Impressions of England 57

Impressions of England 57

“Fallen from ’is fellow’s side,

The steed beneath (h)is lying;

(H)in ’arness ’ere ’e died,

’Is (h)only fault was dying.”

 

The pathos with which these words were uttered was truly Pickwickian,

and the step from the sublime to the ridiculous was so effectually taken

by my feelings, that for a long way beyond, Helvellyn re-echoed to my

laughter. Passing Thirlmere, the sweet vale of St. John opened a

bewitching prospect, and I loved it for its name. Leaving it on my

right, I then turned toward Keswick, and as the last light of day

disappeared, there, before me, lay Derwentwater, the new moon shedding a

tremulous light on its bosom. This, then, was Southey’s own Keswick, and

Skiddaw rose over head! I slept soundly and sweetly at the “Royal Oak.”

 

In the morning, I took a barge, and was rowed round the lake, which did

not disappoint me. One of the men had been a servant of Southey’s, and

he told me many anecdotes of his master. “Yonder, it seems to me, I can

see him now,” said the fellow, “walking with a book in his hand.” He

described him as good to the poor, and said, “he often gave five

shillings, at a time, to my mother.” In wet weather he still took the

air, and walked well on clogs. I was much charmed with the islets of the

lake, and the singular traditions which invest them all with so much

interest. The romantic stories of the unfortunate family of

Derwentwater, whose earls were attainted for their share in the

Pretender’s rebellion, are partly connected with one of these islands,

and the lake itself seems made for a scene of romance. Windermere is not

to be compared with it. I was rowed to Lodore, and saw “how the water

comes down.” Sometimes ’tis a mere burlesque of the poem; but I saw it

in full force, and entirely justifying all the participles which the

genius of Southey has contrived to set going, like a cataract, out of

the fountain of his brain. After this, I swam in the lake, tempted to do

so by the double attraction of its pellucid waters, and its Castalian

associations.

 

I visited Southey’s grave, in Crosthwaite churchyard. ’Twas solemn to

see the grass growing, and its tall spears shaking in the breeze, over

the head of that fine genius, and the heart of that good and faithful

man. In the church, where he so often prayed, a superb statue of the

poet lies, at full length, on an altar-tomb. I placed in the marble hand

the flowers I had brought from the grave of Wordsworth, a tribute to

their friendship, and a token of my homage for both. Great and good men;

they were the “lucida sidera” of English literature, in a dark and evil

time and now that their sweet influence has triumphed over the clouds

and vapours which obscured their first rising, how calmly they shine, in

heaven, and brighten the scenes they have left behind!

 

Greta Hall, the poet’s late residence, stands a little back from the

road, in the shadow of Skiddaw. I paid a visit to a daughter of the

bard, who loves to linger near her father’s grave; and it was delightful

to observe the simplicity with which she entered into the enthusiasm of

a pilgrim to that shrine of her affections. The aged Mrs. Lovel, whose

name is familiar to the readers of Coleridge, and his contemporaries,

also allowed me to be presented to her. It was affecting to see a group

of Southey’s lovely little grand-children with her, in mourning for a

mother. They are richer in the heritage of his name and character than

if they were the heirs of the Derwentwaters, and restored to all their

honours and estates.

 

By coach to Penrith, by the vale of St. John, and Huttonmoor. On the

moor, I saw a cottage, with an inscription too deep for me, of which my

reader shall have the benefit. It was this:—

 

“I. W.

This building’s age, these letters show,

Though many gaze, yet few will know.

MD.CCXIX.”

 

A Waltonian puzzle in its quaintness, not to speak of the initials!

Driving by Graystoke, in which is an old town-cross, we had a sight of

its church and castle. But two odd-looking farm-houses, which we passed,

presenting at a distance the appearance of forts, surprised me more, by

their American names, “Mount Putnam,” and “Bunker-hill.” They were built

and named soon after the battle: and the whip laughed as he slyly

surmised, that the Duke of Norfolk, to whom they belong, “must have been

afraid the ’Mericans were coming over.” At Penrith, I visited the

extraordinary grave in the churchyard, called the _Giant’s_. Its history

is lost in the obscure of antiquity; but one _Owen_ is said to lie

there, at full length, the head and footstones being fifteen feet apart.

The stones are tall needles, of curious form, and covered with Runic

carvings and unintelligible words. Not far from Penrith, are some

ancient caverns, marked by traces of gigantic inhabitants, such as

iron-gratings, and other relics worthy of the habitation of Giant

Despair.

 

Next morning, we were favoured with a brilliant sky and cool breeze, and

I took the top of the coach for a drive across the country, through

Westmoreland, into Yorkshire. A sweet odour of hay-making filled the air

as we started; and soon we had fine views of Brougham-hall, and castle,

with a small adjoining park. A more interesting object to me was a small

column, by the roadside, celebrated by Wordsworth, called the Countess

of Pembroke’s Pillar. It was erected in the evil days of Cromwell, not

to celebrate a battle, or a crime, but as a monument of love. On that

spot, in her better days, the Lady Anne Clifford had parted, for the

last time, with her beloved mother, the Countess Dowager of Pembroke,

and she therefore caused this stone to be set as a memorial, and

inscribed accordingly. But she did yet more, for hard by is a stone

table, on which the anniversary of that parting is annually celebrated

by a dole of bread to the poor of the parish of Brougham, to pay for

which she left the annual sum of four pounds to the church forever. This

is giving a _stone_ to those who ask _bread_, in an orthodox way. The

inscription ends with _Laus Deo_; and my heart responded in the manner

which Wordsworth suggests. “Many a stranger,” he says, “though no clerk,

has responded Amen, as he passed by.” Our drive continued a pleasant one

till we came to Appleby, an interesting old town, through which runs the

river Eden. In its church are monuments of the Lady Anne Clifford and

her mother. At Brough, we came to an old castle, erected before the

Conquest. Its church has a pulpit, hewn of a single stone; and they tell

a good story of its bells. A worthy drover of the adjoining moors, once

brought a fine lot of cattle to market, promising to make them bellow

all together, and to be heard from Brough to Appleby. Accordingly with

the money they sold for, he gave the parish a peal of bells, which

constantly fulfils his vow. He deserves to be imitated by richer men. At

Brough the coach left me, and I took a post-chaise over the dreary

region of Stainmuir; dreary, just then, but not so in the

sporting-season, when the moor is alive with hunters and fowlers. At

Bowes, again, emerging from the moorlands, we came to the remains of a

castle, and to the less interesting relics of a school, which had

disappeared under the influence of a general conviction, that it was the

original “Dotheboys Hall.” A dull place is Bowes; but striking over a

rugged country, northward, I came soon into the charming valley of the

Tees, and so arrived at the secluded church and parsonage of Romaldkirk,

on a visit to a clergyman, who bearing my maternal name, and deriving

from the same lineage, in times long past, yet claimed me as a relative,

and welcomed me as a brother. I found a missionary from India,

addressing a few of his parishioners, in an adjoining school-house, and

there I first saw my hospitable friend, and joined with him in the

solemnities of a missionary meeting, among a few of the neighbouring

peasantry. With this estimable clergyman, and his family, I tarried till

the third day, enjoying greatly their attentive hospitalities, and

trying to catch trout in the Tees. The very sound of this rushing river

recalled the story of Rokeby, and amid its overhanging foliage, I almost

fancied I could see skulking the pirate-figure of Bertram Risingham.

 

I was not allowed to leave this happy roof unattended. The eldest son of

the family, a young Cantab, took me more than twenty miles, to Richmond,

through a most romantic country, allowing me to visit the ruins, near

Rokeby, and to stop at many interesting spots. We journeyed through

Barnard Castle, and by Egglestone Abbey, and met with several adventures

in our “search of the picturesque,” but at last emerged into the

surprising scenery of Richmond, which I found beautiful beyond all that

its name implies, and not unworthy of sharing it with its southern

namesake, on the Thames. It is the older of the two, and is remarkable

for something more than beauty. It has a touch of grandeur about it, and

the ruins of its old historic castle, on the banks of the Swale, full of

traditions of feudal sovereignty, and still massive and venerable in

appearance, give an imposing air of majesty to the town. The aspect of

the valley of the Swale is almost American, in its wildness, in many

parts, and I keenly relished even my railway journey through a region so

inviting to delay. I made my way to Leeds, where, amid smoke, and much

that is disagreeable, stands the interesting Church of St. Mary’s,

lately renewed and beautified by its faithful vicar, Dr. Hook. I had

barely time to visit this sacred place, and contenting myself with

having sighted Kirkstall Abbey, in the vale of Aire, I continued my

journey to my first English home, in Warwickshire. The glimpses of

Derbyshire scenery which I enjoyed, in my rapid journey, were full of

beauty: and the mishap of losing a trunk, gave me the opportunity of

putting to the test the fidelity of the English railway system. As soon

as I discovered that some blunder had been committed, I informed the

guard, and at the first station, telegraphic messages were despatched,

and in a short time my trunk followed me to the parsonage, where I

passed the Sunday with my friend.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXIV.

 

 

_Cowper—Greenwich._

 

 

More than once have I betrayed, in the course of my narrative, a strong

affection for the name and memory of Cowper. To his poetry and letters,

I was introduced in early childhood, by the admiring terms in which a

beloved parent often quoted and criticised them; and no subsequent

familiarity with them has, in the least, impaired my relish for their

peculiar charms. I regard him as the regenerator of English poetry, and

as the morning-star of all that truly illustrates the nineteenth

century. A gentle but powerful satirist of the evils of his own times,

he was a noble agent in the hand of God, for removing them, and making

way for a great restoration. Without dreaming of his mission, he was a