Part 105

I found the description correct, with the exception of the sunshine passage; for when I entered the church-yard not a sun ray smiled on the graves; but, on the contrary, gloomy clouds were frowning above. The church door was open, and I discovered that the villagers were strewing the floors with fresh rushes. I learnt from the old clerk, that, according to annual custom, the rush-bearing procession would be in the evening. I asked the clerk if there were any dissenters in the neighbourhood; he said, no, not nearer than Keswick, where there were some that called themselves Presbyterians; but he did not know what they were, he believed them to be a kind of _papishes_.[342] During the whole of this day I observed the children busily employed in preparing garlands of such wild flowers as the beautiful valley produces, for the evening procession, which commenced at nine, in the following order:--The children (chiefly girls) holding these garlands, paraded through the village, preceded by the _Union_ band, (thanks to the great drum for this information;) they then entered the church, where the three largest garlands were placed on the altar, and the remaining ones in various other parts of the place. (By the by, the beautifiers have placed an ugly window above the altar, of the nondescript order of architecture.) In the procession I observed the “Opium Eater,” Mr. Barber, an opulent gentleman residing in the neighbourhood, Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Wordsworth, and Miss Dora Wordsworth. Wordsworth is the chief supporter of these rustic ceremonies. The procession over, the party adjourned to the ball-room, a hayloft, at my worthy friend, Mr. Bell’s, where the country lads and lasses tripped it merrily and _heavily_. They called the amusement _dancing_, but I called it _thumping_; for he who could make the greatest noise seemed to be esteemed the best dancer; and, on the present occasion, I think Mr. Pooley, the schoolmaster, bore away the palm. Billy Dawson, the fiddler, boasted to me of having been the officiating minstrel at this ceremony for the last six and forty years. He made grievous complaints of the outlandish tunes which the “Union band chaps” introduce: in the procession of this evening they annoyed Billy by playing the “Hunters’ Chorus in Friskits.” “Who,” said Billy, “can keep time with such a queer thing?” Amongst the gentlemen dancers was one Dan Burkitt; he introduced himself to me, by seizing my coat collar in a mode that would have given a Burlington Arcade lounger the hysterics, and saying, “---- I’m old Dan Burkitt, of Wytheburn, sixty-six years old--not a better jigger in Westmoreland.” No, thought I, nor a greater tosspot. On my relating this to an old man present, he told me not to judge of Westmoreland manners by Dan’s; “for,” said he, “you see, sir, he is a _statesman_, and has been at Lunnon, and so takes liberties.” In Westmoreland, farmers residing on their own estate are called “statesmen.” The dance was kept up till a quarter to twelve, when a livery-servant entered, and delivered the following verbal message to Billy--“Master’s respects, and will thank you to lend him the fiddlestick.” Billy took the hint; the sabbath morn was at hand, and the pastor of the parish had adopted this gentle mode of apprizing the assembled revellers that they ought to cease their revelry. The servant departed with the fiddlestick, the chandelier was removed, and when the village clock struck twelve not an individual was to be seen out of doors in the village. No disturbance of any kind interrupted the dance: Dan Burkitt was the only person at all “how came you so?” and he was “non se ipse” before the jollity commenced. He told me he was “seldom sober;” and I believed what he said. The rush-bearing is now, I believe, almost entirely confined to Westmoreland. It was once customary in Craven, as appears from the following extract from Dr. Whitaker:--“Among the seasons of periodical festivity, was the rush-bearing, or the ceremony of conveying fresh rushes to strew the floor of the parish church. This method of covering floors was universal in _houses_ while floors were of earth, but is now confined to places of worship: the bundles of the girls were adorned with wreaths of flowers, and _the evening concluded with a dance_. In Craven the custom has wholly ceased.”

In Westmoreland the custom has undergone a change. Billy remembered when the lasses bore the rushes in the evening procession, and strewed the church floor at the same time that they decorated the church with garlands; now, the rushes are laid in the morning by the ringer and clerk, and no rushes are introduced in the evening procession. I do not like old customs to change; for, like mortals, they change before they die altogether.

The interest of the scene at Grassmere was heightened to me, by my discovering that the dancing-room of the rush-bearers was the ball-room of Mr. Wilson’s children’s dance. The dancing-master described so exquisitely in his poem is John Carradus. From an old inhabitant of Grassmere I had the following anecdotes of the now professor of moral philosophy. He was once a private in the Kendal local militia; he might have been a captain, but not having sufficient knowledge of military tactics, he declined the honour.

Wilson, while in the militia, was billeted at one of the Kendal inns, where a brother private was boasting of his skill in leaping, and stated, that he never met with his equal. Wilson betted a guinea that he would outleap him; the wager was accepted, and the poet came off victorious, having leaped seven yards; his bragging antagonist leaped only five. Mr. Wilson appears to have been celebrated in Westmoreland for these things; being a good climber of trees, an excellent swimmer, and a first-rate leaper.

The poet had a curious fancy in wearing his hair in long curls, which flowed about his neck. His sergeant noticed these curls, and remarked, that in the militia they wanted men and not puppies; requesting, at the same time, that he would wear his hair like other Christians. The request of the sergeant was complied with, and the poet’s head was soon deprived of its tresses. On a friend blaming him for submitting to the orders of a militia sergeant, he coolly said, “I have acted correctly; it is the duty of an inferior soldier to submit to a superior.”

While in the militia, Wilson opposed himself to seven beggars, or trampers, of “Younghusband’s gang,” who were insulting a poor man. In this fray the bard got two black eyes; “but,” added the narrator, “no matter--he got ’em in a good cause.”

_July 22, Sunday._ Attended church. After service sketched the font, which appeared to be of great antiquity. Near the altar is the following inscription on a beautiful marble monument, designed and executed by Webster of Kendal: the poetry is by Wordsworth.

IN THE BURIAL GROUND

Of this church are deposited the remains of JEMIMA ANN DEBORAH, second Daughter of Sir EGERTON BRYDGES, of Denton Court, Kent, Bart. She departed this life, at the Ivy Cottage, Rydal, May 25, 1822, Aged 28 years. This memorial is erected by her husband, EDWARD QUILLINAN.

These vales were saddened with no common gloom When good Jemima perished in her bloom; When, such the awful will of Heaven, she died By flames breathed on her from her own fire-side. On earth we dimly see, and but in part We know, yet faith sustains the sorrowing heart: And she the pure, the patient, and the meek, Might have fit epitaph could feelings speak: If words could tell, and monuments record, How treasures lost are inwardly deplored, No name by grief’s fond eloquence adorned, More than Jemima’s would be praised and mourned The tender virtues of her blameless life, Bright in the daughter, brighter in the wife; And in the cheerful mother brightest shone-- That light hath past away--the will of God be done.

From the church-yard I transcribed the following inscriptions:--

HERE LIETH

The body of THOMAS, the son of WILLIAM and MARY WORDSWORTH. He died on the 1st of December, A. D. 1812.

Six months to six years added, he remained Upon this sinful earth by sin unstained. O blessed Lord, whose mercy then removed A child whom every eye that looked on loved, Support us, teach us calmly to resign What we possessed, and now is wholly thine.

* * * * *

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

WILLIAM GREEN, the last 23 years of whose life were passed in the neighbourhood, where, by his skill and industry as an artist, he produced faithful representations of the county, and lasting memorials of its more perishable features.

He was born at Manchester, And died at Ambleside, On the 29 Day of April, 1823, in the 63 year of his age, deeply lamented by a numerous family, and universally respected.

HIS AFFLICTED WIDOW Caused this stone to be erected.

Green was a surprising man, and his sketches of mountain scenes are correctly executed, though I never liked his manner of drawing; and in his colouring there is something glaring and unnatural. But the fame of Green does not rest on his abilities as an artist. As the historian of the English maintains, his descriptive talents were of the first order. His entertaining and invaluable “Guide” will be perused by posterity with increased admiration. There is a charm about it which I have not found in any other of the numerous publications of a similar nature. I have been informed, however, that notwithstanding its excellence its sale was limited, and the author was out of pocket by it.

_July 23._ Ascended _Silvertop_ or _Silverhow_, a hill at Grassmere. It is not very high, but from its unevenness it is not easy to reach the summit. The view from it is rather extensive, considering its very moderate height. When I ascended there was a considerable mist, yet I could distinguish Windermere, Rydal lake and church, and the surrounding objects. To day I leave Grassmere; I do it with regret, but with hopes of once more visiting it, and seeing Jonathan Bell again. He is one of the pleasantest fellows I ever met with, and I shall recommend the Grassmere inn to all my friends who may visit the lakes.

_July 24._ Walked to _Keswick_. The road from Grassmere is so well described in Mr. Otley’s small guide, (which has been of the greatest use to me,) that it would be only a waste of time and paper to particularize its numerous interesting objects. The road passes by Thulmere, or _contracted_ Lake, (so called from its sudden contraction in the middle, where there is a neat bridge,) through the greatest part of Saint John’s Vale, so celebrated by sir Walter Scott’s poem, the “Bridal of Triermain.” Opposite Wytheburn chapel, (which is the smallest I ever saw,) I entered into conversation with a labouring man, who was well acquainted with the late Charles Gouche, the “gentle pilgrim of nature,” who met an untimely death by falling over one of the precipices of Helvellyn. Some time previous to his death he had lodged at the Cherry Tree, near Wytheburn. The man related many anecdotes of him, but none particularly interesting. Mr. Gouche was an enthusiastic admirer of poetry, which he would frequently recite to him and others of his friends.

Keswick is a neat town. The Greta runs through it; but, alas! its once pure waters have become polluted by the filthy factories now on its banks. Having been obliged to leave Keswick in the afternoon of the day after my arrival, I was unable to see much of it or its neighbourhood. I paid a hasty visit to Derwentwater and the falls of Lowdore. The latter, from the dryness of the season, much disappointed me. I saw the Druid’s Temple on the old road to Penrith; it is a circle formed of rough stones. The common people pretend these stones cannot be counted, but I found no difficulty in ascertaining their number to be forty-eight. A barbarian once recommended the owner to blast these stones for walling, but happily for the antiquary his suggestion was not attended to. Green, in his guide, speaking of this spot, alludes to the very erroneous opinion that the druidical was a polytheistic religion.--N.B. Skiddaw has a majestic appearance when viewed from Keswick. Southey’s house is at the foot.

* * * * *

During my residence in the above parts I collected the following scraps, by whom written, or whether original, I know not.

SONNET.

The nimble fancy of all beauteous Greece Fabled young Love an everlasting boy, That through the blithe air, like a pulse of joy, Wing’d his bright way--a life that could not cease, Nor suffer diminution or increase; Whose quiver, fraught with quaint delicious woes, And wounds that hurt not--thorns plucked from the rose Making the fond heart hate its stagnant fence-- Was ever full. Oh musical conceit Of old Idolatry, and youthful time, Fit emanation of a happy clime, Where but to live, to move, to breathe, was sweet; And love indeed came floating on the air, A winged God, for ever fresh and fair!

SONNET.

It must be so--my infant love must find In my own breast a cradle and a grave; Like a rich jewel hid beneath the wave, Or rebel spirit bound within the rind Of some old [wither’d] oak--or fast enshrin’d In the cold durance of an echoing cave---- Yet better thus, than cold disdain to brave; Or worse, to taint the quiet of that mind That decks its temple with unearthly grace, Together must we dwell my dream and I-- Unknown then live, and unlamented die Rather than dim the lustre of that face, Or drive the laughing dimple from its place, Or heave that white breast with a painful sigh.

SONNET.

Few lov’d the youthful bard, for he was one Whose face, tho’ with intelligence it beam’d, Was ever sad; if with a smile it gleam’d It was but momentary, like the sun Darting one bright ray thro’ the thunder cloud-- He lov’d the secret vale, and not the crowd And hum of populous cities--some would say There was a secret labouring in his breast, That made him cheerless and disturb’d his rest; Whose influence sad he could not drive away. What caused the young bard’s woe was never known, Yet, once, a wanderer deem’d an hapless flame Consum’d his life away, for one, whose name He heard him breathe, upon the mountains lone!

SONG.

She is not fair to outward view, As many maidens be; Her loveliness I never knew, Until she smil’d on me. O then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne’er reply; And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye-- Her very frowns are fairer far, Than smiles of other maidens are.

SONG.

I have lived, and I have loved, Have lived, and loved in vain; Some joy, and many woes, have proved, Which may not be again. My heart is old--my eye is sere-- Joy wins no smile, and grief no tear. I would hope, if hope I could, Tho’ sure to be deceived; There’s sweetness in a thought of good, If ’tis not quite believed-- But fancy ne’er repeats the strain That memory once reproves, for vain.

Here endeth my journal.

T. Q. M.

[338, 339] I cannot remember the names: the map of Yorkshire I have affords no clue.

[340] This seems a pretty general custom in Westmoreland. Do the young people of this county need informing that “a man may not marry his grandmother?”

[341] I quote from memory, and cannot fill up the blank.

[342] The only instance of dissent I heard of betwixt Kendal and Keswick, was a private Unitarian chapel at a gentleman’s seat near Bowness. At Kendal and Keswick the dissenters are very numerous.

* * * * *

GENDERS.--JAMES HARRIS.

A good translation of Xenophon’s Cyropædia is much wanted. That by Ashley is vilely done; though Mr. Harris has pronounced a high eulogium on it in his Philological Inquiries.

Mr. Harris was an excellent Greek scholar, but beyond that he does not seem to have great merit as a writer. In his “Hermes,” speaking of the grammatical genders, he says, they are founded on a “reasoning which discovers, even in things without sex, a distant analogy to that great distinction, which, according to Milton, animates the world.” To this he adds, in a note, “Linnæus has traced the distinction of sexes through the vegetable world, and made it the basis of his botanic method.” Should not one be induced to think from this, that Linnæus classed some plants as male, and others as female, from their form and character? when, in fact, they are classed according to the number and form of those parts on which the fructification of the plants actually depends. What becomes of this supposed analogy in the German language, where the sun is feminine, and the moon masculine?

Lowth, in his grammar, mentions the poetical advantage our language derives from making all inanimate things neuter, by the power it gives of personification by the mere change of gender.[343]

[343] Pye.

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

WHAT IS LIFE?

What is life? ’tis like the ocean, In its placid hours of rest, Sleeping calmly--no emotion Rising in its tranquil breast.

But too soon the heavenly sky Is obscured by nature’s hand, And the whirlwind passing by Leaves a wreck upon the strand.

S.

* * * * *

DOCTOR LETTSOM.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--Few inherited better qualities or were more eccentric than the late Dr. Lettsom. While he associated with literary men, communicated with literary works, and wrote and published his medical experience, he gave gratuitous aid to the needy, and apportioned his leisure to useful and practical purposes.

In a work, called “Moods and Tenses,” lately published, I find anecdotes of the doctor, which I had sent to a literary publication,[344] reprinted without acknowledgment, and extracted since into other works. In addition to the printed anecdotes of so amiable a man, I trust, sir, you will not be unwilling further to illustrate his character by an anecdote or two, until now untold.

The first is of a _Lady and her Servant_. The doctor was once called in to attend a sick lady and her maid-servant. On entering the passage, he was asked by the nurse into the lady’s chamber. “Very well,” said he mildly, “but is there not a servant ill also.” “Yes, sir,” was the reply. “Then let me prescribe for her first,” he rejoined, “as her services will be first wanted.” His request was complied with; and as he predicted so it proved,--by the second visit the servant was convalescent. “I generally find this the case,” observed the doctor, good-humouredly, to his friend; “Servants want physic _only_, but their mistresses require more skill than physic. This is owing to the difference between scrubbing the stairs and scrubbing the teeth.”

The second anecdote refers to _books_. Whenever a friend borrowed a book from the doctor’s library, he rarely lent it but with this stipulation, that the supposed value of the book should be deposited, with the name of the borrower, and the title of the volume with date, in the vacant place till the book was restored. “Though attended with some pains, I find this a good plan,” said the doctor; “many of my sets would otherwise be imperfect. I feel pleasure in lending my books, (many I give away,) but I like to see my library, like my practice, as regularly conducted as possible.”

The third anecdote relates to the cure of _filching_. The doctor had a favourite servant, who manifested the frailty of taking that which did not belong to him. John had abstracted a loaf of sugar from the store closet, and sold it to a person that kept a shop. Shortly afterwards, on the carriage passing the shop, the doctor desired John to go in and order a loaf of lump sugar, and to pay for it, which was accordingly done; but when they returned home, John suspecting his master’s motive, made a full confession of the crime, fell on his knees, implored forgiveness, and was pardoned on his solemn promise of future honesty.

The fourth anecdote is worthy of the consideration of medical practitioners. The doctor having been called to a poor “lone woman,” pitied her desolate situation so much, that he shed tears. Her person and room were squalid; her language and deportment indicated that she had seen better days; he took a slip of paper out of his pocket, and wrote with his pencil the following very rare prescription to the overseers of the parish in which she resided:--

“A shilling _per diem_ for Mrs. Maxton: Money, not Physic, will cure her.

_Lettsom._”

That the doctor was not a rich man may be easily accounted for, when it is considered that at the houses of the necessitous he gave more fees than he took. At public medical dinners, anniversaries, and lectures, he must be well remembered by many a truly vivacious companion, with a truly benevolent heart and good understanding.

ΠΡΙ

[344] Literary Chronicle, 1819, p. 392.

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

A FAREWELL.

Go, go, thy heart is still thine own, Go, taste of joy and gladness; I fondly dreamt that heart mine own, To hope so now were madness.

Many a mortal yet will woo thee, Many a lover trust that smile, But, if well as I they knew thee, Few thy beauty would beguile.

Like the merchant who has ventured All his fortune on the sea, So in thee my hopes were center’d, Destin’d soon a wreck to be.

Then fare-thee-well, we meet no more Better had we never met; Thou hast many joys in store, I have none--my sun is set.

S.

* * * * *

“PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.”

EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES, WRITTEN TO OBLIGE A YOUNG FRIEND, WHO SUGGESTED THE TOPIC.

The PAST, which _once_ was present, _then_ did seem, As doth _this_ present, but “a sick man’s dream.” _Now_, the remembrance of _that_ past appears, Through the dim distance of receding years, A lovely vision of fair forms:--and yet, How different it was! Fool! to regret What had no being! Time, that faithful tutor, Were I but teachable, might show the FUTURE As the PRESENT is; and yet I paint it Teeming with joy; and my hope doth saint it, With haloes round the fond imagination. And so through life I pass--without a station Whence I can see the present, a reality To be enjoy’d--living on _ideality_.

_August 25, 1827._

*

* * * * *

_For the Table Book._

TOMMY MITCHESON, OF DURHAM.

The above is a well-known character in Durham, called “the philosopher:” and were his literary attainments to be measured by the books he peruses, they would far exceed those of any gentleman in the place. Tommy reads every thing that he can borrow--legal, medical, theological, historical--true narrative, or romance, it matters little to him;--but Tommy has no recollection. On arriving at the last page of a work he is just as wise as before he commenced. A friend of mine once lent him Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall;” and when Tommy returned the last volume, asked him how he liked it. “It is a _nice_ work.”--“Well, how did you like that part about the boxing match between Crib and Molineux?”--“Oh,” said he, “it was the _nicest_ part in the whole book!” Poor Tommy! I can say this of thee; I have lent thee many a book, and have always had them returned clean and unsoiled! I cannot say this of some of my book borrowers.

T. Q. M.

* * * * *

A MAN-LIKING BIRD.