Part 4

In the early part of the summer of 1807, a very handsome young lady, apparently about twenty-two, came to the village of Hawes, and took lodgings there. She positively refused to tell either her name or the place of her residence. Her manners were highly accomplished, though her behaviour sometimes assumed a degree of wildness and incoherence, which raised doubts as to the state of her mind. Her dress was rather rich than splendid; and white was her customary attire. A broad pink ribbon was always tied round her waist, with two ends behind, reaching to her feet. It was observed that she took particular pleasure in seeing these ribbons flutter in the wind, as she rambled over the adjoining fells. Curiosity, that busy personage in most places, and particularly so in the village of Hawes was eager to trace the history of the mysterious visitor, but in vain. The most distant allusion to the subject always produced silence.

Some supposed that she was a young lady who had been crossed in love, and had fled hither to brood over her disappointment in solitude; indeed her conduct rather sanctioned such an opinion, for she kept no company. When she saw any one, it was to administer relief or to enquire after their wants.

Others thought she might be some young widow, who had chosen to linger out her existence in obscurity in such a secluded spot as that. This opinion did not want support for she was constant in her visits to all the widows in the village, beside lodging with one.

Others again thought she was betrothed to some military officer, and chose to escape the importunities of other lovers, by hiding herself here till peace should restore her future husband to her arms.

Such were a few of the many surmises which at that time constituted the tea-table gossip at Hawes. Though each party felt confident that its own opinion was right, it remained only vague conjecture; for the young lady herself never dropped a single hint which could in the least turn the scale of imagination to the side of certainty.

One evening, having taken her accustomed ramble, she did not return; and the widow with whom she lodged became extremely impatient and uneasy. Inquiries were made in all directions, but no one had seen her. Several young men volunteered to search her usual haunts, but nothing could be found.

For several weeks, and even months, the sudden disappearance of the fair stranger continued to occupy the principal attention of the village. Nor will this appear surprising, when you recollect that only seldom anything occurs in a place like that of a romantic nature; yet the hearts of the inhabitants are as open to the sympathies of humanity in that place as in others.

At last it was remembered that a carriage, with the blinds up, had called to water the horses at Mr. Clark's on that evening; and had driven forward without any one alighting. At the time it was considered to be an empty carriage; but when the fair stranger was found to have disappeared so mysteriously the same evening, it was concluded that she had been carried off by her friends in this very carriage.

Without attempting to explain how this was, she was never heard of after that day.

The picture I would draw from this story is simply this:--One of her usual walks was up the glen to Hardra waterfall. Every day, when the weather would permit, did she traverse this glen. After viewing the immense column of water which there is precipitated over the projecting rock into the unfathomable cistern at its foot, she would ascend the steep acclivity which leads to the top of the rock. Upon a natural rude column of stone on the left hand side, which appears to have been torn from the parent rock during some convulsion of nature, would she stand for hours, her long pink ribbons fluttering in the mountain breeze. I know of no finer subject than this for a picture. The broken and overhanging rocks--the loose fragments at their feet--the cascade itself, the finest in the country--the brook fretting and foaming down the rugged glen--the stunted trees, and matted foliage, which protrude from the fissures of this natural wall--the huge erect pillar of stone, which rears its detached mass above the adjoining rock--and one of the loveliest females I ever saw, attired in flowing white drapery, which, with the ribbons, fluttered and played upon the wind--could you find a subject equal to this for interest, one equal to it for sublimity and beauty?

THE TWO BROTHERS.

A TALE OF ENNERDALE.

"These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, Perch'd on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. But, for that moping son of idleness, Why can he tarry yonder?--In our churchyard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name--only the turf we tread And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sat Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves, Of his old cottage,--as it chanced, that day, Employ'd in winter's work. Upon the stone His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards tooth'd with glittering wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who turned her large round wheel in the open air With back and forward steps. Towards the field In which the parish chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the priest had sent Many a long look of wonder: and at last, Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path That from his cottage to the churchyard led, He took his way, impatient to accost The stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

'Twas one well-known to him in former days, A shepherd lad,--who, ere his sixteenth year, Had left that calling, tempted to entrust His expectations to the fickle winds And perilous waters--with the mariners A fellow-mariner--and so had fared Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear'd Among the mountains, and he in his heart Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard The tones of waterfalls and inland sounds Of caves and trees:--and, when the regular wind Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail, And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours Of tiresome indolence, would often hang Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam Flash'd round him images and hues that wrought In union with the employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome, Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep, Saw mountains--saw the forms of sheep that grazed On verdant hills--with dwellings among trees, And shepherds clad in the same country gray Which he himself had worn.

And now at last From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, To his paternal home he is return'd, With a determined purpose to resume The life he had lived there; both for the sake Of many darling pleasures, and the love Which to an only brother he has borne In all his hardships, since that happy time When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two Were brother shepherds on their native hills. --They were the last of all their race; and now, When Leonard had approach'd his home, his heart Fail'd in him; and, not venturing to inquire Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved, Towards the churchyard he had turn'd aside; That as he knew in what particular spot His family were laid, he thence might learn If still his brother lived, or to the file Another grave was added.--He had found Another grave, near which a full half-hour He had remain'd; but, as he gazed, there grew Such a confusion in his memory, That he began to doubt; and he had hopes That he had seen this heap of turf before-- That it was not another grave, but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale, that afternoon, he walk'd Through fields which once had been well known to him: And O what joy the recollection now Sent to his heart! He lifted up his eyes, And, looking round, imagined that he saw Strange alteration wrought on every side Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks And everlasting hills themselves were changed.

By this the priest, who down the field had come Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate Stopp'd short,--and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency, Ay, thought the vicar smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday; The happy man will creep about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arch'd the gate Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appear'd, The good man might have communed with himself, But that the stranger, who had left the grave, Approach'd; he recognised the priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued:

LEONARD.

You live, Sir, in these dales a quiet life; Your years make up one peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remember'd? Scarce a funeral Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen months; And yet, some changes must take place among you; And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks Can trace the finger of mortality, And see, that with our threescore years and ten We are not all that perish.----I remember (For many years ago I passed this road) There was a foot-way all along the fields By the brook-side--'tis gone--and that dark cleft! To me it does not seem to wear the face Which then it had.

PRIEST.

Nay, Sir, for aught I know, That chasm is much the same--

LEONARD.

But, surely, yonder--

PRIEST.

Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend That does not play you false.--On that tall pike (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) There were two springs that bubbled side by side, As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other; the huge crag Was rent with lightning--one hath disappear'd; The other, left behind, is flowing still.[2]---- For accidents and changes such as these, We want not store of them;--a waterspout 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 fell'd:--and then for our own homes! A child is born or christen'd, a field plough'd, 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 A pair of diaries--one serving, Sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fireside-- Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, Commend me to these valleys!

LEONARD.

Yet your churchyard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, Cross-bones nor skull--type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.

PRIEST.

Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me! The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread If every English churchyard were like ours; Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth: We have no need of names and epitaphs; We talk about the dead by our firesides. And then for our immortal part! we want No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale: The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.

LEONARD.

Your dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt You, Sir, could help me to the history Of half these graves?

PRIEST.

For eight-score winters past, With what I've witness'd, and with what I've heard, Perhaps I might; and 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.

LEONARD.

'Tis a common case. We'll take another: who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves? It touches on that piece of native rock Left in the churchyard wall.

PRIEST.

That's Walter Ewbank. He had as white a head and fresh a cheek As ever were produced by youth and age Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. Through five long generations had the heart Of Walter's forefathers o'erflow'd the bounds Of their inheritance, that single cottage-- You see it yonder!--and those few green fields. They toil'd and wrought, and still, from sire to son, Each struggled, and each yielded as before A little--yet a little--and old Walter, They left to him the family heart, and land With other burthens than the crop it bore. Year after year the old man still kept up A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond, Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank, And went into his grave before his time. Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him God only knows, but to the very last He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale: His pace was never that of an old man: I almost see him tripping down the path With his two grandsons after him;--but you, Unless our landlord be your host to-night, Have far to travel--and on these rough paths Even in the longest day of midsummer--

LEONARD.

But those two orphans!

PRIEST.

Orphans!--such they were-- Yet not while Walter lived:--for, though their parents Lay buried side by side as now they lie, The old man was a father to the boys, Two fathers in one father:--and if tears, Shed when he talk'd of them where they were not, And hauntings from the infirmity of love, Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, This old man, in the day of his old age, Was half a mother to them.--If you weep, Sir, To hear a stranger talking about strangers, Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred! Ay--you may turn that way--it is a grave Which will bear looking at.

LEONARD.

These boys--I hope They loved this good old man?--

PRIEST.

They did--and truly: But that was what we almost overlook'd, They were such darlings of each other. For, Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter, The only kinsman near them, and though he Inclined to them, by reason of his age, With a more fond, familiar tenderness, They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, And it all went into each other's hearts. Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, Was two years taller; 'twas a joy to see, To hear, to meet them!--From their house the school Is distant three short miles--and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every water-course And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps Remain'd at home, go staggering through the fords, Bearing his brother on his back. I've seen him On windy days, in one of those stray brooks-- Ay, more than once I've seen him--mid-leg deep, Their two books lying both on a dry stone Upon the hither side; and once I said, As I remember, looking round these rocks And hills on which we all of us were born, That God who made the great book of the world Would bless such piety--

LEONARD.

It may be then--

PRIEST.

Never did worthier lads break English bread; The finest Sunday that the autumn saw With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, Could never keep these boys away from church, Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach. Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner Among these rocks, and every hollow place Where foot could come, to one or both of them Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills; They played like two young ravens on the crags; Then they could write, ay, and speak too as well As many of their betters--and for Leonard! The very night before he went away, In my own house I put into his hand A Bible, and I'd wager house and field That, if he is alive, he has it yet.

LEONARD.

It seems, these brothers have not lived to be A comfort to each other--

PRIEST.

That they might Live to such end, is what both old and young In this our valley all of us have wish'd, And what, for my part, I have often pray'd: But Leonard--

LEONARD.

Then James is still left among you?

PRIEST.

'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking: They had an uncle:--he was at that time A thriving man, and traffick'd on the seas; And, but for that same uncle, to this hour Leonard had never handled rope or shroud. For the boy loved the life which we lead here: And though of unripe years, a stripling only, His soul was knit to this his native soil. But, as I said, old Walter was too weak To strive with such a torrent; when he died, The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep, A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:-- Well--all was gone, and they were destitute. And Leonard, chiefly for his brother's sake, Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. If there were one among us who had heard That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, From the great Gavel,[3] down by Leeza's banks, And down the Enna, far as Egremont, The day would be a very festival; And those two bells of ours, which there you see Hanging in the open air--but, O, good Sir! This is sad talk--they'll never sound for him-- Living or dead. When last we heard of him, He was in slavery among the Moors Upon the Barbary coast. 'Twas not a little That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt, Before it ended in his death, the youth Was sadly cross'd--Poor Leonard! when we parted, He took me by the hand, and said to me, If ever the day came when he was rich, He would return, and on his father's land He would grow old among us.

LEONARD.

If that day Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him; He would himself, no doubt, be happy then As any that should meet him--

PRIEST.

Happy! Sir--

LEONARD.

You said his kindred all were in their graves, And that he had one brother--

PRIEST.

That is but A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; And Leonard being always by his side Had done so many offices about him, That, though he was not of a timid nature, Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy In him was somewhat check'd; and, when his brother Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, The little colour that he had was soon stolen from his cheek; he droop'd, and pined, and pined--

LEONARD.

But these are all the graves of full-grown men!

PRIEST.

Ay, Sir, that pass'd away: we took him to us; He was the child of all the dale--he lived Three months with one, and six months with another; And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love; And many, many happy days were his. But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief His absent brother still was at his heart. And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found (A practice till this time unknown to him) That often, rising from his bed at night, He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping He sought his brother Leonard.--You are moved; Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you, I judged you most unkindly.

LEONARD.

But this youth How did he die at last?

PRIEST.

One sweet May morning (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd lambs, With two or three companions, whom their course Of occupation led from height to height Under a cloudless sun, till he, at length, Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge The humour of the moment, lagg'd behind. You see yon precipice;--it wears the shape Of a vast building made of many crags; And in the midst is one particular rock That rises like a column from the vale, Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar. Upon its aëry summit crown'd with heath, The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, Lay stretch'd at ease; but, passing by the place On their return, they found that he was gone. No ill was fear'd; but one of them by chance Entering, when evening was far spent, the house Which at that time was James's home, there learned That nobody had seen him all that day; The morning came, and still he was unheard of; The neighbours were alarm'd, and to the brook Some hasten'd, some towards the lake; ere noon They found him at the foot of that same rock-- Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after I buried him, poor youth, and there he lies!

LEONARD.

And that then is his grave!--Before his death You say that he saw many happy years?

PRIEST.

Ay, that he did--

LEONARD.

And all went well with him?--

PRIEST.

If he had one, the youth had twenty homes.

LEONARD.

And you believe, then, that his mind was easy?

PRIEST.

Yes, long before he died, he found that time Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless His thoughts were turn'd on Leonard's luckless fortune, He talk'd about him with a cheerful love.

LEONARD.

He could not come to an unhallow'd end!

PRIEST.