant sea grows dim to
the eye. The village around me is sinking to rest; and
candle-lights begin to glimmer through cottage windows.
The old fisherman and his companions have gone back
into the taproom of the Falcon’s Nest. The wind is rising
still; and the air grows cold. I, too, will retire until the
world has donned its night-dress; and so good-bye to this
fairy scene for a while. The moon rises at ten! Perhaps I
may come forth to look around me once more, when the
world lies sleeping beneath her quiet smile. If not, then
farewell to thee, Port Erin!

When scenes less beautiful attract my gaze,

I shall recall thy quiet loveliness;

When harsher tones are round me, I shall dream
Of those mysterious notes, whose thrilling sounds
Peopled the solitude.
*NVHOVAW “H Ad «q ATAGdI4a HSIMI AHL ,,

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

Portrush.

 

Come unto these yellow sands,
Then, take hands;
Curt’sied, when you have, and kist,

The wild waves wist.
THE TEMPEST.

q\|ERE am I,—a poor, city-bewildered sinner, and
not wholly unconnected with publicans; here
am I, in ‘The Isle of Saints,” at last,—the
“Emerald Gem,” whose brilliance gave light to
the western world of antiquity. I sometimes wonder what
sort of place it was when it deserved the name of “The
Isle of Saints; ” but never mind. It is a delightful country,
and I feel as if I could like to stop in it a good deal, and go
away from it very littl. Oh, Erin! the green and the
bland,—so beautiful and sosad! What wonder is it that
thy warm-hearted children should love their own sea-beaten
isle so well! . . . Here am J,—after the usual travelling
experiences,—wandering by the shore of the sea, in search
of renovation. And, certainly, if a charming country, rich
in the associations of a long and eventful history,—if fresh
Atlantic breezes,—if twenty miles of fantastic rocks and
headlands, and Jong stretches of beach, as beautiful as

 
236 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

mottled marble,—if easily accessible solitudes, where berries
of the brightest red peep through verdure of the richest
green,—if these, with the music of the wild ocean for ever
singing in the ear, and with just enough of bathing-place
life to give a fillip to the quietness around,—if these can do
anything to restore the spirits of a tired citizen, ‘‘ the heart
that is humble,” as the song says, “‘ may hope for it here,”—
on the coast of Antrim, . . . But I had better say
exactly where I am, without any preamble about how I got
here. Well, then, my resting-place, after the usual small
perils on land and water, is the little bathing-town of
Portrush, far away in what southern Irishmen call ‘‘ The
Black North.”

It is an interesting spot tome. I like its remoteness and
quietude; I like the racy flavour of its life during the
summer season, for it hibernates in winter; I like its life,—
of which there is as much as a body can handle, and under-
stand, without being swallowed up by it. There are great
differences in bathing-places ; and those in which one can
bathe in salt water and quietness at the same time, have a
great charm forme. The Lancashire people seem to go to
Blackpool as much for change of drink as for change of air.
They continue their city habits; they meet the same city
faces; and they devote even more time than usual to
billiards and bacchanalian sacrifices with “jolly com-
panions,” who have as much leisure as themselves; and
when they return home a little more scorched by the sun
and the saline breeze, and a great deal more inflamed in the
vitals, they wonder how it is that they find themselves
rather worse than better for the change. The fact is that
PORTRUSH. 237

Blackpool is just Manchester over again, with a little salt
water, a little sand, and a great deal of snobbishness added
to it. Blackpool is a salted epitome of Manchester,—with
its best clothes and its worst manners on. There is too
much of the old hurry-scurry; too much of a weltering
swarm of familiar pleasure-seekers, all tumbling over one
another in pursuit of happiness, and dragging one another
into all sorts of devilment. It is not quiet enough,—not
remote enough,—not different enough in tone,—at least for
anybody whose nerves need restoration.

In Portrush a man has, at least, a chance of being as
quiet as he likes. These northern Irish, too, are a staid,
church-going race, endowed with many excellent qualities,
as the state of the country shows; and, in spite of their
famous whisky, there is less drinking amongst them, in
proportion to population, than in Lancashire. Portrush is
a little wind-swept town, occupying a rocky nose of land,
about five miles north of Coleraine. The wild Atlantic
sings to it, night and day ; for, in any part of the town, you
are not many yards from the sea; and, if either wind or
wave be stirring, you can scarcely help both seeing and
hearing it,—aye, and feeling it, too, sometimes. It is on
the high road to the Giant’s Causeway ; and, therefore, it
sees many strange birds of passage, from all parts of the
earth. On each side of the town there isa strand. The
“‘Long Strand,” on the north side of the promontory, is a
smooth, curving beach, nearly two miles long, ending in
great piles of limestone crag, known as ‘“‘ The White Rocks.”
There is a peculiar sweetness in the song of the surge along
this strand. The strand on the other side of the town is
238 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

more pent-in by the shore, and less frequented, but, never-
theless, a pleasantly-retired wandering-ground, commanding
a fine view of the wild mountains of Donegal. The harbour
looks a snug little sea-nest, with its half-dozen craft,
rocking idly in the wind. Glasgow steamers call here ;
and steamers from the Hebrides; and, sometimes, strange
vessels from strange quarters; and then, the whole town
runs down to see them. There is, almost always, some
novel excitement connected with seafaring life going
on there; and the bustle upon the quay is of a quaint
character, and easily taken in by the eye. The pro-
montory on which the town is situated, ends in a high
ridge of rock, called “ Ramore Hill.”* This hill is covered
with green land; and it is soft, and dry, and springy to the
foot. It is the fashionable promenade; where the curled
darlings of the town air their scented locks in the sea-breeze,

d

“when the clear cold eve’s declining ;” and, as Norah meets
Shelah on the street, she whispers, “Are you going to the
hill this evening?” This eminence is the best station for
watching vessels entering and leaving the harbour, and it
commands a fine view of the coast, from wild Inishone up
to the bold bluff of Fair Head, in the far north. <A few
yards from the centre of the town there is an excellent bath-
house, almost close to the sea; and, as we wander by,
between eight and nine in the morning, we see a few half-
dressed visitors sauntering about, waiting for their baths,—
and we hear the old manager shouting to his myrmidons,
aloft, ‘‘A tepid shower of eighty-five in number one; and

 

* Rathmore Hill, the hill of the great fort.
PORTRUSH. 239

a cold shower in number three! Look alive, please!”
Portrush has a little gasworks, the last building of all, before
we get into the green country, northward; it seems to hang
on the rest, like a drop at the nose-end of the town, ona
wintry morning. It has a dozen or so of street lamps,
which, like the sea, are very much influenced by the state
of the moon. It has also four public pumps, I believe, and
three wells. No doubt they will have both more light and
more water as the place grows richer, but for the present,—
well, neither man nor town “can whistle without top-lip.”
Portrush has a remarkable post-office,—a little shop with a
flower-grown rockery in front. The place is crowded with
nick-nacks. There you can get any kind of toys, trinkets,
lace, stationery, photographs, physic, fruit, shells, corals,
boot-laces, baby-linen, and Bibles,—anything, in fact, from a
wheelbarrow to a penny stamp, and change for a shilling ;
and a pleasant chat, too, if you drop in at the right time, for
the quaint spinster who rules that establishment is by far
the most interesting presence there. She is the right woman
in the right place,—chatty, natty, intelligent, and obliging
in the extreme. Yet she can be pungent enough when
occasion demands, and is not too long-tempered when
people annoy her during the heat of office business. That
little post-office may well be a favourite resort of rich and
pGGr. 2). by them way, Portrusiy is the birthplace of
Dr. Adam Clarke ; and the little Wesleyan Chapel in which
he preached stands at the end of the town, and upon a
mound close by it, a stone obelisk, erected to the memory
of the great man, A Portrush Sunday has all the subdued
tone of a Scottish Sabbath about it. Everybody seems to
2.40 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

have screwed his mouth up for the day ; and hardly a sou
dare show himself in the open air without a hymn-book in
his hand. There are not even as many dogs on the street
as usual. The town is well supplied with places of worship
for the number of worshippers. ‘There is an Episcopalian
Church, and a Presbyterian Church,—rather handsome
buildings for the place—and there is the little whitewashed
Wesleyan Chapel; these three represent what may be called
the staple theologies of the north. And then, at the end of
the town, there is a pretty Catholic Chapel, with its clergy-.
house and school-house, all neatly enclosed. And this ends
the list of spiritual provision in Portrush . . . And
now, turning from that to the spirituous. There are two
large inns, one where the upper ten thousand go,—the lords,
bishops, judges, and such-like,—the other, an excellent hotel,
cosy and homely, walks on rather shorter stilts than the
first, and catches its overflow,—when there is any.
The windows of the “first” hotel are a great attraction
to passers-by after nightfall, for the full-dressed visitors
are then lounging about the great room in statuesque
attitudes, whilst the crowd outside gaze upon them
with mouths agape, as if they were strange animals
caged in a menagerie. Of course there are other places
of refreshment of less pretensions as these. In fact, each
of the two inlets to the town has its favourite “ calling-
shop.” Folks coming from Coleraine, like to drop in at
‘‘The Captain’s;” and country people, going towards
the “Causeway,” have some difficulty in getting out at
the town-end without taking “a half-un” at ‘ Ned’s.”
The popularity of these places owes a good deal to the
PORTRUSH. 241

characteristics of those who keep them. It is the same
with “ Mickey’s” whisky-store, down at the sea-ward end
of the town, overlooking the harbour. This-is the favourite
resort of fishermen, and “ old salts,”’—and fine fellows they
are, with their calm, manly faces, which have confronted
death and danger so habitually that it seems to have
endued their demeanour with a kind of dignified meekness,
which is all their own. ‘“ Mickey” himself is a great
favourite with these wanderers of the wave. He is always
ready to befriend a stranded fisher ; and: they never forget
his kindness. This is the place to hear any news of the
sea; for there are almost always a few of these ploughmen
of the ocean lounging about.

There are certain public features of life here, which
must catch the eye of the stranger, they are so peculiar.
For instance, the characteristics of people who go about
the street, selling things. The fruit trade: seems to be
principally in the hands of three or four men, who are
perpetually stopping you on the public way, with “ Dy’e
require ony fine plums, the day?” ‘These peripatetic
_ fruiters seem to be the same persons from year to year,
without the slightest change in their appearance. One of
them is a surly-looking fellow, who will insist upon you
tasting something, which, if you decline, he stands stock-
still, and glares as you walk away; as if he was inwardly
resolving to have your blood the first opportunity that
presented itself. . . . Each morning’s fresh fish is
dispensed by barefooted fishermen’s wives ; who generally
go in couples, from house to house, asking if you “require
ony flat fish, or ony crabs or lobsters, the day?” Eggs

7—16
242 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

and butter are brought in by clean, timid, farm-lasses, and
mild-faced, fresh-looking country women; and milk comes
in on carts, in. long, blue-painted churns. Now and then
a quiet-looking countryman enters the town, leading a load
of turf, and looking wistfully from: side to side for a
customer, as he wends his way slowly along. As for the
butchers,—blessing o’ their hearts,—they sell good meat ;
but, beware! for if you send for a chop, they are almost
Sure ‘to bring you ajsheep, 9.) . 9). Where aremenier
features of street life, too, which strike a stranger here.
Sometimes a stray piper comes into. Portrush, by the
“ Islay” steamer, from the Hebrides; and away he goes
through the town, streaming forth wild pibrochs,—savage
and “shrill ~:~. 9 2" A’ German “band has @becmueitene
lately, too, playing,—well, one of the tunes they murdered

and: 1b us’ (well

was, ‘“‘Now pray we for our country ;’
enough for them to pray for their country, but,—if they
played for it as they have been playing here,—they have
indeed left their country for their country’s good, for such
playing would ruin any country on earth! They lingered
along while here, turning up at every turn, in all sorts of
places ; working away industriously at the same five tunes,
and cadging with a persistence worthy of the noblest cause
on earth! There is hardly a door at which they have not
knocked,—hardly a window up to which they have not
thrown solicitous Teutonic leers. And then, the noise
they made, it seemed to fill the town to overflowing,
with a most excruciating uproar, Portrush could not
have held a note more of such brazen discord. The very
air seemed ashamed of being a party to that abominable
PORTRUSH. 243

riot. The blatant janglement murdered every fine sound
that was going in the little town, and then floated across
the sea, dying out upon the affrighted waves, about half-
way over to the Hebridean Isles. ‘Oh, ’twas foul!” :
Since that German band was here the inhabitants com-
plain that all kinds of fish, endowed with musical taste,
have left their shore. But the band is gone at last; and it
will be a long time before the town recovers from the throes
of agony in which they have left it. These, however, are
only stray waifs,—noisy pestilences gliding from place to
place, and leaving a trail of pain behind them all the way.
But the stock musicians of Portrush, those who are “ natives
and to the manner born,” and who are known as “institu-
tions ” upon its streets, may be told upon the fingers of one
hand ; indeed they principally consist of three,—performers,
I suppose I must call them,—two old fiddlers, and a little
cracked player upon a crazy dulcimer, whose musical
repertory consists chiefly of ‘‘Oh, Bob Ridley, oh!” The
two fiddlers, also, are quaintly distinct in character. The
first,—begging the other’s pardon,—is a blind man, a tall,
brown-faced, beery old fellow, decently clad in dingy blue
cloth, from top to toe; and, like most blind men, he goes
with his face turned up to the sky, and with an uncon-
sciously pleading look upon his countenance; yet he is a
merry fellow withal. He is occasionally led by his
daughter,—a clean, sweet-faced girl, about sixteen. This
man has some music in his soul; and when asked for any
melody of the “Champagne Charlie” kind, he begins it
with a grunt of dissatisfaction,—he hurries through it with
careless fingers, and finishes with as short measure as pos-
244 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

sible. But there is nothing on earth,—except sixpences,—
pleases him better than to be asked to play an old Irish
air. Then you see the minstrel in all his glory ; as he sits
tuning his instrument, with many a wailing prelude, his
blind face beaming with joy, and his limbs quivering with
ecstatic thrill; and as he tones his strings for ‘ Let Erin
remember the days of old,” he will turn his face towards
you, and, with tears in his eyes, he will say—‘‘ Oh, my big
son, but that’s a noble tune!” The other fiddler is chiefly
noticeable for his helpless age and the general plaintiveness
of his condition; the inarticulate croon with which he
accompanies his fiddle, and which is so like a wail of dis-
tress ; his long coat, his short trousers, his bowed back, and
shrunk shanks, and his three tunes. I have known him
several years, and the poor old fellow is struggling still, with
one foot in the grave, to wriggle a thin living out of the
same three tunes ; and God help him! say I.

And now, a word about beggars; and I have done for
the present. There is a great deal less mendicancy here
than in some parts of Ireland ; but, the other day, an old
woman asked alms of me, and when I had relieved her, she
burst forth, with all the passionate gratitude of her nature :—
“ Ah! see now, darlin’,” said she, ‘“‘ see now what heaven
prepares for us an the way! Oh, thin, your honour, God
put that into your heart! May health an’ good fortin
attind ye all your days! Oh, indeed, sir, I am old, an’
broken, an’ waitin’ my time, which is not long now, glory be
to God! Oh, thin, I am old, an’ ill, an’ broken to the bare
bone o’ me entirely ; an’ I am a poor, lone wanderer on the
face o’ the ground. Oh, I had seven childer, your honour,
PORTRUSH. 245

an’ a good man to my husband; but they are all dead,—
they are all dead, and laid low, long since, your honour ;
an’ I am left wanderin’ my lone, with nothin’ but poor
neighbours, an’ the kind heart the good God an’ the blessed
queen of heaven makes warm to me on my solitary way!
May the Lord reward your honour, an’ that ye may be blest
with kind hearts about ye, an’ that ye may have lashins an’
lavins o’ the best, to your dying day! Oh, indeed, indeed,
Iam old an’ broken, your honour! If I was to find death
comin’ on me, I would make for Rasharkin, the place where
I was born, that J might lay me down to rest among my
own people,—glory be to God! Ah, thin,—signs on,—
there’s good fortin forninst ye, darlin’; and the kind heart
of her ye love shall attend ye all your days! Good luck to
your honour’s four bones! May the hand of the Lord be
about ye, an’ mark ye to grace, for evermore ! ”

  

 
 

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‘¢ THE EMERALD ISLE.”
 

Su the Hsle of Hum.

CHAPTER I.

The isle is full of noises.
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices,
That if I had then waked after long sleep,

Will make me sleep again.
THE TEMPEST,

SHE Hebridean Isles, which lie scattered along the
sea, like skirmishers sent out from the Scottish
coast into the stormy wilderness which divides
that land from North America, teem with interest
for the scholar, the man of science, the antiquary, and the

 

lover of nature. In these remote little sea-girt worlds,—each
cherishing its own wild traditions,—the old race, the old
manners, and the old language of Britain still linger. Like
all mountainous and isolated lands, they have been slow
to change, becatise in times gone by they were difficult
of access, and easily defended, and more than all, perhaps,
because they were comparatively untempting to the rapacious
prowlers of the sea. No wonder, then, that, even yet, in
IN THE ISLE OF RUM. 247

spite of all the modern facilities for communion with the
rest of the world, they still retain enough of the ancient
features of their insular life to strike an imaginative stranger
with the charm of romantic novelty. Much of their early
history has gone down with the ebbing tide of time, leaving
no record upon the shore; but

Nameless mound and dateless stone,
Where generations like successive waves
Have rolled each o’er the other, and have gone,
As all go, undistinguishably fused,
Their separate lives in common death confused.

There are some traces of Druidical occupation here and
there amongst these isles; but, whatever were the features
of human life existing there in Druidical times, they are now
almost entirely shrouded in mystery ; for they have no place
in the annals of mankind. About the middle of the sixth
century they began to emerge from the enfolding gloom,
chiefly through the agency of one of the most remarkable
men of that time. In the year 563, St. Columba, Columd
Kull, ““The Dove of the Cell,” left Ireland, where he had
founded thirty-seven monasteries, and crossed the sea, with
twelve companions, in a boat of hides, with the intent of
converting the heathen of the Hebrides. St. Columba was
forty-two years old when he left Ireland on this mission ;
and he must have been a man of high mark among the
wild Celtic tribes of that time, for he is said to have been
“related to the regal races of the O’Neills and O’Donnels,”
and, in addition to his piety and learning, he was distin-
cuished by “a tall and commanding figure, good looks, and
a sweet but powerful voice.” Such gifts and graces as these
248 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

would have told among the crowded life of our own time;
no wonder, then, that, with such a man as this at the head
of that little band of missionaries, the superstitious savages
of the Hebrides “were awed by the loud and sonorous
chanting of the psalms by the saint and his followers.” It
is said, too, that the cause of his leaving Ireland was his
having surreptitiously copied the psalter of his master, Saint
Finian, whilst he was at school under him, at Clonard. Be
that as it may, there is something touching in the record of
his wanderings from island to island before he found a
resting place in Iona. ‘‘ Passing the island of Islay,
Columba landed cn the island of Oronsay; but, jmding
that the coast of Lreland could still be descried, he sailed
northward beyond Colonsay, and landed on the southern
shore of Iona, at ‘The Port of the Coracle.” From the
highest point of Iona, he could no longer see the Irish coast,
and so consented to remain; his outlook being thence
called “The Cairn of Farewell.” The wonderful story of
Tona is now well known; how it became the Lantern of the
West, from which,—when the light of religion had grown
dim in the rest of the world,—it was purely relumed and
disseminated through distant lands; how it became the
sanctuary to which, for nearly a thousand years, ‘‘ the pious,
the learned, warriors, princes, the poor, and the stricken,—
all turned for counsel, for absolution, for refuge, and for
alms ;” and how this rocky isle became, also, the burial
place of monarchs and nobles, where, mingling with the
dust of the pious and the learned, lie the mouldering
remains of forty Scottish kings, one king of France, two
Irish kings, two Norwegian kings, and many of the most
IN THE ISLE OF RUM. 249

powerful chiefs of the Scottish clans. These islands owe
much to those devoted men who first

Dared the dangers of the narrow seas,
To plant the cross amongst the Hebrides.

It was with their settlement in Iona that the history of the
Hebrides first begins to mingle with that of the rest of
Europe; and, in addition to twenty-one churches which
were established by St. Columba upon the main land, he
established thirty-two churches in these lonely islands, one
of which was Kilmory, or “The Church of St. Mary,” in the
Isle of Rum, where I am now staying, and of which I am
now writing, as I sit at my window looking out upon
Scresort Bay, with the southern point of the Isle of Skye,
and the distant mountains of Inverness-shire in full view
before me, beyond the intervening sea. . . . Here I
am; on the wild, sweet, sea-girt solitude, called ‘‘The Isle
of Rum,” where there is no inn, no shop, no magistrate, no
lawyer, no policeman, no doctor, except one or two wild-
eyed Celtic herdsmen, who know how to tinker up the
sheep and kine when they are ailing; and the old women
of the island, who are all more or less skilful in the use of
simples, and are, amongst themselves, what the lowland
Scotch call ‘‘ doctors by guess.” I find that when they are
in absolute need of a professional doctor here, their only
chance is to send a boat fifteen miles to the Isle of Eigg
for one. With the exceptions I have mentioned, there is
no doctor, nor apothecary, on the island; there is no gas,—
and not many candles; there are no cabs, no clubs, no
newspapers, no pillar posts, no din, no dust, no rattle of
250 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

wheels, no ’buses, no music rooms, no front streets, no back
slums, no green lanes, nor lanes of any other colour, no roads,
——except a wandering slip of road, about half a mile long,
which leads from the rude pier on the south side of Scresort
Bay, through a straggling cluster of eight or ten thatched
cottages, called “‘ The Town,” and then onward by the edge
of the water, to a place where cattle, and the one or two carts
belonging to the island, have to go splashing through the
mountain stream, and where there is a little wooden bridge
“‘for ither folk ;” from thence this short road leads across
a level meadow, through a fine clump of trees (the only
trees on the island) which shade the rear of Kinloch
House, and across another mountain stream, up to the
farmstead of the island. This is the only road in all Rum.
There is no church nor chapel in the island, except one
small edifice of wood, about eight yards long and four yards
wide, and so plain in form that an acquaintance of mine
once said that when he first saw it as he entered the bay, it
looked like a haystack with two windows in it. And yet, in
that simple fane, which looks as modest as a mountain
daisy, upon its little patch of green slope down by the shore
of the bay, learning and religion have found a home not to
be despised ; for there, during the week days, a studious,
dark-eyed, far-off cousin of the ancient Lords of Lorne
teaches the rudiments of education to about a score of
hardy, bare-legged little islanders; and there, too, on a
Sunday, he officiates as minister. The service is in Gaelic ;
which is much more common than English. There is no
other school or chapel on the island, but this; there is no
smoke, except the blue smoke curling up lazily into the
IN THE ISLE OF RUM. 251

clear air from the green thatch of a little cottage, here and
there; there is no steam,—except when that daring little
rover of the narrow seas, the ‘‘ Hebridean,” comes puffing
and churning up to the pier, about once in a fortnight ;
there are no slutchy streams, no swill-shops, no public
dinners, no speeches, no swells, no betting shops, no
butchers, no banks, no need for Bank Holiday, no bailiffs,
no bills, no creditors, no placards, no paste, no walls to
paste them on, no society but a few simple-hearted shep-
herds and fishermen; no anything, in fact, but peace, and
quiet breathing, and plain wholesome fare; and “the shapes,
and sounds, and shifting elements” of nature in continual
play ; and full of infinite variety and incessant delight.

And now, having said so much about what there is of on
the island, I will try to give the reader an idea of what there
zs there ; and what the place is like. In the first place,
then, Rum is one of the larger Hebridean Isles, being about
_ seven miles square ; that is, if it were square, which it is not.
It is crowded with picturesque mountains, wild corries, and
some pastoral valleys; and it is almost entirely devoted to
the grazing of sheep. After the Isle of Skye, it is one of
the most picturesque in appearance of all the Hebrides. At
its south-east corner, the Scour-na-Gillean, or “ Hill of the
Young Lads,” rises 2,504 feet from the sea; and between
this mountain and Loch Scresort, on the east, the black
volcanic peaks of Haskeval, 2,667 feet, and Haleval, 2,367
feet, steeply overfrown the south-eastern side of the island.
There are many other lesser hills upon the island ; but these
wild peaks are visible far out at sea; and as we draw
near, the island looks as bare and bleak as a stone, at first
252 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES ;

sight; and there is not a tree to be seen anywhere, except
the beautiful little bit of woodland which shades the rear
of the house at the head of Scresort Bay. I find that there
are about seventy people now living upon the island. The
other day, old Kenneth Maclean, whose fore-fathers have
lived at “‘ Carn-an-Dorian,” or “‘ The Otter Stones,” for many
generations, went over the entire list of the families upon the
island, naming every member of each family, old and young ;
and when he had got to about seventy persons, he could get
no further, because there were no more on the island. I find
that the name of the island, which is now commonly spelt
Rum, is both spelt and pronounced “ Ruim,” which, Celtic
scholars say, means ‘“‘ The Spacious Land,”—-though I cannot
exactly see how ‘‘spacious” applies to an island which
is almost entirely mountainous. In an article which I
met with accidentally in one of the magazines, a few months
ago, I find, too, that this “Rum” was the ancient British
name of the Isle of Thanet before that island was ceded
to the Saxons; and, also, that the first syllable of the
name of “ Ramsgate” has the same Celtic origin, This is
a matter, however, which I must leave to those who know
more about it than I do. But whilst I am on this subject of
local names, | may be pardoned for introducing a short
passage from Dr. Johnson’s ‘“‘Journey to the Western Isles,”
in which he speaks of the name of an island very near to
this—the Isle of Muck. Speaking of his stay at Dunvegan,
in the Isle of Skye, he says: ‘‘ Among the guests which the
hospitality of Dunvegan brought to the table, a visit was
paid by the laird and lady of a small island south of Skye,
of which the proper name is Muack, which signifies swine.
IN THE ISLE OF RUM. 258

It is commonly called Muck, which the proprietor not
liking, has endeavoured, without effect, to change to Monk.
It is usual to call gentlemen in Scotland by the name of
their possessions, as Rasay, Bernera, Loch Buy, a practice
necessary in countries inhabited by clans, where all that live
in the same territory have one name, and must be therefore
discriminated by some addition. This gentleman, whose
name I think is Maclean, should be regularly called Muck;
but the appellation, which he thinks too coarse for his
island, he would still less like for himself, and he is there-
fore addressed by the title of ‘Isle of Muck.’” Of the
history of the island scarcely anything is known now, except
what comes down in the shape of misty tradition,—very
misty, and very scanty, indeed,—for even that has been
almost entirely swept away in the wholesale emigration of
the old inhabitants, which took place in 1828. In that year
all the inhabitants of Rum, with the exception of old
Kenneth Maclean’s father, who then lived at ‘ Carn-na-
Dorian,” where his son lives now, were carried off in a body
to America. So clean, indeed, was the sweep of the
population, that a few families were afterwards brought
over from Skye, to keep up the continuity of human life
upon the island. Old Kenneth tells me that “seven
hundred and fifty souls” of the old population left the
island, on that memorable day, in the year 1828. At the
time of the Reformation, the people of Rum clung still to
the Catholic, or “old religion,” whilst Maclean, the laird of
the isle; became a convert to the Protestant faith, His
sister, however, continued to lead the people to the Catholic
chapel, which the laird resisted, stopping them on their way,
254 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

and driving them back with his yellow cane to the Protestant
chapel, where they afterwards continued to go. Hence, the
Protestant religion became known as “the religion of the
yellow stick.” Like most of the Hebridean Islands, Rum
may now be called an “immemorial isle of graves ;” for, as
an anonymous writer says, “there is nothing left to mark
the presence of its old population save the foundations of
their dwellings. Their lives and their legends have no other
memorials but the nettles growing in waste places.” I can
trace the faint outlines of these ruined habitations, here and
there, overgrown with grass and moss, and wild lichens, as I
wander about the shore of the island to-day. What little is
really known of the early history of Rum comes through its
connection with the religious establishment on Iona; and of
this, the ancient graveyard of Kilmory, or “The Church of
St. Mary,” on the north-west side of the island, is the most
remarkable existing relic.

 
 

CHAPTER II.

It is by living there from day to day that you feel the” fulness of its.
charm; that you invite its exquisite influence to sink into your spirit.
The place is as changeable as a nervous woman, and you know it
only when you know all the aspects of its beauty. It has high spirits
or low, it is pale or red, gray or pink, fresh or wan, according to the
weather or the hour, It is always interesting, and almost always.
sad; but it has a thousand occasional graces, and is always liable to
happy accidents.

““ VENICE,’ BY H. JAMES, JUN.

HAVE never seen Venice; but I have visited many
interesting places in my own land; the last and not
least singular of which is the Isle of Rum; and
when I met with the lines which I have chosen

as a motto for this chapter, I felt at once that they expressed

 

what I have often privately thought during my wanderings ;
and that they were applicable to many other remarkable
scenes, as well as to the famous gem of the Adriatic sea,
During my stay in the Isle of Rum, I have often felt how
necessary it was to remain there for a while, until one had
seen the place “all round,” or rather, in all tempers and
moods of weather, in order to understand it and appreciate
it aright. A man might happen to be there, for the first
time, during a run of dull or wet weather, and he might
hurry away from it,—if he had the chance,—with a feeling
that he was escaping from a bleak, damp prison, moated
256 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

around by the melancholy sea; but let him linger and wait,
as I did, and before long,—for it is a fitful clime,—there will
come days so sweet and clear, so balmy and dreamily-
charming, that, like myself, he may wonder whether any
other spot upon earth can be more beautiful. There will
come days when he will awake with delight to find the dull
curtain lifted, and all the air filled with silence and soft
clear radiance,—and the lights and shades, and the delicate
action of the wind upon the crisp waters, full of exquisite
play,—and the glorious range of mountains upon the main
land beyond the sea, and even the stony hills of the island,
all clothed in changeful robes of marvellous beauty, under a
soft blue sky ; sweetly checkered here and there with gently-
gliding fleecy clouds, There will come intervals like this,
in which it will be a pleasure to breathe and live; and
during which he will feel it a sin to keep the house whilst
such a glorious spectacle awaits hitn outside, and “all nature
beckons him forth, and murmurs to him that such hours
should be devoted to collecting impressions.” In such
seasons as this he will begin to perceive that the bleak
Hebridean wilderness is minutely enamelled with surprising
floral gems ; he will begin to feel the beauty of ‘the vague
neutral tints ofa treeless hillside ;” and in his contemplative
rambles along the shores of the isle he will often pause
amongst moss-grown crags and wave-worn rocks and caves to
gaze with delight upon ‘‘the old softness and mellowness of
colour—the work of the quiet centuries and of the breath
of the salt sea,” which is visible there, even as it is in the
walls of ancient Venice, so much enriched by art and time,
I feel thankful now that I remained long enough in the
IN THE ISLE OF RUM. 257

Isle of Rum to feel the truth of what a recent writer in
Blackwood says of the Hebrides. ‘‘ These islands,” says he,
“are a kind of paradise in their way, with a mild and soothing
climate, gentle breezes tempered by the Gulf Stream, south-
west winds that waft the rain clouds over to the mountains
of Mil inuinenand sokye; reat fertility of ‘soil; the
fragrance of inany coloured flowers, and a wild range of
Habiralanduinexpected) beauty,”-7.)°. 4 “* Tigh Mor,”
or “The Big House,” at the head of Scresort Bay, was
built by Dr. Maclean, some time after the Isle of Rum was
purchased by his brother, Maclean, the laird of Coll, from
Clanranald. Dr. Johnson, who visited the Hebrides in
1773, mentions the fact of this island having been pur-
chased from Clanranald by Maclean ; and he, also, mentions
_ another fact, characteristic of Hebridean life in that time,
namely, that, on account of some quarrel about the terms of
purchase, Maclean seized Clanranald and kept him in con-
finement for nine months. I think, however, that the house
must have been built after the time of Dr, Johnson’s visit,
for he does not mention it, and it seems to me not more
than seventy or eighty years old. It is a plain, strongly-built
stone house, with a steep roof, and with a porch, and with a
small wing at each end, one of which is used as a gun room,
and the other as a kitchen. The rear and ends of the
house are shaded by trees, and the lawn in front slopes
gently down to the shore of the bay. The south side of the
lawn is flanked by the garden, and the north side partly by
trees and partly by a- low-built, comfortable, whitewashed
cottage, which is the second hest house upon the island,
and is the residence of Mr. Donald Ferguson, who is the

Lae
258 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

sheep farmer of the island. Since the time of the Macleans
the Isle of Rum has changed hands more than once. From
the Macleans, I believe, it was purchased by the late
Marquis of Salisbury, who made some expensive efforts to
improve the isle, which proved of no avail. After the death
of the Marquis, the widowed Marchioness lived in seclusion
in ‘‘ The Big House ” for some years. After this the island
was sold to the late Captain Campbell, at whose death, in
1881, his nephew came into possession of it. ‘Tigh Mor”
is now the temporary residence of Mr. John Bullough, the
eminent imachinist, of Accrington, who is the lessee of the
island. After we have passed ‘‘ The Big House,” the only
remaining building of any kind upon the rest of the shore
are those belonging to the farmstead of Mr. Donald
Ferguson, the sheep farmer of the island. ‘They stand
around the four sides of a courtyard ; and they are strongly
~ built of stone, with slated roofs ; and in the north-west
corner of the square, Roderick Macleod, Mr. Ferguson’s
chief shepherd, lives with his wife and family. In some of
the houses here, which have glass windows,—even in one of
the bedrooms at Kinloch House,—I have noticed that when
a pane happens to be broken, they overlay the fractured part
with another piece or patch of glass, which serves at least to
keep out the wind, although it slightly dims the light. But
there are no glaziers to be had in the Isle of Rum, and it is
for this reason that the inhabitants carefully keep pieces of
broken glass by them. -+Window cords, tov, seem to be un-
known, or, at least, unused there. If one wishes to have a
window open, he finds it necessary to prop it up with some-
thing. In Dr. Johnson’s ‘‘ Journey to the Western Isles ”
IN THE ISLE OF RUM. 259

(1773), he notices the same thing. He says, “ The art of
joining squares of glass with lead is little used in Scotland,
and in some places is totally forgotten. The frames of their
windows are all of wood, They are more frugal of their
glass than the English, and will often, in houses not other-
wise mean, compose a square of two pieces, not joining like
cracked glass, but with one edge laid perhaps half an inch
over the other. Their windows do not move upon hinges,
but are pushed up and drawn down in grooves, yet they are
seldom accommodated with weights and pulleys. He that
would have his window open must hold it with his hand,
unless, what may sometimes be found among good con-
trivers, there be a nail, which he may stick into a hole, to
keep it from falling,” There is a Gaelic proverb which says
that the sun, the tide, and hunger are enough to mark the
time ; and, indeed, these seem to be the only clocks upon
the Isle of Rum that go right. Nobody there appears to
know, nor even to care much, what o’clock it is. I have
sometimes been a little puzzled to remember what day of the
week it was; and I have had to reckon backwards before I
could get at it. I have seen watches upon the island, but I
never saw two that told the same tale; and I don’t think I
ever saw one that agreed with the sun,—except by accident.
I have heard clocks strike there, too; but it- was of no use
counting the strokes, for it was all nonsense; and if you
happened to meet with anybody who was at all likely to
know anything about the matter, and you asked them what
time it was, they would stop, and give a quiet look round,
at the sea, and at the fields, and at the hills, and then they
would make a rough guess at the thing,—which was quite as
260 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

much to be relied upon as any clock-work upon the island.
After they had read the face of nature in this old-fashioned
way, they might then, perhaps, pull a watch out; but when
they had given a quiet glance at it, they would pocket it
again, without saying a word about it, as if it was a thing to
look at and to show, but not at all a thing to go by.

I have now made the circuit of all the inhabited part of the
shore of Scresort Bay, where the great majority of the
inhabitants of the island dwell; the only other inhabited
places being four or five small sheep farms, in lonely nooks
of the isle, separated from each other by several miles of
wild mountain land. After we have passed the last house,
which is the farmstead occupied by Mr. Donald Ferguson,
all the northern shore of the bay is a rocky, heathery, wild-
flowered mountain side, sloping down in rugged beauty to.
the water. It is as wild as it was more than a thousand
years ago, when the monks of Iona are supposed to have
first settled at Kilmory, on the north side of the island, and
built the ancient church there, the ruins of which still
remain ; with a cluster of broken, weed-grown walls,—the
mouldering relics of the old town of the church of St. Marye
The ragged remains of these dwellings of the ancient
inhabitants of the isle are scattered over a few acres of
ground, in a quiet, sheltered vale, and close by a beautiful
mountain stream ; but there is no sound to be heard there
now, but the wild voices of nature. The northern shore of
the bay looks as if nothing but nature had touched it since
the time when the island was unknown to mankind, except
that there are a few scarcely discernible wandering footpaths
amongst the heather-mantled rocks, made by shepherds,—
IN THE ISLE OF RUM. 261

such paths, indeed, as may be found all over the island,—
now fast “lapsing into nature’s wide domain” again,—but
which may have been trodden by its first wild inhabitants,
and by the ancient Culdee monks, who first essayed to tame
and train them. With the exception of such paths as these,
the only road upon the island is the one, little more than:
half a mile long, which leads from the pier to Kinloch
House, in Scresort Bay; all other paths in the island have
been made by the foot and not by the hand of man. The
islander of Tiree, who said that the roads upon his native
island ‘‘ought to be the best in the world, for they were
repaired twice a day, as regularly as the tide ebbed and
flowed,” said a thing which is quaintly indicative of the
condition of the roads generally in the more remote
Hebridean Isles. There has long been a prevailmg theory
that the natives of the Hebridean Isles were of Celtic origin ;
but, I find that scholars who have given careful study to the
matter are beginning to be more and more of opinion that
a large proportion of the Hebridean population is of
Scandinavian descent. This seems not unlikely, even to
one comparatively unskilled in that research; for a recent
writer speaks of ‘‘a treaty mentioned in the Hezmskringla
that Norway could claim all lands lying west of Scotland,
between which and the mainland a vessel could pass with
her rudder shipped. The rudder of the ancient Scandinavian
ships was on the starboard, or right side, this side being
originally called steerboard, from this circumstance.” If
the latter theory be right it is not unlikely that many an
ancient viking has sailed forth from the Isle of Rum, on
predatory trips to lands beyond the sea.
 

D Huw wp the Mhine.

CHAPTER aT:

The Dome, the Dome of Cologne!

Antique, unique, sublime,

Rare monument from the Elder Time,
Begun so long agone,

Yet never finished, though wrought at oft—
Yonder it soars alone—

Alone, aloft—

Blending the weird, and stern, and soft—
The Cathedral-dome of Cologne.

RUCKERT,

  

—==—[HE Rhine at last! It was midnight when, wearied
| with our long, hot, exciting journey, we arrived at
Cologne, on the left bank of the grand old German
Rhine! The moonlight, shining fitfully through
straggling clouds, fell with weird effect upon the grey towers,
and amongst the antique houses, as we stepped out from the
station; and, as we made our way through the quaint streets
of the sleeping town, the whole thing was like a medizval
dream. We took up our quarters at the Hotel du Nord;
and there, hard by the famous Cathedral, within a stone’s
A RUN UP THE RHINE, 263

throw of the Rhine, and surrounded by the moonlit wonders
of stately old “Cologne of the Three Kings,” we slept
without rocking, under the protection of St. Gregory and
St. Gereon, the patron saints of the city, and near the sacred
relics of English St. Ursula and her eleven thousand
martyred virgins. Although impressed with a sense of the
historic fame of the spot we were upon, we climbed the wide
staircase of the hotel slowly and with weary eyes that night.
Everything we saw was handsome, and clean, and in good
order ; and, on our way along the lobby, I saw printed cards,
here and there against the wall,—‘‘ Wagen im Gasthofe” and
““Kalte u. warme Bader.” In our bedrooms, however, we
found, as usual, that there was neither soap nor candles ; and
we had to ring and give a special order for these luxuries.
With this exception, all else was very good and very clean;
and one excellent thing was that in every bedroom a card
of the tariff at the hotel was hung up. The Hotel du Nord
is a handsome pile of buildings, quadrangular in form, the
central court of which is occupied by gardens and green-
bordered walks, amongst which there are two pretty foun-
tains,—a cool, quiet, and altogether delightful retreat from
the glaring sun outside, or from the bustle of the hotel.
This central garden looked beautiful in the moonlight, seen
from the windows of our bedrooms that night. The night
was sultry again; and, throwing open the folding windows,
I fell sound asleep, lulled by the tinkling fountains in the
court below.

The next morning was Whit-Monday,—a great festival of
the Catholic Church, The principal theme of our conver-
sation at breakfast was the glorious old Cathedral, which
264 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

was not more than five hundred yards from the room in
which we were sitting. We found that grand high mass was
to be celebrated in the Cathedral that forenoon by the
Archbishop and a crowd of attendant clergy, with all the
pomp of the Roman Catholic ritual. After breakfast, we
sallied forth into the fresh, sunny morning; and there, at
the head of our street, upon a gentle eminence, looking
down upon the broad Rhine, and all round upon the
ancient city, the far-famed ‘‘ Dom,” or Cathedral of Cologne,
stood before us. I have seen almost all the cathedrals of
England, and certainly the finest of them, but this is the
grandest pile I ever beheld, and I do not wonder that it is
reckoned as “probably the most magnificent Gothic edifice
in the world.” In the ninth century an episcopal church
occupied the site of this noble fane. The present Cathedral
was founded in 1248, by Conrad, of Hochenstaden. Snowe,
in his “ Legends of the Rhine,” says of it, “‘Sorrow seizes
the heart of every spectator who looks upon that unfinished,
but still glorious structure, the Cathedral of Cologne. It is
only a fragment; but it is such a fragment as the strength
and intellect of the Titans of old might have reared for their
primeval worship.* There are many stories told of its origin
and progress; but the fact of the architect’s name who
planned it being altogether unknown, and even the circum-
stances of its remaining unfinished through a long series of
superstitious ages, are as singular and strange as anything said
of it in fiction.”

 

* Since the time of my trip ‘‘ Up the Rhine,” the Cathedral of
Cologne has been completed under the auspices of William, Emperor
of Germany.—E. W.
A RUN UP THE RHINE. 265

It wanted an hour to service-time ; and we hovered about
that marvellous Cathedral of Cologne, as if spell-bound by
its solemn and majestic beauty. Retreating, again and
again, so as to take in all the glorious sight before us, we
hovered about the front of the west facade—with its huge
towers, its vast central window, and its grand portal,—
spelling out the features of ancient saints and kings, and
watching the daws and ravens, as they flitted noisily about
the richly-sculptured pile, or perched here and there upon
the brows of time-worn apostles. In the meantime all
Cologne seemed to be slowly streaming in at the entrance
doors ; and that venerable temple seemed as if it could hold
all Cologne. The dimensions of the building may give the
reader some idea of its importance as a mass; but nothing,
except itself, can tell its beauty. Its length is 511 feet—
which is the intended height of the towers, when finished ;
its breadth is 235 feet; its walls are 150 feet high; and the
height of the roof is 201 feet. Its numerous shrines and
chapels are singularly rich in gold, and silver, and all kinds
of precious jewels ; and they abound in holy relics, and in
the bones of kings, and saints, and emperors of the olden
time. Amongst these is the celebrated shrine in which are
preserved the bones of “Whe Magi,” or “ Fhree’ Kings.”
The treasures of this shrine are said to be worth six millions
of francs. Behind this shrine lies buried the heart of Mary
of Medicis. But there is no room here to speak of the
antique wonders of this famous church, the design of which
has never yet been wrought out. Upon the unfinished
southern tower, an immense crane, which had stood there
for four hundred years, was removed in 1868; and it seems
266 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES ;

that there is now some hope of the completion of the
building. At last, its hour of glory is nigh!

Build it high as the sapphire sky !
As noonlight never hath shone

On Temple of such a magnificent
Ideal, from zone to zone,

So, aid its ascent

To the sapphire blue of the firmament,
The Cathedral-dome of Cologne!

As the time drew near for the beginning of the service,
the crowds at the entrances increased; and we went in,
expecting to find a crush; but, in spite of the immense
number present, there was still ample space in that vast
nave, the pavement of which was worn into hollows by the
footing of many generations of devotees. The area of the
interior is 7,399 square yards. ‘The great choir was already
filled with a standing crowd. We took up our station in the
nave; and the scene before us was singularly impressive.
We were far away from the high altar; and, only now and
then, between the heads of the intervening crowd, could we
catch a glimpse of the officiating priests; but the clouds of
incense, the chanting of the priests, the tinkling of silver
bells, and the grand bursts of sacred music from the choir
in the transept deepened the effect of that imposing scene.
In the stillness which immediately preceded the commence-
ment of the service, I had time to notice the grand, honest,
hardy, German faces, as they came surging in at the doors;
but, amongst them all, the most striking was one little
compact company of nine persons,—dusty, wayworn, simple
country pilgrims, who had been travelling since break of
A RUN UP THE RHINE. 267

day—they were evidently all of one family, father, mother,
sister, and six brothers, all embrowned with farm labour.
They came trailing shyly into the church like so many
Chaldean shepherds; and when they came to the centre
of the spacious nave, in front of the distant altar, they
dropt at once upon their knees in attitudes of profound
devotion. In spite of all prejudices, that kneeling group
was a touching sight.

At the close of the service, whilst we were lingering again
before the west front of the Cathedral, the Archbishop and
his attendants came forth at the grand portal; and, as they
crossed the sunlit square, the simple folk in his way dropt
down upon their knees, and received his blessing as he
hurried by. After this we chartered an open conveyance,
and rode about the quaint streets for nearly two hours. It
was a festival of the Church; and everywhere we found the
people making holiday. Many of the streets were strewn
with greenery,—chiecfly small branches of pine, and in ail
directions, as we went slowly along between the winding
lines of ancient houses, we met with banners, and shrines,
and relics, and candles ready for illumination when night
came on. We visited some of the most remarkable of the
city’s ancient churches; and whether it was the singular
- fineness of the weather, or that our route led through the
sweetest parts of the city, we certainly found Cologne as
clean as it was singularly quaint,—in spite of its reputation
as the home of a villainous congregation of pestilential
odours.

About five in the afternoon we were on board the steamer
bound up the Rhine from Cologne to Mayence.
 

CHAPTER II.

By the Rhine, by the Rhine, dwell not by the Rhine;
My son, I counsel thee fair ;

Too beauteous will be that life of thine,
Too lofty thy courage there.

The glamour of sight and of sound will combine,
Till with shudd’ring delight thou shalt burn ;

Thou'lt sing of thy home “ By the Rhine, by the Rhine!”
To thine own thou wilt never return.

BEWARE OF THE RHINE,
==] HE glowing day was far spent when we turned our
Si] backs upon grey Cologne of the Three Kings,
with its regal memories of old Rome; its wild
legends of the Middle Ages ; its knights, and its
saints, and its scents, and its grand old churches ; the camp
of Marcus Agrippa; the city whose streets have resounded
the tramp of Trajan’s legions; the city where Vitellius and
Sylvanus were proclaimed emperors, and where the latter met
his death. There it stands,—the hoary relic, so quaint and
stately,—two thousand years old,—reminding us strongly of
the worst and the best in times gone by. A few minutes’
walk, in and out, between the antique houses, brought us to
the river side, where we stepped on board the “King
William,” bound for Mayence, more than a hundred miles

 
 

A RUN UP THE RHINE. 269

up the stream. We were afloat, at last, on the broad bosom
of the Rhine; and, as the steamer churned away through
the sunlit waters, the towers of Cologne rose more and more
proudly into sight. The evening was grandly sunny and
still, The great river came down by the city in majestic
flow ; and our progress against the current was slow. For
the first twenty miles the Rhine winds in and out between
low, sandy banks and wide green plains, with, here and
there, an ancient village clinging lovingly to the water side.
With the exception of these old village clusters, the appear-
ance of the country in this first twenty miles, as seen from
the steamer, reminds one of the banks of the Humber,
between the mouth of the river Ouse and Hull. It presents
scarcely any of those features which have made “the
haunted regions of the Rhine” so famous in song and
story,—save where some mouldering tower, upon the bank
of the stream, peers up from the antique dwellings that
nestle around it, and carries the mind away into the realms
of romance. Of course we were prepared for the come
parative tameness of this first twenty miles; and yet we
were intensely interested in all around; for we felt that we
were in a charmed land,—we were upon the legendary
Rhine,—the darling river of the old Teuton race,—one of
the most romantic streams in all the world, both in its
natural features, and in its history; and, as we paced the
deck of the “King William,” all eye and ear, we gazed
ahead, now and then, to catch a glimpse of the famous
“Seven Mountains.”

On we went, up the famous stream, gliding slowly by one
little grey town after another, close by the water, or peeping
270 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

up from the green level beyond,—Rodenkirchen, Westhofen,
Porz, Lulsdorf, Neider Cassel, and Rheid,—where the light
green of the young vine leaf was beginning to gladden all
the land,—on we went, passing, here, a great raft of timber
on its way seaward, there, the mouth of a tributary river,
and there, a quiet green island, till we came in sight of the
ancient city of Bonn,—now chiefly famous for its University,
established by the King of Prussia in 1818. Bonn, like
many other of these ancient settlements on the banks of the
Rhine, owes its origin to the Romans,—who have left the
print of their martial feet all over this romantic region. The
city lies upon the right bank of the river, as we go up. We
could see into its old-fashioned streets as we went by; and
what we saw made us regret that we could not linger there
awhile. Bonn was one of the first fortresses built by the
Romans upon the Rhine. It is mentioned by Tacitus as
““Castra Bonnensia;” and was the spot where Claudius
Civilis, the rebel leader of the Batavi, was defeated by the
Romans, A.D. 70. About the middle of the fourth century
it was destroyed by the Alemanni. In 1268 the Electors of
Cologne removed their court to Bonn from Cologne, the
citizens of which had expelled them. This shows that,
before that time, Bonn had again become a place of great
importance. After that, the ancient city suffered its share,
age after age, from the contending hosts which over-ran that
part of Europe with restless war. Bonn is full of interest
for the archeologist and the historian. Its chief buildings
are the University,—a “huge building nearly a quarter of
a mile long,”—and the Minster, a fine building, surmounted
by five towers, the tops of which are visible from the deck
A RUN UP THE RHINE. 271

of the steamer, as we ascend the Rhine. From Bonn
,upwards, for a hundred miles, every step we go leads us
farther into a paradise of the senses,—a perfect dreamland
of historic romance,—a land crowded with the recollections
of famous races of men and of great events, century atfer
century, backward into the prehistoric time, where imagina-
tion wanders in the mist,—a land where the rambling vine
clothes every hill-side with richness and with beauty ; where
every mountain-top and every wild crag is crowned with
hoary memorials of the past; and where “the shapes, and
sounds, and shifting elements” of nature lend their aid to
deepen the grandeur that dwells upon the scene. As we
ascend the Rhine from Bonn, river after river leaps down
through shady receding glens to feed the mighty stream;
tower after tower, spire after spire, flit by, mouldering and
ivy-clad; one ancient city after another clustering thick
upon the water-side ; wild mountain steeps, “hung with the

)

bushes of the bending vine;” and craggy peaks, crested
with ragged ruins of feudal power; green islands, sleeping
in the midst of the rushing river; and little grey villages,
bulging and decrepit, and laving their aged feet in the
water,—such sights as these flit by in quick succession as we
go; and we feel that we are trailing our way through the
ancient records of mankind in their most interesting form ;
and that the whole romance of the far-stretching land seems
to have crowded to the banks of this famous stream, as if
drawn thither by an irresistible spell.

Long before we reached Bonn, the “Seven Mountains ”
had begun to sail into sight. My first view of them did not
impress me so much as their renown had led me to expect.
272 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

They,—or rather, the foremost of them,—stand upon the
left bank, as we ascend the river; about five miles above the
city of Bonn. With this group of mountains the charac-
teristic glories of the Rhine scenery commence; the most
romantic part of the river being between these mountains
and the old town of Bingen, about a hundred miles up the
stream. The highest of the ‘Seven Mountains” is Delberg,
which is 1,532 feet; but the most interesting, and the
most striking, in appearance and position, is the famous
Drachenfels, or ‘Dragon Rock”—Byron’s “‘castled crag
of Drachenfels,”’— whose precipitous rocks rise boldly from
the water side; and whose wild peaks are crested with the
ragged ruins of some robber’s nest of the Middle Ages.
There is a world of romance connected with the ‘Seven
Mountains,” and with Rolandseck, on the opposite side of
the stream. Upon the Drachenfels is the ancient quarry
called ‘“‘ Dombruch,” from which the stones were originally
taken to build the Cathedral of Cologne; there, too, is
shown the Cave of the Dragon, from whence comes its
name, ‘The Dragon Rock,”—the dragon killed by the
“horned Siegfried,” the hero of the Niebelungen lay,—who,
having bathed himself in its blood, became invulnerable
The ‘‘Dragon’s Cave” is clearly visible from the Rhine,
about half-way up, among the vineyards; and the wine
yielded by these craggy slopes is known by the name of
Drachenblut, or Dragon’s blood. And now, —although
The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine,

I can easily believe that he who wishes to see the ‘Seven
Mountains” well, must wander a while amongst their

 
 

 

A RUN UP THE RHINE. 27

solitary intervening valleys; he must climb their vine-clad
steeps, and muse among their lonely ruins in all tempers of
sun and shade; and, lastly, he must see them from the
craggy top of the Drachenfels, which commands one of the
finest views upon all the Rhine—

Whose breast of water broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine ;
And hills all rich with blossom’d trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scattered cities crowning these,
Whose far white: walls among them shine.

The tops of these mountains are all, more or less, crowned
with the ruins of the ancient castles of the Archbishops of
Cologne, or with the ruins of monastic establishments.
Amongst the woods upon the wild peak of Lowenburg
there still remain extensive ruins of an ancient castle,
‘“‘which was once the scene of the conferences ot Hermann,
Elector of Cologne and Count of. Wied, with the reformers
Melanchthon and Bucer, before he became a convert to
Protestantism in 1541. Here, too, in the troublous times
of 1583, Elector Gebhard resided with his wife, the beautiful
Countess Agnes von Mansfield, whom he had abducted from
the convent of Gerresheim.”

Upon the bank: of the river, opposite the Drachenfels,
the wild ruins of Rolandseck occupy the craggy peak of a
basaltic rock, 347 feet above the level of the Rhine. The
castle of Rolandseck is said to have been built by Roland,
peer of France and paladin of Charlemagne, who fell at the
battle of Roncesvalles. On a beautiful island in front of
Rolandseck, called Rolandswerth or Nonnenswerth, half-
shrouded from sight by trees, stands an extensive nunnery,

7—18
274 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

of ancient origin. This part of the Rhine,—with the
Drachenfels on one bank, and Rolandseck upon the other,
and with the beautiful monastic island of Rolandswerth in
the stream between,—is a rare combination of wild natural
beauty, and of romantic interest. The ruin of Rolandseck
receives its name from a tradition that Roland, the famous
nephew of Charlemagne, chose this spot, because it com-
manded a view of the island convent, ‘‘ within whose walls
his betrothed bride had taken the veil upon hearing a false
report of his having fallen at Roncesvalles.” He lived
there a lonely hermit, for many years, according to the
legend, which is said to have suggested Schiller’s beautiful
ballad, ‘The Knight of Toggenburg : ”—

He reared a lowly building,
Where still the traveller sees
The grey walls of that cloister
Peep from the linden trees ;
And there, from dawn of morning,
Till evening’s starlight shone,
With naught but hope to cheer him,
The watcher sat alone.

And ever to the cloister
He turned a wistful eye,
Till from her lattice gazing,
The form he loved came nigh.
Until with gaze enchanted,
Her image he would hail ;
Angel, mild, and bending
Meekly to the veil.

And there one morn they found him,
With eye all glazed and chill ;

But his lifeless glance was resting
Upon that lattice still,
 

 

CHAP RT:

On the sparkling Rhine
We bounded, and the white waves round the prow
In murmurs parted; varying as we go,
Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire.
Some ancient convent’s walls, or glistening spire
>Mid the bright landscape’s tract unfolding slow.
Here, dark with furrowed aspect, like despair,
Hangs the bleak cliff; there, on the woodland’s side,
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide;
Whilst Hope, enchanted with a scene so fair,
Would wish to linger many a summer’s day;
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.
WM. LISLE BOWLES.
UR view of the Seven Mountains, as we went up
the river from Cologne, was not so striking as
was the retrospect when we were leaving them
behind,—so much depends upon position, and
upon the state of the atmosphere, and upon all those things
which make up what painters call “effect.” Looking back
from the deck of the steamer, the Drachenfels,—which is
the foremost of the Seven Mountains, rising almost sheer
from the river side,—came into full view, from its base to
the topmost storm-worn stone of the shattered fortress upon
its summit. The evening was beautifully clear and calm.

We could distinctly see a company of holiday folk wandering in

 
276 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES:

and out among the ruined walls that crest the crag. From
our point of view.the precipitous scar below the ruin was a
fearful steep to look upon. For four or five miles after
passing the Drachenfels, the scene we were leaving behind
grew more and more beautiful. On one side of the river
was the lofty wooded rock of Rolandseck, peaked with its
shattered tower,—the lordless home of the bold Roland,
“‘ who fought at Roncesvalles ” a thousand years ago; on the
opposite side, the craggy steep of the Drachenfels, with its
castellated ruin jutting into the sky, and behind this, the
entire range of the Seven Mountains, peak after peak, each
differing in height and form from the rest,—each bearing its
own ruined memorials of ages long gone by,—and each the
home of some special historic legend,—these were all more
or less in sight now, tipped, here and there, with the glory
of the setting sun. Below these, and now sinking into the
soft shade of approaching twilight, the grand old solemn
Rhine came silently down between Rolandseck and the wild
steep of the Drachenfels ; and there, in the midst of the
river, lay sleeping the haunted convent isle of Nonnenwerth,
—a little umbrageous paradise, shut out from the rest of the
world by the wizard stream, and the storied mountains that
gather around. These were all in sight at once; and they
made up a picture from which we were taken away too soon.,
We had now fairly entered upon the characteristic glories of.
the Rhine, where
Frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray;
And many a rock which steeply lowers,

And noble arch in proud decay,
Look o’er the vale of vintage-bowers,
A RUN UP THE RHINE. 277

Our “silent. highway” led through an enchanted land,—
through scenery of wild natural beauty, and of the most
romantic historic interest.

The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round.

The tender green of the young vine-leaf was beginning to
gladden the rugged slopes on all sides; and there was a
holiday tone about every spot in which the life of man
clustered on the banks of the mighty stream. As we passed
the village of Rhonsdorf, the signs of holiday were visible
among its quaint houses; and amongst our passengers upon
the steamer there were several brown-faced country folk
wandering about with wreaths of ivy upon their hats. They
were making holiday, too,—for it was Whit-Monday; and
yet, with all this holiday-making, wherever we went,. from
Cologne up to Mayence, we met with no drunkenness ;
which made one think a little about Whit-Monday in
England,—Whit-Monday in Manchester,—at Knott Mill,—
at Belle Vue,—and elsewhere.

On we went, “with our beards upon our shoulders,” as
the Spanish proverb says,—on we went, still looking back
to the beautiful scene that we were leaving. On we went till
the spires of Unkel, rising upon the left bank of the river,
drew our attention ahead. Opposite to Unkel, upon the
right bank, stretched “those wondrous basaltic columns
which extend to the middle of the river, and when the
Rhine runs low you may see them like an engulphed city
beneath the waves.” We have hardly passed Unkel before a
278 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

bold curve in the river brings us in sight of Remagen,—
grey old Remagen,—a venerable-looking little town, close
by the water side. It is more than likely that, before the
time of the Roman occupation, the Teuton race had a
fortified settlement on that spot; but, apart from that,
Remagen is the Roman Rigomagus. A milestone bearing
the date 162, found in 1763, records that the Roman road
which formerly passed here was begun under the Emperors
M. Aurelius and L. Verus. We never lost sight of the ruin-
crested mountains on our way from Cologne to Mayence;
we no sooner leave one ancient town or village behind, than
another is in sight ; and we feel, all the way, that the most
famous races of mankind have contended for mastery upon
the shores of this mighty stream. Almost opposite to the
ancient town of Remagen stands the village of Erpel, near
which rises the “ Brpeler Lei,’ an immense basaltic cliff,
642 feet high. The quarries of this cliff find employment
for a great number of barges upon the Rhine,—some of
which we met descending the river. On we went, all eye
for the continually-changing features of the scenery, passing
Kasbach and Linzerhausen, over-frowned by the grey ruin
of Ockenfels, till we came to the old town of Linz,—which
formerly belonged to the Electorate of Cologne. Linz is
still “a walled town.” ‘The environs of Linz yield good
red wine, and during the vintage the little town is a busy
scene.” So says the chronicle. And I can believe it, for it
lies in the heart of a paradise; and it looked a quaint and
pleasant rural nest, seen from the deck of our steamer in
passing. Near Linz we met with immense rafts, heavily
laden with timber, slowly descending the stream. Wooden
A RUN UP THE RHINE, 279

houses were built, here and there, upon these rafts as
substantial as if they were intended to last for a lifetime.
Upon these rafts, too, women were hanging clothes upon
lines to dry; culinary utensils lay about the doors of the
wooden houses; and, here and there, men were at play, or
lying about, at full length, smoking. It was a dreamily-
beautiful scene. The day was stilling down. We could see
the white hawthorn blossoms, here and there, upon the banks
of the river, and the nightingale’s song rose loud and clear in
the quiet air, from the woods on all sides. Although the
wild mountain tops still reflected the lingering splendour of
the sunken sun, all below was sinking into shade. The grey
gloaming was drawing his soft veil over the scene; the mys-
terious hush of night was stealing on; and the fine glamour
of the hour deepened around us, as we laboured up the weird
Rhine, between storied mountains with ruins crowned, and
passing one sleepy old town after another, all softly draped
in the mystic evening shade, till we came to Hammerstein.
Burg-Hammerstein, or Ober-Hammerstein, is an ancient
village, close by the river side, upon the left bank. Near the
village rises a massive rock, pon whose summit stand the
wild ruins of Hammerstein, dreaming of the proud days of
its past strength, when the banners of the Spaniard and the
Swede alternately waved from its walls; and when its halls
and courts resounded the tread of warriors who fought for
and against the great Wallenstein, in the Thirty Years’ War.
Hammerstein, whose two towers still rise proudly from its
massive ruins, has been the home of emperors centuries ago.
At Hammerstein the Emperor Henry IV. resided for some
time when persecuted by his son, Henry V., and here he
280 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

kept the imperial insignia till their removal by his usurping
successor. During the Thirty Years’ War the castle was
successively occupied by Swedes, Spaniards, troops of
Cologne, and troops of Lorraine ; and was finally demolished
in 1660. For the last two centuries it has been a roofless
ruin,—the home of the raven and the owl,—open to the
winds and rain,—a proud relic of the times gone by, still
mouldering gloomily grand, like a stranded wreck upon the
mighty rock. Opposite to Hammerstein, as we ploughed
our way upward inthe dusky shade, still attended by the
nightingale’s song, which rose loud and clear from the green
woods, first on one side, then on.the other, in liquid fits of
respondent melody, we could see the wooded villages of
Namedy and Fornich,. where lights were now beginning to
glimmer, here and there, through the shrouding’ trees.
Behind these, in still more dreamy shade, rose the dark rock
of Kreuzborner Ley, and the wild mountains that overlook
romantic Brohl. From Hammerstein. we glided on, in the
deepening ,twilight, passing village after village, and raft
after raft, till a sudden bend of the river brought us in
sight of the lights of grey Andernach,—the, oldest town
upon the Rhine,

 
 

CHAPTER Ty.

Old castles rear their haughty crest,
Still grimly proud in life's decline,
And purple vineyards kiss the breast
Of the deep-rolling, mighty Rhine.—UHLAND.

HE lights of Andernach were glimmering dimly
ahead, on the right bank of.the river, and the
scene behind us was gliding into shade. As we
ploughed our way upward in the deepening

twilight, between vine-clad slopes with hoary ruins crowned,,

the last tinge of evening’s after-glow died out upon the
solemn stream, and all the world seemed stilling down to rest.

The scent of flowers and the fitful song of the nightingale

filled all the air from shore to shore; and when we glanced

back at the imperial ruin where
High in his halls embattled sat Wolf of Hammerstein, _
Like eagle in his eyrie at sunlight’s dim decline—

the wild pile looked grander than ever in the shrouding

shade. By the time we had reached Andernach night was

upon us. The moon was rising, and here and there in the
checkered sky a patch of stars twinkled, like golden dew-
drops on little fields of blue, between the flying : clonds.

Except the nightingale, whose liquid warble rose, loud and

clear, now here, now there, from the woods ashore, all living

things seemed to have sunk to rest; and now the river
seemed to begin its ancient night-song to the dusky hours,

“imposing silence with a stilly sound.” “By the straggling

 
282 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

moonbeams’ misty light” we caught a glimpse of Andernach
in passing; grey Andernach, which is reckoned “ the oldest
town upon the Rhine.” Andernach again awakes the
memories of ancient Roman rule. It was called by the
Romans Antonacum, and originated in one of the camps
of Drusus. It is chiefly famous for its excellent millstones ;
and these millstones must have been known to the
Romans, for several of them have been turned up amongst
the Roman ruins in Britain; and they were called ‘“ Rhenish
millstones ” by Latin authors, We saw little of Andernach in
passing, except that it was a quaint little town, with a curious
old watch-tower standing close by the water side. Pursuing
our way, we pass the town of Neuwied, with its industrious
community of Moravian Brothers, whose grave manners and
simple life have gained for them the name of ‘‘ The Quakers
of Germany,’—we pass Wessenthorne, or “‘ White Tower,”
—so called from the watch-tower built there by the Electors
of Treves, to mark the boundary of their domains,—we pass
Engers, a little village as old as the time of the Roman
occupation,—we pass Mulhofen, a village at the mouth of
the river Sayn, a romantic stream, which empties itself into
the Rhine at this point,—we pass Bendorf, and Vallender, and
the island village of Niederworth, with its ancient convent
where our own Edward III. sojourned for some time, and
where he was visited by the Emperor Louis and other
princes,—we pass the villages of Mallendar and Wallersheim,
chiefly inhabited by raftsmen, and where small rafts
descending the stream halt to be made larger ;—one after
another, these flit by, halfseen by the fitful light of the
moon; and now we draw near to the famous castle of
A RUN UP THE RHINE. 283

Ehrenbreitstein, crowning a huge rocky precipice, opposite
to the junction of the Rhine and the Moselle; and on
the opposite side to Ehrenbreitstein the lights of the city
of Coblentz are glittering before us. Our way leads
under the shade of the fortified steep of “The Gibraltar
of the Rhine ;” and, gazing upwards, in the dusk from the
deck of the steamer, we see nothing of Ehrenbreitstein
but the gloomy precipice which overfrowns the river. At
Coblentz,—the Cozjfluentes of the Romans, so called from
its situation at the junction of the Rhine and the Moselle,—
we halted for about two hours. This is the capital of
Rhenish Prussia, and, as everybody knows, is also a great
‘garrison town,” which I can easily believe,—for in a long
stroll which we had through the quaint streets, it seemed to
me that every second man we met was a soldier. We had
time here to sup comfortably at the ‘‘ Belle Vue Hotel,” near
the river side. It was a little past midnight when we went
on board again. There was still a fitful moonlight, which
showed us something of the proud impregnable fortress of
Ehrenbreitstein, “‘The Broad Stone of Honour,” on the
opposite side of the river; but we saw more of its position
than of the fortress itself. Ehrenbreitstein is best seen from
a few miles above Coblentz, in descending the river. From
that point its appearance is worthy of its fame. It was
about one in the morning when our steamer started again
on its way to Mayence. I spent the whole of the night on
deck, and for the next three hours after leaving Coblentz,
city after city, town after town, village after village, flitted by
in the dreamy “ midnight’s tingling stillness,” all silent as
cities of the dead.
| GE: es Coreen EK

| CHAPTERS V:

at

  

=I was past midnight when our steamer left Coblentz
| on its way up the Rhine to Mayence. I had been
much impressed by the scenery of the last fifty
miles between the city of Bonn and Coblentz; but
now, in the still hours of early morning, by checkered moon-
light, we were entering upon the real glory of the Rhine.
The grandest scenery of all this famous river lies between
Coblentz and the old town of Bingen,—“ dear old Bingen
on the Rhine.” Between Coblentz and Bingen the moun-
tains rise almost perpendicularly from the river side; and
every mountain peak, and every jutting rock, following in
quick succession, is crowned by some hoary feudal ruin;
every steep is clad with vineyards; and picturesque old
towns nestle, here and there, by the rushing stream. Some
of the most famous ruins upon all the Rhine lie in this
tract between Coblentz and Bingen. ‘The proud old Castle
of Stolzenfels, where Isabella, sister of our Henry the Third,
and wife of the Emperor, lived in great state, in the year
1275,—romantic Boppard on the one side, and grey Born-
hofen on the other,—Salzig, and Hirzenach, and Welmach,
and beautiful old Saint Goar, one of the most picturesque
spots upon the Rhine, and surrounded by its grandest
scenery,—the mighty ruin of the Rheinfels, which has
successfully resisted the attack of many a proud army,—
the weird rock of the Lurlei,—picturesque Oberwesel, the
a ee eae

A RUN UP THE RHINE. 285

Vesalia of the Romans,—Chonburg, high-perched above the
mighty stream, and especially interesting to Englishmen as
the place where Count Schomberg was born, who fell in the
battle of the Boyne, fighting for the Prince of Orange,—
The horse were the first that ventured o’er,
The foot soon followed after,

And brave Duke Schomberg was no more,
At the Battle of Boyne Water,

Next comes Caub, where Blucher’s army crossed the river
by a pontoon bridge.on New Year’s night, in 1814; and
here, in the middle of the stream, stands the quaint-looking,
lonely castle of the Pfalz, or Pfalzgrafenstein, built as a toll-
house by the Emperor Louis, and “sadly memorable as a
prison to the more distinguished of criminals,’—Werth
Island, the Castle of Stahleck, and Old Bacharach, which
takes its name from the god of wine,—the wild ruins of
Furstenburg, Sonneck, Reichenstein, and Rheinstein, “the
echoing vale of Rheindeibach,” and the old town of Lorche
which, in the Middle Ages, was inhabited by a knot of
knightly families, who, according to an ancient record, “led
here a life like in Paradise,”—the ancient tower, called the
* Mouse Tower,” standing in the stream, as we draw near to
Bingen. It appears to have been built in the thirteenth
century by Bishop Seigfried, as a toll-house in the river.
The word ‘“‘maus” is probably only an older. form of
“‘mauths,” duty or toll, and, together with ‘the very
unpopular object for which the town was erected, perhaps
gave rise to the legend of Bishop Hatto, eaten by the rats.
The tale, too, may have been fixed on Hatto, because,
though one of the most distinguished men of his time, he
286 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES :

was proud and ambitious, and not very scrupulous in the
choice of the means to arrive at his aim. Southey gives us
a version of this legend in his ballad, ‘‘God’s Judgment on
a Bishop.” The ballad begins by telling how bitterly he
oppressed and starved the poor ; and how, having invited the
clamorous multitude to one of his granaries, where ‘they
should have food for the winter,” he set fire to the barn and
burnt them all. After which, “he sate down to supper
merrily, and he slept that night like an innocent man.” But
fearful retribution swiftly overtook him.

In the morning as he entered the hall,

Where his picture hung against the wall,

A sweat-like death all over him came,

For the rats had eaten it out of the frame!
And now, it was rats by night, and rats hy day, rats by land,
and rats by sea,—he was haunted by rats wherever he went ;
and rats devoured all his substance :—

As he looked, there came a man from his farm—
He had a countenance white with alarm—

“My lord, I opened your granaries this morn,
And the rats had eaten all your corn.”

Another came running presently,

And he was as pale as pale could be:
“Fly! my lord bishop, fly!” quoth he,
‘Ten thousand rats are coming this wey—
The Lord forgive you for yesterday !”

“Tl go to my tower in the Rhine,” replied he,
“Tis the safest place in Germany;

The walls are high, and the shores are steep,
And the tide is strong, and the water deep.”

He reaches his tower, and he goes to rest; but is awakened
in the night by a fearful scream. He starts, and sees “two
a ee

=. =

A RUN UP THE RHINE, 287

eyes of flame on his pillow,” from whence the screaming

came.
He listened and looked; it was only the cat;
But the bishop he grew more fearful for that,
For she sate screaming, mad with fear
At the army of rats that were drawing near.

Down on his knees the bishop fell,

And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder drawing near,

The saw of their teeth without he could hear.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones,
And now they pick the bishop’s bones;

They gnawed the flesh from every limb,

For they were sent to do judgment on him.

I passed the whole of the night on deck, between Coblentz
and Mayence; and, as the steamer glided on in the pro-
found stillness, between those wild, ruin-crested mountains,
and past one old town after another, where I could see the
fitful moonlight sleeping upon the silent streets as we went
by, it was like sailing through a depopulated world. The
only sound that broke the solemn silence was the rush of
the Rhine,—that weird melody which the ancient river has
sung to millions of midnights before the fect of man
wandered upon its banks.

Soon as we had passed the pretty old town of Bingen,
the shores of the river became more open and flat. We
passed Rudesheim,—which gives name to the celebrated
wine,—and Schloss Johannisberg, a vast white mansion or
castle, upon a shapely green eminence, 362 feet above the
Rhine, where the famous ‘‘Johannisberg,” the choicest of
288 MISCELLANEOUS TRAVEL SKETCHES.

all the Rhine wines, is grown. It was about nine in the
morning when we landed at Mayence, where we took up
our quarters at the English hotel. We spent the day in
wandering about the famous old city, which is, historically,
one of the most interesting towns on the Rhine. It owes
its origin to the Romans. Here Walpoden breached the
scheme of the Hanseatic League,—which freed the trade
of Germany from feudal robbery; and here dwelt Guten-
berg, the inventor of movable types for printing. We
visited the grand old cathedral, the first archbishop of which
was the son of an English waggon-maker or wainwright ;
hence two waggon wheels are quartered in the arms of the
city to this day. Werambled about the quaint streets and
squares of the city; and we lingered in the market-place,
which is surrounded by antique houses. It was market-
day, and the square was crowded with country people, in
quaint attire, and with clean, healthy-looking market-women,
in great, curious caps, as white as fresh snow. ‘The market-
place was full of flowers,—chiefly lilies; and I noticed that
the asparagus grows here to a great size. Bundles of it lay
about on every stall. Wherever we went in Mayence, we
met with soldiers, wandering about in twos and threes, or
marching in large bodies. Next morning we left and
returned down the Rhine to Cologne. Here we stayed one
night more ; and after spending another pleasant day in the
old city of Antwerp, we took steamer again for Harwich, in
Suffolk ; and so ended my first trip to the Continent.

oy ee
 

 

 

 

AN INDEX

OF THE PRINCIPAL PLACES DESCRIBED IN THIS VOLUME,

Aldingham, 56.
Andernach, 281.
Arnside, 7.
Ashley Hall, 158.|

Bardsea, 56.
Barrow, 62.
Beverley, 171.
Bingen, 285.
Black Coomb, 75.
Bonn, 270.

Broughton-in-Furness, 94.

Buttermere, 131.

Cartmel, 29.

Castle Head, 15.
Coblentz, 283.
Cockley Beck, 105.
Cologne, 262.
Conishead Priory, 55.

 

Coniston Lake, 64.
Crummock Water, 132.

Dalton, 60.
Dartmouth, 193.
Dittisham, 198.
Downham Reach, 210,
Duddon Valley, 98.

Egremont, 1109.
Ennerdale Bridge, 121.
Ennerdale Lake, 110, 126.

Floutern Tarn, 130.
Furness Abbey, 58.

Gainsborough’s Lane, 216,
Gleaston Castle, 51.
Grange, 20.
290 INDEX.

Hammerstein, 279.
Hardknot Castle, 106.
Holme Island, 17,
Hull, 174.

Ipswich, 202,
Isle of Rum, 246.

Kinniside, 120.
Lindal, 28.

Mayence, 288,
Millom, 87.
Morecambe Bay, 1.

Newby Bridge, 65.

Orwell (the river), 209.

Over-Sands Route from Lan-
caster, 5.

Over Sands to the Lakes, r.

Peel Castle, 62,
Pin Mill, 212.
Port Erin (Isle of Man), 218.

 

Portrush, 235.
Remagen, 278.
Rhine (the river), 262.
Rostherne Mere, 157.

Seascale, 114.

Seaside Lakes and Mountains,

WER

Seathwaite Chapel, 103.

Silecroft, 78. :

Silverdale, 7.

“Seven Mountains’? (on the
Rhine), 271.

St. Bees, 114.

Swarthmoor, 46.

Swinside, Druidical Temple, 85.

Totnes, 200.
Ulpha Kirk, 100,
Ulverstone, 46.

Ulverstone Sands, 43.

Wastdale Head, 137.
Wast Water, 151.

 

Joun HeEywoop» Excelsior Printing and Bookbinding Works, Manchester.

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