Part 3

She even possessed a vivacity that accompanied all her actions, and threw her real character into the distance. Though endued with the keenest sensibility, she appeared all life and gaiety. Wherever she was, she was the soul of the little company--her lively wit and her smiling beauty procured her attention wherever she showed herself. This beautiful mixture of the gay and the grave assumed, on some occasions, such strange contrasts, that she seemed to be composed of inconsistencies. Often in her little evening rambles with her young companions, after having put them all in good humour with themselves and with one another, by her little flattering railleries and harmless frolics, she would in an instant bound away from the group with the elastic grace of a mountain nymph--abruptly enter the cottage of some sick or suffering neighbour, with a smile on her countenance, like the angel of comfort charged with blessings, kindly inquire after their various wants and distresses, soothe them with consolatory hopes of better days, offer all those little assistances which old and decaying age accepts so gratefully at the hands of youth, and after mingling a sigh or a tear with theirs, again join her gay companions as though nothing had occurred.

In the innocent society of this amiable maiden, Charles passed the sweetest hours of his existence. His former boyish pursuits were renounced. The windmill, on a rock at a little distance, though nearly matured, was never completed; the water-works in the wood were permitted to run to ruin, even the perpetual motion in the room over the old kitchen, which was in a state of great forwardness, was neglected for a time, and eventually relinquished.

It is supposed, our intelligent correspondent says, that if Charles had never been in love, it is probable that he had never been a poet. And in confirmation of this idea, we observe that his first productions are of the amatory kind--"odes to beauty," "lines to Maria," "acrostics," &c. Among these fragments, we found a little airy piece without a head but we suppose intended for Maria:

"If all the world was made of kisses, And all those kisses were made for me, And I was made for you, my love, How happy we should be!

If all the graces were join'd in one, And all the wit and beauty too, They'd make a maid like you, my love, They'd make a maid like you!"

Some of his lyric pieces exhibit a strange mixture of philosophy and passion, learning and love. In the eleventh page of the manuscript before us, we find as curious a specimen of this kind as we ever recollect. It is much interlined and seems never to have been finished.

ON LOVE.

"Newton's keen observant eye, Found a power pervade creation; Ignorant of when or why, He fondly called it gravitation.

But 'tis love that binds the spheres-- Love's the real central-forces-- Wheels them round their varying years, Impels them on, and shapes their courses.

Nature all abounds in love, What is there but feels its power? Hear it warbling in the grove! See it blooming in a flower!

What's attraction, pray, but love? And affinity's the same."

But the tender passion does not seem to have engrossed all his poetical powers, as we find several pieces both grave and gay on different subjects. One of these we shall select as it seems to possess some originality, and has been occasioned apparently by that influx of strangers which generally enlivens the lake district during the summer months; some of whom have probably noticed our mountain bard, if we may judge from one of the stanzas.

THE STRANGER AT THE LAKES.

"When summer suns lick up the dew, And all the heavens are painted blue, 'Tis then with smiling cheeks we view, The stranger at the Lakes.

When morning tips with gold the boughs, And tinges Skiddaw's cloud-kiss'd brows, Then round the lake the boatman rows, The stranger at the Lakes.

When gray-rob'd evening steps serene, Across the sweetly-varied green, Beside some cascade may be seen The stranger at the Lakes.

Embosomed here the rustic bard, Who oft has thought his fortune hard, Is pleas'd to share the kind regard Of strangers at the Lakes.

He whose ideas never stray Beyond the parson's gig and gray, Stares at the carriage and relay Of strangers at the Lakes.

As by his cot the phæton flies, The peasant gapes with mouth and eyes, And to his wond'ring family cries, 'A stranger at the Lakes!'

Sometimes when brewers' clerks appear, And Boniface is short of gear, He says, 'Kind Sirs, we've had, this year, Few strangers at the Lakes.'

At Christmas, Poll, the barmaid, shows Her lustre gown and new kid shoes, And says, 'I tipp'd the cash for those From strangers at the Lakes.'

But could the post-horse neighing say What he has suffer'd night and day, 'Tis much, I think, if he would pray For strangers at the Lakes."

Time, it is said, has wings; but Charles never observed that it even moved, till he found himself in his twentieth year. That love which at first sought only to relieve itself in the society of its object, now began to assume a determined character. But to any but lovers, the description of love scenes would be irksome. It will be quite sufficient if we hint at the affair, and leave our readers to fill up the outline. We will only therefore assure them on the best authority, that Charles set out no less than three several times with a resolute determination to declare the full extent of his passion, and solicit the fair hand of Maria; and that as soon as he saw the maid, his purpose "dissolved like the baseless fabric of a vision;" that Charles at length conquered this timidity, and urged his suit with such ardour, that he was heard afterwards to say he believed love was like steam, the more it was compressed, the greater was its elasticity; that Maria received the declaration with all due bashfulness, and promised to be his bride as soon as she had completed her twenty-first year; that Charles, as is usual on such occasions, flew home on the wings of ecstasy, &c. It seems to have been about this time that the following birthday ode was written--perhaps while he was suffering under the effects of his own bashfulness:--

"Maria, this is just the day, Some twenty years ago, they say, You fill'd your mother's arms; A little puling sprig of love, So kindly dropp'd from heaven above, To bless me with your charms.

Obeying custom, I intend Some little birthday gift to send-- But stay, what must it be? Of beauty you have quite a share, Accomplish'd too, as well as fair, And richer far than me.

I would not ever have it said, I offer'd trinkets to the maid, Which you might scorn to take; I'll offer then no works of art; I'll give you, love, an honest heart-- Pray, keep it for my sake."

Our correspondent says he would be happy if he could here conclude his narrative, as Sir Walter Scott does, with a happy marriage; for however delightful the transition from sorrow to joy may be, the reverse, even in description, has no charms. But poor Charles was doomed to be hurled from the height of his felicity to the lowest depths of despair. The joyful promise had scarcely escaped the lovely lips of Maria, and while her lover was yet giddy with his joy, when the amiable maid was attacked by a severe illness, which baffled all the doctor's skill. If entreaties for human or divine aid could have prolonged the existence of the ill-fated Maria, she had not died. Charles was ever at her pillow--his studies were relinquished--his poetry was neglected--and the dying Maria filled the whole extent of his capacious mind. But all was vain; the grisly monster Death had selected her as his victim, and he would not quit his hold; he was deaf alike to the lamentations of a parent, the regrets of friends, and the distractions of a betrothed lover.

Though every succeeding morning showed how great was the havoc that disease was making in her tender frame, and the period of her suffering was evidently approaching, Charles still hoped she would soon be well. If she was more than usually debilitated, he observed that the fever had left her, and she only wanted her strength recruiting, and they would then renew their walks. If the hectic flush overspread her cheeks, he hailed it as the sign of returning health. And thus he hoped even against hope. His reason would have convinced him she was dying, if reason had been allowed to speak; but he wished her to live, and he would not stoop to think that she would die. Thus he fulfilled the remarks of the poet--

"We join in the fraud, and ourselves we deceive, What we wish to be true, love bids us believe."

When at last the pale hue of death overspread her once-blooming cheek, when she turned her languid eye towards her lover and faltered "farewell," when she closed her faded eyes and expired in prayer, Charles stood by the bedside like a being bereft of power and motion. The deepest despair overwhelmed him--his hopes were blasted--his fond creation of future bliss was in an instant destroyed, and his mind received a shock too powerful for nature to sustain.

From this moment a smile was never seen to illuminate his features, the most gloomy and secluded places were his favourite haunts. He avoided society as if the breath of man was pestilential; and occupied his time in brooding over his own melancholy. In his manuscript we find a number of melancholy effusions, which were evidently written about this time; and clearly bespeak a mind bordering on the gloomy verge of insanity. But as they are some of them by far the best pieces in the collection--a proof that poetry and madness are nearly allied--we will select two which tend to illustrate the awful state of the writer's mind.

THE EVENING WALK.

"How soothing to the soul the shade Which evening spreads around! How bright the dewy gems that braid The foliage of the ground.

No sound is heard thro' ether wide, From hill or coppice green, Save where the streamlet seems to chide The stillness of the scene.

Contagion catches on the soul, And lulls e'en grief to rest; No more contending passions roll Along the troubled breast.

I seem a moment to have lost The sense of former pain; As if my peace had ne'er been crost, Or joy could spring again.

But ah! 'tis there!--the pang is there; Maria breathes no more! So fond, so constant, kind, and fair, Her reign of love is o'er.

No more through scenes like these shall we Together fondly stray; Till night itself would seem to me More genial than the day.

I feel the cold night's gathering gloom Infect my throbbing breast; It tells me that the friendly tomb Alone can give me rest.

I then shall sleep the sleep serene, Where she so long has slept; Nor be the wretch I long have been, Nor weep as I have wept."

THE CHURCHYARD.

"Here, then, my weary head shall rest, Here weep and sigh alone; And press the marble to my breast, And kiss the senseless stone.

I'm calmer now--a silv'ry sound Is whisp'ring in my ear; That tells me this is sacred ground, And she is hov'ring near.

Celestial stillness reigns around, Serenely beats my breast; Maria's spirit treads this ground, And hushes me to rest.

I see Maria hov'ring there-- She waves her wings of light; Angelic music fills the air, And charms the ear of night.

Stay, lovely maiden, longer stay, And bless thy lover's eyes; And do not soar so fast away To seek thy native skies.

'Tis gone--the lovely vision's gone! And night's dim shades prevail; Again, I feel myself alone, And pour my fruitless wail.

I seem like one who madly raves Among the silent dead; And start to hear the hollow graves Re-echo to my tread.

But I shall soon forget my woes, And dry my ev'ry tear, And rest as unconcern'd as those Who sleep serenely here."

So far from having a salutary effect upon the mind of Charles, time seems only to have increased the despondency that had enveloped and clouded the reasoning faculties of our poet. We find, in a subsequent part of the volume, the following lines, which show that his mind was giving way under the pressure of acute distress:--

"Ah! tell me not of busy life-- Its bustling folly--joyless strife-- Can these dispel my care? No--let me seek some cavern drear, Where not a sound can meet my ear, But groans of death, and shrieks of fear, The music of despair?

The black'ning storm, the driving rain, Shall cool the fever in my brain, And lull me to repose: Then, when the thunders o'er me roll, And spirits scream and goblins howl, The tempest shall compose my soul, And cheat me of my woes."

About six months did Charles continue in this deplorable condition, attracting the sympathy of all who beheld him. And often when he passed the cottage doors, where, in happier days, he had accompanied Maria on her errands of benevolence, the objects of his former bounty would look after him with a sigh, and say, "Poor Charles! Poor Charles!"

Though he generally spent the day in rambling about the woods and hills, the hour of his return seldom exceeded that of nightfall. One evening, however, he delayed his return; his parents made every enquiry, but in vain. He had been seen on Harter-fell in the afternoon, but no further tidings could be obtained. Early next morning the melancholy suspicion was confirmed--he was found drowned. It is rumoured in the vale, says our friend, but he will not vouch for its truth, that he was found in the very spot where the stone rolled down when he was born. It appears that he had meditated this act from the following lines, which shall conclude our extracts:--

"And what is death, that I should dread To mingle with the silent dead? 'Tis but a pang--and pangs are o'er; A throb--and throbbing is no more; One struggle--and that one my last: A gasp--a groan--and all is past!"

THE SKULLS OF CALGARTH.

A LEGEND OF WINDERMERE LAKE.

This old mansion of Calgarth, on the banks of Lake Windermere, is built much in the style of Levens and Sizergh. Some of the rooms have been elegantly finished; but, having been a long time in the possession of farmers, who occupy but a part of it, it is much gone out of repair, and has, on the whole, a melancholy appearance. This circumstance, in concurrence with the superstitious notions which have ever been common in country places, and the particular mentioned hereafter, have probably given rise to a report, which has long prevailed, that the house is haunted. And many are the stories of frightful visions and mischievous deeds which the goblins of the place are said to have performed, to terrify and distress the harmless neighbourhood. These fables are not yet entirely disbelieved. Spectres still are seen, and there are two human skulls, which have lain in the window of a large room as long as can be remembered, whose history and reputed properties are too singular not to contribute something to this story of "the haunted house," and to let them be passed over in this route.

It has been a popular tale in these parts of immemorial standing, that these skulls formerly belonged to two poor old people, who were unjustly executed for a robbery; to perpetuate their innocence, some ghost brought them there; and that they are, for that end, indestructible, and in effect, "immoveable." For, it is said, to what place soever they were taken, or however used, they were still presently seen again in their old dormitory, the window. As the report goes, they have been buried, burned, powdered, and dispersed in the winds, and upon the lake, several times, to no purpose as to their removal and destruction: so far, says common fame. Certain it is these human remains still exist, and it would be thought an impeachment of the taste and curiosity of the nymphs and swains of the neighbouring villages, if they could not say they had once seen the skulls of Calgarth.

As a more rational account of the matter (though still lame and unsatisfactory), it is told by some, that there formerly lived in the house a famous doctress, who had two skeletons by her, for the usual purposes of her profession; and the skulls happening to meet with better preservation than the rest of the bones, they were accidentally honoured with this singular notice. But, be their origin what it may, their legend is too whimsical and improbable to deserve being recorded, otherwise than as an instance of the never-failing credulity of ignorance and superstition.

THE LUCK OF EDEN HALL.

A TALE OF THE MUSGRAVES.

Eden Hall, the seat of the chief of the famous border clan of Musgrave, is a large and handsome edifice, on the west bank of the river Eden, built in the taste which prevailed about the time of the Charles's. Being bordered with trees, it forms an elegant feature in the pleasure grounds. There is here preserved, with scrupulous care, an old and anciently-painted glass goblet, called the "Luck of Edenhall," which would appear, from the following traditionary legend, to be wedded to the fortunes of its present possessors. The butler, in going to procure water at St. Cuthbert's well, in the neighbourhood (rather an unusual employment for a butler) came suddenly upon a company of fairies, who were feasting and making merry on the green sward. In their flight they left behind this glass, and one of them returning for it, found it in the hands of the butler. Seeing that its recovery was hopeless, she flew away, singing aloud--

"If that glass should break or fall, Farewell the luck of Eden Hall."

The connection of the prosperity of the family with the integrity of an inanimate object, has frequently been one of the playthings of tradition, and traces of the superstition are found in ancient fable. There is a legend of this kind attached to a pear, preserved in a silver box at Coalstoun, the seat of the Earl of Dalhousie, near Haddington; and there is or was, a glass cap at Muncaster castle, given by Henry VI. to Sir John Pennington, which, from the general opinion of the King's sanctity, and that he entailed with the gift a blessing on the family, was called "the Luck of Muncaster."

The initials, I. H. S., are marked upon the case containing the goblet at Eden Hall, sufficiently showing the sacred uses to which it was originally appropriated. Philip, Duke of Wharton, alludes to it in his ballad, called--

THE DRINKING MATCH OF EDEN HALL.

"God prosper long, from being broke, The 'Luck of Eden Hall!' A doleful drinking bout I sing, There lately did befal.

To chase the spleen with cup and cann, Duke Philip took his way; Babes yet unborn shall never see The like of such a day.

The stout and ever-thirsty duke A vow to God did make; His pleasure within Cumberland Those live-long nights to take.

Sir Musgrave, too, of Martindale, A true and worthy knight; Estoon with him a bargain made In drinking to delight.

The bumpers swiftly pass about, Six in an hand went round; And, with their calling for more wine, They made the hall resound.

Now, when these merry tidings reach'd The Earl of Harold's ears, And am I, quoth he, with an oath, Thus slighted by my peers?

Saddle my steed, bring forth my boots, I'll be with them right quick, And, master sheriff, come you too, We'll know this scurvy trick.

Lo, yonder doth Earl Harold come, Did one at table say: 'Tis well, reply'd the mettl'd Duke, How will he get away?

When thus the Earl began:--Great Duke, I'll know how this did chance, Without inviting me:--sure this You did not learn in France.

One of us two, for this offence, Under the board shall lie: I know thee well; a Duke thou art, So some years hence shall I.

But trust me, Wharton, pity 'twere So much good wine to spill, As those companions here may drink, Ere they have had their fill.

Let thou and I, in bumpers full, This grand affair decide, Accurs'd be he, Duke Wharton said, By whom it is deny'd.

To Andrews, and to Hotham fair, Then many a pint went round: And many a gallant gentleman Lay sick upon the ground.

When, at the last, the Duke found out He had the Earl secure, He ply'd him with a full pint-glass, Which laid him on the floor.

Who never spake more words than these, After he downwards sunk; My worthy friends, revenge my fall, Duke Wharton sees me drunk.

Then, with a groan, Duke Philip held The sick man by the joint; And said, Earl Harold, stead of thee, Would I had drank this pint.

Alack, my very heart doth bleed, And doth within me sink! For surely a more sober Earl Did never swallow drink.

With that the sheriff, in a rage, To see the Earl so smit, Vow'd to revenge the dead-drunk peer Upon renowned St. Kitt.

Then stepp'd a gallant squire forth, Of visage thin and pale; Lloyd was his name, and of Gany Hall, Fast by the river Swale;

Who said, he would not have it told Where Eden river ran, That, unconcerned, he should sit by, So, sheriff, I'm your man.

Now, when these tidings reach'd the room, Where the Duke lay in bed, How that the squire thus suddenly Upon the floor was laid:

O heavy tidings! quoth the Duke, Cumberland thou witness be, I have not any captain, more Of such account as he.

Like tidings to Earl Thanet came, Within as short a space, How that the under sheriff, too, Was fallen from his place.

Now God be with him, said the Earl, Sith 'twill no better be; I trust I have within my town As drunken knights as he.

Of all the number that were there, Sir Rains he scorned to yield; But, with a bumper in his hand, He stagger'd o'er the field.

Thus did this dare contention end, And each man of the slain Were quickly carried off to sleep, Their senses to regain.

God bless the King, the Duchess fat, And keep the land in peace; And grant that drunkenness henceforth 'Mong noblemen may cease!" &c.

J. H. Wiffen wrote a short poem upon the "Luck of Eden Hall," and the German poet, Upland, has a ballad upon the same subject.

The Musgraves are a family of great antiquity and reputation. They came to England with the Conqueror, and settled first in Musgrave, in Westmoreland; then at Hartley Castle, in the same county; and, finally, at their present residence at Eden Hall. Sir Philip Musgrave, who was commander-in-chief of the king's troops for Cumberland and Westmoreland, in the Parliamentary war, just walks across the stage in Scott's legend of Montrose; but, by mistake the novelist calls him Sir Miles.

THE MAID OF HARDRA SCAR;

OR, THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.