The Every-day Book and Table Book. v. 3 (of 3) / Everlasting Calerdar of Popular Amusements, Sports, Pastimes, Ceremonies, Manners, Customs and Events, Incident to Each of the Three Hundred and Sixty-five Days, in past and Present Times; Forming a Complete History of the Year, Month, and Seasons, and a Perpetual Key to the Almanac

by William Hone

NOTES ON A TOUR, CHIEFLY PEDESTRIAN, FROM SKIPTON IN CRAVEN, YORKSHIRE, TO KESWICK, IN CUMBERLAND.

“I hate the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba and say ’tis all barren.”—Sterne

July 14, 1827. Left Skipton for Keswick. The road from Skipton to Burnsal exhibits some romantic scenery, which the muse of Wordsworth has made classic ground. About half a mile from Rilston, on the right-hand side of the road, are the ruins of Norton tower, one of the principal scenes in the poem of the “White Doe of Rylstone.” Having visited the tower before, I did not think it worth while to reascend the immense precipice on which it stands.

15th, Sunday. Previously to the commencement of the service at Burnsal church, I sketched the “lich-gate,” which differs considerably from the beautiful one of Beckenham, in Kent; a [drawing] whereof is in my friend Mr. Hone’s Table Book. The manner wherein the gate turns on its pivot is rather curious, and will be best exemplified by the [drawing] above. The church, an old structure, apparently of the reign of Henry VII., is pleasantly situated on “the banks of the crystal Wharfe.” While attending divine service, one or two things struck me as remarkable. The church has an organ, on which two voluntaries were played; one after the psalms for the day, and the other after the second lesson; but during the singing of the metrical psalms the organ was silent. Instead of it two or three strange-looking countrymen in the organ gallery raised an inharmonious noise with a small fiddle, a flute, and a clarinet. Why do the churchwardens allow this? The gallery of the church should not be allowed to resemble the interior of an ale-house at a village feast. The church would have looked better had it been cleaner: the pew wherein I sat was covered with cobwebs. The business of the churchwardens seemed to me to consist rather in thumping the heads of naughty boys than in looking after the state of the church.

Afternoon, same day. At Linton, about two miles up the river, arrived during the time of service. This church has suffered much from the “beautifiers;” who, amongst other equally judicious improvements, have placed a Venetian window over the altar of the Gothic edifice: the present incumbent, the Rev. Mr. Coulthurst, is about to remove it. The altar rails were covered with garlands made of artificial flowers. Church garlands were formerly made of real flowers. They are borne before the corpses of unmarried young women. I have heard an old woman in Durham sing the following stanza, which evidently alludes to the custom:—

When I am dead, before I be buried,
Hearken ye maidens fair, this must ye do—
Make me a garland of marjoram and lemon thyme,
Mixed with the pansy, rosemary, and rue.

The practice of bearing the garlands is still very common in the country churches in Craven.

In the church-yard is the following inscription on a stone, date 1825! The march of intellect is surely here proceeding at a rapid pace!

Remember man, that paseth by
As thou is now so once was I;
And as I is so must thou be,
Prepare thyself to follow me.

Some one had written beneath,

To follow you’s not my intent,
Unless I knew which way you went.

July 16. Went from Linton over the moors to Clapham; passed through Skirethorns, over Skirethorns moor, by Malham Water, by the side of Pennygent, through Great and Little Stainforth, over —— moor,[338] through Wharfe and Austwick. Malham Water is a beautiful lake, well worthy of the traveller’s notice; it is supposed to be the source of the river Aire, which springs in the neighbourhood. About a mile from it is the famous chasm Gordale. (Vide Gray’s Journal.) From —— moor,[339] above the village of Little Stainforth, is a sublime view of mountain scenery, in which Pennygent is a principal object. No traveller should pass through Little Stainforth without seeing the waterfall below the bridge. There is a finer one in the neighbourhood, but I was ignorant of it when I passed through the village. From the waterfall the bridge appears to great advantage; the arch has a fine span. There are, I was told, some curious caves in this part. N.B. This day’s journey taught me that the information of the peasantry with respect to distances is not to be depended upon: at Little Stainforth I was informed it was three miles to Clapham; six would have been nearer the mark.

July 17, 18. Kirby Lonsdale. This town is on the banks of the Lune, which here winds through a finely wooded valley. It has an elegant old bridge. In one of the battlements is a stone, resembling a Roman altar, with this inscription—Feare God, Honore te Kinge, 1683. Why and when placed there I know not. Drunken Barnaby’s “Aulam factam in tabernam,” may be seen in the main street: it is still used as an inn. The church is a handsome structure; near the altar rails I observed the table of consanguinity placed.[340] At the west end is a fine Norman doorway, a considerable sufferer by “beautifying.” In the church-yard, on a neat pyramidal tombstone, is the following melancholy inscription:—

Eastern side.

Sacred
to the Memory of

Alice Clark,
Aged 31 years;

Agnes Walling,
Aged 25;

Bella Cornthwaite,
Aged 20;

Hannah Armstrong,
Aged 18;

Agnes Nicholson,
Aged 17:

All of whom were hurried into eternity by the awful conflagration by fire of the Rose and Crown Hotel, in this town, on the night of the 6 December, 1820.

Western side.

In the midst of life we are in Death.

Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting thou art, O God!

Thou turnest man to destruction, and sayest, Return, ye children of men.

Thou carriest them away as with a flood; they are as a sleep: in the morning they are like grass which springeth up.

In the morning it flourisheth and groweth up: in the evening it is cut down and withered.

Erected by voluntary contributions.

All the sufferers in this dreadful conflagration seem to have been young. “Whom the Gods love die young,” I think is said by one of the Grecian poets.

A walk, extending from the north gate of the church-yard along the banks of the Lune, affords a delightful prospect of the county, with several gentlemen’s seats. N.B. The Rev. Mr. Hunt, the author of an elegant version of Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered, was once curate here. I believe the well-known Carus Wilson is the officiating minister at present.

18th, Evening—At Kendal. At Cowbrow half way between Kirby Lonsdale and this place, is the following stanza, beneath a sign representing a ploughboy:—

The weather’s fair, the season’s now,
Drive on my boys, God speed the plough;
All you my friends pray call and see
What jolly boys we ploughmen be.

Had this “poetry” been in the neighbourhood of Durham, I should have suspected it to have been written either by the late Baron Brown, or Vet. Doc. Marshall, though I do not think the doctor would have made such a bull as runs in the last line.

19. Left Kendal for Bowness. Arrived there in the evening, and took up my quarters at the posting-house at the entrance of the village. From the front windows of the inn is a good view of Windermere. At the time of my arrival it was invisible; both lake and village were enveloped in a thick mist. About eight o’clock the mist dispersed, the sky grew clear, and Windermere was seen in all its beauty. This is the largest of the English lakes; and, according to Mr. Athey’s Guide, is ten miles in length. The hills around it are delightfully wooded, but the scenery is tame when compared with that of the more northern lakes. Bell’s Island is now called Curwen’s Island, from its being the country residence of Mr. Curwen: it is the largest of the numerous islands on Windermere. In Bowness church-yard is a tomb to the memory of Rassellas Belfield, an Abyssinian. Near Troutbeck bridge, in the neighbourhood, is the seat of the laureate of the Palmy isle. In the midst of the village is a tree on which notices of sales are posted. Bowness is to the inhabitants of Kendal what Hornsey is to the cocknies, and during the summer months gipsying excursions are very frequent. On the evening that I arrived some Oxonians were “astonishing the natives:” they seemed to think that, as they were from college, they had a right to give themselves airs. The inhabitants appeared to regard them with mingled looks of pity and derision.

July 20. Left Bowness for Grassmere, through Ambleside and Rydal. At the last place I turned aside to see Rydal Mount, the residence of the celebrated poet, Wordsworth. While proceeding to his cottage, an old woman popped out her head from the window of a rude hut, and asked me if I should like to see the waterfall: I entered her dwelling, where a good fire of sticks and turf was burning on the hearth; and, from the conversation of the dame, I gleaned that she was a dependant on the bounty of Lady le Fleming, in whose grounds the waterfall was: she at length conducted me to it. This waterfall is certainly a fine one, but as seen through the window of a summer-house it has rather a cockney appearance. Rydal Hall is a huge uncouth building; the beautifiers have made the old mansion look like a factory: when I first saw it from the road I mistook it for one. N.B. For seeing the waterfall, the price is “what you choose!”

I now proceeded to Rydal Mount, which, from the trees surrounding it, can hardly be seen from the road: the approach is shaded by beautiful laurels—proper trees for the residence of Wordsworth! While reconnoitring I was caught in a heavy thunder-shower, and should have been drenched, had not a pretty servant girl invited me into the kitchen, where I sat for at least an hour. On the dresser, in a large wicker cage, were two turtledoves; these, I learnt, were great favourites, or rather pets, (that was the word,) with the bard. The shower having ceased, I obtained Mrs. Wordsworth’s leave to walk through the garden: from the mount in it I gained an excellent view of the front part of the house. I had scarcely reached the village of Rydal when another shower drove me into a cottage, from the door of which I had my first view of the author of the Lyrical Ballads: he is rather tall, apparently about fifty years of age; he was dressed in a hair cap, plaid coat, and white trowsers. It was gratifying to hear how the Rydal peasantry spoke of this good man. One said he was kind to the poor; another, that he was very religious; another, that he had no pride, and would speak to any body: all were loud in his praise.

At Rydal is a neat gothic church, lately erected at the sole cost of Lady le Fleming. I have not seen any new church that pleased me so much as this; the east end is finely conceived, and both the exterior and interior reflect the highest credit on the taste and talent of the artist, Mr. Webster of Kendal. I wished Mr. Hone had seen it with me, for I know he would have been delighted with it. The church tower forms a pretty object from many parts of the neighbourhood. Rydal lake is small, but very romantic. On some of the surrounding hills I observed those rude erections of loose stones which the country boys are in the habit of building, and which they call men. Wordsworth alludes to these men in his Lyrical Ballads:—

To the top of high[341] —— they chanc’d to climb,
And there did they build, without mortar or lime,
A man on the top of the crag.

A few of these “men” being provided with arms, resemble crosses, and transport the imagination of the beholder to catholic countries. The “Opium Eater” resides in this part; I saw him; his name is De Q——.

July 21. Grassmere. Arrived here at nine in the morning, and took up my quarters at Jonathan Bell’s, the Grassmere inn. This is a most lovely village. The poem of the “City of the Plague,” in which its lake and church are so exquisitely described, conveys but a faint idea of its beauties—even my favourite, Wilson, has failed in delineating this fairy spot. On entering, the first object that struck me was the church and its cemetery.

There is a little church-yard on the side
Of a low hill that hangs o’er Grassmere lake.
Most beautiful it is! a vernal spot
Enclos’d with wooded rocks, where a few graves
Lie shelter’d, sleeping in eternal calm—
Go thither when you will, and that sweet spot
Is bright with sunshine.

Death put on
The countenance of an angel, in the spot
Which he had sanctified——

City of the Plague.

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 [II-281,
II-282] 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.

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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.

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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.

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[[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.

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