Part 5

Nay, God forbid!--You recollect I mention'd A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured That, as the day was warm, he had lain down Upon the grass, and waiting for his comrades, He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep He to the margin of the precipice Had walk'd, and from the summit had fallen headlong. And so, no doubt, he perished: at the time, We guess, that in his hands he must have held His shepherd's staff: for midway in the cliff It had been caught; and there for many years It hung, and moulder'd there.

The priest here ended-- The stranger would have thank'd him, but he felt A gushing from his heart, that took away The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; And Leonard, when they reach'd the churchyard gate, As the priest lifted up the latch, turned round, And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!" The vicar did not hear the words: and now, Pointing towards the cottage, he entreated That Leonard would partake his homely fare; The other thank'd him with a fervent voice, But added, that, the evening being calm, He would pursue his journey. So they parted. It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short, And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd All that the priest had said: his early years Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes, And thoughts which had been his an hour before, All press'd on him with such a weight, that now This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd A place in which he could not bear to live: So he relinquish'd all his purposes. He travell'd on to Egremont: and thence, That night, he wrote a letter to the priest, Reminding him of what had pass'd between them; And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, That it was from the weakness of his heart He had not dared to tell him who he was.

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now A seaman, a grey-headed mariner.

[2] This actually took place on Kidstow Pike, at the head of Hawes Water.

[3] The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale.

The Leeza is a river which flows into the lake of Ennerdale; on issuing from the lake it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont.

EMMA; OR, THE MURDERED MAID.

A TRAGEDY OF THE LAKE DISTRICT.

On the death of Emma's father, she found herself, with a widowed mother, deprived, at one stroke, of nearly all the comforts, and the means of procuring them, which she had enjoyed during her father's lifetime. A small jointure of thirty pounds a-year was all that remained to her mother, for her father had died insolvent.

This thirty pounds a-year Emma thought might support her mother, if she could support herself. Determined to burden no one for her subsistence, and believing that humble servitude was, in the eyes of Heaven and of men, more honourable than a mean and degrading dependence on the bounty of friends for a precarious supply of our temporary wants.

Her mother strenuously opposed Emma's resolution of going to service. She would subject herself to any privations, rather than her young and lovely daughter would be reduced to this severe necessity--she would work for hire--she would beg--she would borrow--she should almost steal, rather than Emma should be compelled to labour. Her mother's entreaties, however, so far from having the desired effect of preventing her going to service, only confirmed Emma in her previous resolution. Should she be a burden to her mother--to that mother who expressed so tender a solicitation for her welfare--who was rapidly descending the downhill of life--who had all her days been accustomed to the elegances of taste? No, no; rather than take anything from her, she would add a little to her comforts; and a portion of her yearly wage should be set apart as a present to her mother.

The affectionate mother, who had never before parted a single day with her daughter, saw her set out to her place of service (a gentleman's family among the lakes, where her father had been upon terms of intimacy) with an aching heart. She felt as if she was parting with her for the last time; and required all the resolution she was mistress of to tear herself from her dear Emma. "Go," she said, "and take a mother's fondest, warmest blessing; and if you should find yourself unable to accomplish your resolution, or feel any inconvenience, return and share what Heaven has left us, with an affectionate mother. It is not much, Heaven knows; but I could doubly enjoy it, were it less, if I had you to share it." Emma assured her mother, that if any unforeseen difficulty occurred, she would instantly repair to her natal home; and cheered her with a promise of constantly writing. This pacified, but did not console her mother. She knew too well the independent spirit of her daughter to hope for her return, except on some awful emergency.

Time rolled on, and repeated letters, both from Emma and her mistress, assured the mother that all was well, and that Emma was healthy and happy. At length Emma sent the joyful intelligence that she would come over on Whitsun Sunday morning, and spend the week with her.

Emma arose, with buoyant spirits, packed up a small bundle of necessaries in a handkerchief, put her wages in her bosom, and set out to see and cheer her affectionate parent. The morning was extremely fine, and she amused herself with the bright and varied prospect, till the road, descending a steep hill, led her into a richly romantic valley. A copse of wood overhung the road, a huge rock formed the fence on that side next the wood, and seemed like a natural wall. Over the rock fell, in three or four unequal cascades, the stream of a brook which might be heard tumbling through the wood to a considerable distance. Close to the place where the water left the wood, one part of the rock shot up to an immense height, bearing no very distant resemblance to the ruins of an old castle. From a fissure in the rock grew the stump of an old oak, whose branches had apparently been lopped by the wind, except one, which, bending down almost to the stream, had escaped its ravages by its humble situation. On a large stone, in this romantic spot, Emma sat down to rest herself awhile, and slake her thirst at the stream.

Though Emma's heart did not entertain a thought but of the joy her mother would feel on receiving the first-fruits of her first wages, every bosom was not warmed by so generous an impulse. Sam the cow-lad at Emma's master's had ascertained that she had that day received her wages, and was gone to her mother's; and he instantly formed the resolution to rob the generous girl of the hard earned pittance. By a nearer route, over the hills, he sought to meet her in this solitary spot, where there was little possibility of being surprised in the action. While Emma was thus meditating on the happiness which she would soon feel in her mother's arms, Sam came up and commanded her to deliver up her money; she entreated him to leave her a little for a present to her mother, but the human fiend (and human fiends are the worst fiends), refused to leave her a farthing. He had secured the booty, and Emma was preparing to pursue her journey, when the horrid thought entered his head, that unless he added murder to his robbery, he would be liable to punishment for his crime. There was not a moment for deliberation; and the lovely, the young, the innocent Emma fell a corpse at the wretch's feet. Fear added wings to the speed of the villain, and he fled, as if from the face of heaven.

The day passed on with the same calm serenity as if nothing had happened. Noon came to the widow's cottage but no Emma arrived. As the evening drew on the mother's unhappiness increased; and she set out to meet her daughter, for whose fate she felt most keenly, without being able to assign any cause. As the sun was sinking, amid a rich profusion of evening tints, which threw a dazzling lustre over all the scene, the widow reached the vale where her murdered daughter slept her last long sleep. But the pencil alone can finish the picture--words are of no utility.

It would be superfluous to say that I would have the last picture sketched at the moment when the mother first discovers that it is the lifeless body of her daughter that lies stained with its own gore, that she is bending over. Cold must be that heart that would not feel the full force of such a piece. Poor would the richest landscape you ever drew appear, when compared with this.

It is strange that those who profess to have hearts so open to the beauties of nature, should reject the loveliest object in it. Adam, though placed in the midst of Paradise, was not content till Eve was added to its other beauties; nor would I ever draw a picture without such an enlivening object. Beside, in most of our fine sublime scenes about the lakes, we lose the principal zest of the piece by having nothing beautiful to contrast with the rugged. The more wild and terrible the scene I had to paint, the greater care would I take to introduce some lovely female form to mark the contrast; then

"Each would give each a double charm, Like pearls upon an Ethiop's arm."

HISTORICAL, POETICAL, AND ROMANTIC

ASSOCIATIONS OF CARLISLE.

No one versed in ballad lore--no reader of old poetry and romance, can approach Carlisle for the first time without pleasurable emotion. Carlisle is the border city--the city of King Arthur and his knights. It has been the scene of many a stout siege and bloody feud; of many a fierce foray, and mournful execution, and of many a just punishment upon traitors and reivers. It is, consequently, not to be pictured to the imagination without unusual interest. Old traditions of events like these have made it among the most remarkable of the cities of England; and it would be difficult to name another around which are clustered so many memories of such various degrees of attraction to the poetical and historical antiquary. Its approach from the south, though striking, gives no idea of its antiquity and former feudalism. It is situated in an extensive plain, surrounded in the distance by mountains, amongst which Saddleback, Skiddaw, and Crossfell, are prominent; and from afar off, with the smoke of its households hanging over it, does undoubtedly impress the imagination with ideas of the romantic.

Nearer approach, however, dissipates this illusion. We lose sight of the valley, being in it, and of the mountains, in the presence of immediate objects. Tall chimneys rear their heads in considerable numbers, pouring forth steam and smoke, and with square buildings and their numerous windows, prove incontestably that modern Carlisle is a manufacturing city, and has associations very different from those of its former history. On entrance, the contrast between the past and the present becomes still more vivid. We see that its walls and gates have disappeared; that its streets are clean, wide and comfortable, which no ancient streets in England ever were; and that it has altogether a juvenile, busy, and thriving appearance, giving few signs (to the eye at least) that it has been in existence above a century. It is true that two venerable relics, its castle and its cathedral, remain to attest its bygone grandeur and glory; but these are not immediately visible, and have to be sought out by the enquiring stranger; whilst all around him is modern and prosaic; and a mere reduplication of the same characteristics of English life and manners that he must have seen in a hundred other places.

Still, however, it is "merry Carlisle," and "bonnie Carlisle," although, like all other mundane things, it has been changed by time; and is quite as much King Arthur's city as England is King Arthur's England; and brimfull of associations which the traveller will be at no loss to recall, of the crime and sorrow--the "fierce wars and faithful loves" of our ancestors, from the year 800 downwards to 1745. Not that Carlisle is only a thousand years old. It has a much earlier origin than the year 800, having been founded by the Romans. By them it was called Luguballium, or Luguvallum, signifying the tower or station by the wall, and was so named from its contiguity to the wall of Severus. The Saxons, disliking this long and awkward name, abbreviated it into Luel; and afterwards in speaking of it, called it Caer-luel, or the city of Luel; from whence comes its present designation of Carlisle. It is supposed to have been during the Saxon period, if not the chief city, the frequent residence of that great mythic personage, King Arthur, where he

With fifty good and able Knights that resorted unto him And were of his round table: Did hold his jousts and tournaments, Whereto were many pressed, Wherein some knights did far excel And eke surmount the rest.

Among these knights, Sir Lancelot du Lake, Sir Bevis, and Sir Gawaine are the most conspicuous in tradition. One of the most celebrated of our most ancient ballads relates to the latter, and to his marriage with the mis-shapen lady that afterwards became so fair. The story is a very beautiful one; and was the model upon which Chaucer founded his Wife of Bath's Tale. It is worth repeating, for the sake of those to whom the uncouth rhymes of ancient days are not familiar; but though it is likely enough that the number of these is but few, it is too interesting, as connected with Carlisle, to be left unmentioned in a chapter expressly devoted to the poetical antiquities of the place.

THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE.

King Arthur lives in merry Carleile, And seemly is to see: And there with him queene Guenever, That bride so bright of blee.

And there with him queene Guenever, That bride so bright in bowre; And all his barons about him stoode, That were both stiffe and stowre.

The king a royale Christmasse kept, With mirth and princelye cheare; To him repaired many a knighte, That came both farre and neare.

And when they were to dinner sette, And cups went freely round: Before them came a faire damsèlle, And knelt upon the ground.

A boone! a boone! O kinge Arthùre, I beg a boone of thee; Avenge me of a carlish knighte, Who hath shent my love and me.

At Tearne-Wadling,[4] his castle stands, Near to that lake so fair, And proudlye rise the battlements, And streamers deck the air.

Noe gentle knighte, nor ladye gay, May pass that castle-walle; But from that foule discurteous knighte, Mishappe will them befalle.

Hee's twyce the size of common men, Wi' thewes, and sinewes stronge, And on his backe he bears a clubbe, That is both thicke and longe.

This grimme baròne, 'twas our harde happe, But yester morne to see; When to his bowre he bare my love, And sore misused me.

And when I told him, King Arthùre As lyttle shold him spare; Goe tell, sayd he, that cuckold kinge, To meete me if he dare.

Upp then sterted King Arthùre, And sware by hille and dale, He ne'er wolde quitt that grimme baròne, Till he had made him quail.

King Arthur sets off in a great rage. The opprobrious term, which galled him the more because it was true, fired his blood, and he challenged the "grimme baròne" to mortal combat.

Sir Gawaine, who seems to have been of a stature as gigantic as the famous Sir Hugh Cæsar, who is buried at Penrith, conquered him by enchantment: his sinews lost their strength, his arms sank powerless at his side; and he only received the boon of life at the hands of his enemy by swearing upon his faith as a knight, to return upon New Year's day, and bring "true word what thing it was that women most desired."

Go fetch my sword Excalibar: Goe saddle mee my steede, Nowe, by my faye, that grimme baròne Shall rue this ruthfulle deede.

And when he came to Tearne-Wadling, Beneath the castle-walle; "Come forth; come forth; thou proud baròne, Or yielde thyself my thralle."

On magicke grounde that castle stoode, And fenc'd with many a spelle: Noe valiant knighte could tread thereon, But straite his courage felle.

Forth then rush'd that carlish knight, King Arthur felte the charme: His sturdy sinews lost their strengthe, Down sunke his feeble arme.

Nowe yield thee, yield thee, King Arthùre, Nowe yield thee unto mee: Or fighte with mee, or lose thy lande, Noe better terms maye bee.

Unlesse thou sweare upon the rood, And promise on thy faye, Here to returne to Tearne-Wadling Upon the New Yeare's daye:

And bringe me worde what thing it is All women moste desyre: This is thy ransome, Arthùre, he says, Ile have noe other hyre.

King Arthur then helde up his hande, And sweare upon his faye, Then tooke his leave of the grimme baròne, And faste hee rode awaye.

And he rode east, and he rode west, And did of all inquyre, What thing it is all women crave, And what they most desyre.

King Arthur made due inquiry; but it was not so easy a matter to discover the secret.

Some told him riches, pompe, or state; Some rayment fine and brighte; Some told him mirthe; some flatterye; And some a jollye knighte:

In letters all King Arthur wrote, And seal'd them with his ringe; But still his minde was helde in doubte, Each tolde a different thinge.

As New Year's day approached, his tribulation increased; for though he might have told the "grimme baròne" with much truth many things that women did much desire, he was not at all sure that his version of what they most desired, would hit the fancy of the Lord of Tarn-Wadling, who had set him to expound the riddle. He would not give up, however, and one day,--

As ruthfulle he rode over a more, He saw a ladye sitte Between an oke, and a greene holléye, All clad in "red scarlette."

Her nose was crookt and turned outwàrde, Her chin stoode all awreye; And where as sholde have been her mouthe, Lo! there was set her eye:

Her haires, like serpents, clung aboute Her cheekes of deadlye hewe: A worse-form'd ladye than she was, No man mote ever viewe.

This ill-conditioned damsel tells him the secret, however, upon condition that he will bring her a "fair and courtly knight to marry her,"--a condition which, considering all the circumstances, must have seemed to the good king as bad as the jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire. The great secret is, as she expresses it, "that all women will have their wille, and this is their chief desyre," which Arthur forthwith tells to the "grimme baròne;" and so acquits himself as far as he is concerned. The other trouble, however, still remains, and fills the king's mind with anxiety. Queen Guinevere, who was outraged as well as her husband by the opprobrious message of the "grimme baròne," but who had never thought of the very obvious solution of the riddle he had been set, comes out to meet him on his return, and inquires how he has sped. He details his new tribulation in having promised to procure a fair knight to marry this ugly, mis-shapen creature. Comfort is nearer at hand than he thought, and Sir Gawaine, his own nephew, "his sister's son," bids him "be merrye and lighte," for he will marry her, however foul and loathsome she may be. He does so accordingly:--

And when they were in wed-bed laid, And all were done awaye: "Come turne to me, mine owne wed-lord, Come turne to mee, I praye."

Sir Gawaine scant could lift his head, For sorrowe and for care; When lo! instead of that lothelye dame, He sawe a young ladye faire.

Sweet blushes stayn'd her rud-red cheeke, Her eyen were blacke as sloe; The ripening cherrye swellde her lippe, And all her necke was snowe.

Agreeably surprised at the change, Sir Gawaine soon learns to love the lady. She informs him that, by a cruel fate, she cannot be fair both night and day; and asks him which he prefers. He hints that the night would be most pleasant; to which she replies:--

What when gaye ladyes goe with their lordes To drinke the ale and wine; Alas! then I must hide myself, I must not go, with mine?

"My faire ladyè, Sir Gawaine sayd, I yield me to thy skille; Because thou art my owne ladye Thou shalt have all thy wille."

The spell is broken. She tells him her history; and that henceforth she shall be fair both night and day.

My father was an aged knighte, And yet it chanced soe, He took to wife a false ladyè, Whiche broughte me to this woe.

Shee witch'd mee, being a faire younge maide, In the grene forèst to dwelle; And there to abide in lothlye shape, Most like a fiend of helle.

Midst mores and mosses, woods, and wilds; To lead a lonesome life: Till some yonge faire and courtlye knighte Wolde marrye me for his wife:

Nor fully to game mine owne trewe shape, Such was her devilish skille; Until he wolde yielde to be ruled by mee, And let mee have all my wille.

She witch'd my brother to a carlish boore, And made him stiffe and stronge; And built him a bowre on magicke grounde, To live by rapine and wronge.

But now the spelle is broken throughe, And wronge is turnde to righte; Henceforth I shall bee a faire ladyè, And hee a gentle knighte.

Another ballad, equally celebrated, though not so beautiful, also relates to King Arthur's residence at Carlisle, and to the truth of the imputation cast upon Queen Guinevere by the "grimme baròne" of the last story. It is entitled "The Boy and the Mantle," commencing somewhat uncouthly:--

In the third day of May, To Carleile did come A kind curteous child That cold much of wisdome.

This "child" brings that wondrous mantle which no lady who is not chaste can wear; and it is tried upon all the dames of the court. When Queen Guinevere put it on, it was suddenly rent from the top to the bottom, and turned in succession all manner of colours, and is told as follows:--

God speed thee, king Arthur, Sitting at thy meate; And the goodly queene Guinevere, I cannott her forgett.

I tell you, lords, in this hall; I bid you all to "heede;" Except you be the more surer Is you for to dread.

He plucked out of his "porterner," And longer wold not dwell, He pulled forth a pretty mantle, Betweene two nut-shells.

Have thou here, king Arthur; Have thou here of mee, Give itt to thy comely queene Shapen as itt is alreadye.

Itt shall never become that wiffe, That hath once done amisse. Then every knight in the king's court Began to care for "his."

Forth came dame Guinevere; To the mantle shee her "hied;" The ladye shee was newfangle, But yett she was affrayd.

When she had taken the mantle; She stoode as shee had beene madd; It was from the top to the toe As sheeres had itt shread.

One while was it "gule;" Another while was itt greene; Another while was it wadded: Ill itt did her beseeme.

Another while was it blacke And bore the worst hue: By my troth, quoth king Arthur, I thinke thou be not true.