Tales and Legends of the English Lakes

by Wilson Armistead

HOBBIE NOBLE.

Foul fa' the breast first treason bred in!
That Liddesdale may safely say:
For in it there was baith meat and drink,
And corn unto our geldings gay.

And we were a' stout-hearted men,
As England she might often say;
But now we may turn our backs and flee,
Since brave Noble is sold away.

Now Hobbie was an Englishman,
And born in Bewcastle dale;
But his misdeeds they were so great,
They banished him to Liddesdale.

At Kershope foot the tryst was set,
Kershope of the lilye lee;
And there was traitor Sim o' the Mains,
And with him a private companie.

Then Hobbie has graithed his body fair,
Baith wi' the iron and wi' the steil;
And he has ta'en out his fringed gray,
And there brave Hobbie he rade him weel.

Then Hobbie is down the water gane,
E'en as fast as he could hie!
Tho' a' should ha'e bursten and broken their hearts,
Frae that riding tryst he wad na be.

"Weel be ye met, my feres five!
And now, what is your will wi' me?"
Then they cried a' wi' ae consent,
Thou'rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me.

"Wilt thou with us into England ride,
And thy safe warrand we will be?
If we get a horse worth a hundred pound,
Upon his back thou sune sall be."

"I dare not by day into England ride,
The land-serjeant has me at feid;
And I know not what evil may betide,
For Peter of Whitfield, his brother is dead.

"And Anton Shiel he loves not me,
For I gat twa drifts o' his sheep;
The great Earl of Whitfield loves me not,
For nae gear frae me he e'er could keep.

"But will ye stay till the day gae down,
Until the night come o'er the grund,
And I'll be a guide worth ony twa
That may in Liddesdale be found?

"Though the night be black as pick and tar
I'll guide ye o'er yon hill sae hie,
And bring ye a' in safety back,
If ye'll be true and follow me."

He has guided them o'er moss and muir,
O'er hill and hope, and mony a down;
Until they came to the Foulbogshiel,
And there, brave Noble, he lighted down.

But word is gane to the land serjeant,
In Askerton where that he lay—
"The deer that ye ha'e hunted sae lang,
Is seen into the Waste this day."

"Then Hobbie Noble is that deer!
I wot he carries the style fu' hie;
Aft has he driven our bluidhounds back,
And set ourselves at little lee.

"Gar warn the bows of Hartlie burn;
See they sharp their arrows on the wa';
Warn Willeva and Speir Edom,
And see the morn they meet me a'.

"Gar meet me on the Rodric-haugh,
And see it be by break o' day:
And we will on to Conscouthart-green,
For there, I think, we'll get our prey."

Then Hobbie Noble has dreimit a dreim,
In the Foulbogsheil, where that he lay;
He dreimit his horse was aneith him shot,
And he himself got hard away.

The cocks could craw, the day could daw,
And I wot sae even fell down the rain;
Had Hobbie na awakened at that time,
In the Foulbogshiel he had been ta'en or slain.

"Awake, awake, my feres five!
I trow here make a fu' ill day;
Yet the worst cloak o' this company,
I hope shall cross the Waste this day."

Now Hobbie thought the gates were clear,
But even, alas! it was na sae;
They were beset by cruel men and keen
That away brave Hobbie might na gae.

"Yet follow me, my feres five,
And see ye keip of me guid ray;
And the worst cloak o' this company,
Even yet may cross the Waste this day."

But the land-serjeant's men came Hobbie before,
The traitor Sim came Hobbie behin',
So had Noble been wight as Wallace was,
Away, alas! he might na win.

Then Hobbie had but a laddie's sword,
But he did mair than a laddie's deed;
For that sword had cleared Conscouthart-green,
Had it not broke o'er Jerswigham's head.

Then they ha'e ta'en brave Hobbie Noble,
Wi's ain bowstring the band him sae;
But his gentle heart was ne'er sae sair,
As when his ain five bound him on the brae.

They ha'e ta'en him on for west Carlisle;
They asked him if he ken'd the way?
Though much he thought, yet little he said;
He knew the gate as weel as they.

They ha'e ta'en him up the Ricker-gate;
The wives they cast their windows wide;
And every wife to another can say;
"That's the man loosed Jock o' the Side!"

"Fy on ye, woman, why ca' ye me man?
For it's nae man that I'm used like;
Am but like a forfoughen hound,
Has been fighting in a dirty syke."

They ha'e had him up through Carlisle town,
And set him by the chimney fire;
They gave brave Noble a loaf to eat,
And that was little his desire,

They gave him a wheaten loaf to eat,
And after that a can of beer;
And they a' cried with one consent,
"Eat, brave Noble, and make gude cheir!

"Confess my lord's horse, Hobbie," they said,
"And to-morrow in Carlisle thou's na die."
"How can I confess them," Hobbie says,
"When I never saw them with my e'e?"

The Hobbie has sworn a fu' great aith,
By the day that he was gotten and born,
He never had onything o' my lord's,
That either eat him grass or corn.

"Now fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton!
For I think again I'll ne'er thee see:
I wad ha'e betrayed nae lad nor alive,
For a' the gowd o' Christentie.

"And fare thee weel, sweet Liddesdale!
Baith the hie land and the law;
Keep ye weel frae the traitor Mains!
For gowd and gear he'll sell ye a'.

"Yet wad I rather be ca'd Hobbie Noble,
In Carlisle where he suffers for his fau't,
Than I'd be ca'd the traitor Mains,
That eats and drinks o' the meal and maut."

Referring the reader to Percy's Reliques for "Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesley," a long and interesting ballad of this period, or somewhat earlier, we conclude this portion of the poetical antiquities of Carlisle by a very beautiful and touching ballad, "the lament of the border widow." It is founded upon the story of Cockburn of Henderland, a noted disturber of the English districts; who did not, however, suffer at Carlisle, though he had ravaged its neighbourhood; nor at the hands of the English, whose laws he had violated. James the Fifth, scandalized at the excesses of these border reivers, made an excursion into their country in 1529, and executed summary justice upon several of the most turbulent and lawless of them, including the famous Johnnie Armstrong, Adam Scot of Tushielaw, and Cockburn of Henderland.

The latter was hanged, by the King's order, over the gate of his own keep, or tower, while his lady fled to the banks of a mountain-stream, called the Henderland burn, and sat down at the foot of a foaming cataract, to drown, amid the sound of the roaring waters, the noise of the drums that announced the close of her husband's existence. The place where she sat is still shown to the stranger. The author of the ballad is unknown. It was taken down from recitation in the Ettrick forest, and is as affecting a ballad as any in the language, abounding with touches of genuine pathos, and most lovely simplicity of sorrow. Exquisite is the whole composition; and many of the passages are worthy of the greatest of poets.

My love, he built me a bonny bower,
And clad it a' wi' lilye flower,
A brawer bower ye ne'er did see,
Than my true love he built for me.

There came a man by middle day,
He spied his sport and went away,
And brought the King that very night,
Who brake my bower and slew my knight.

He slew my knight, to me sae dear,
He slew my knight and poined his gear;
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie.

I sewed his sheet, making my moan;
I watched the corpse myself alone;
I watched the body night and day,
No living creature came that way.

I took his body on my back,
And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat,
I digged a grave and laid him in,
And happed him with the sod sae green.

But think na ye my heart was sair,
When I laid the mould on his yellow hair!
O think na ye my heart was wae
When I turned about away to gae!

Nae living man I'll love again,
Since that my lovely knight is slain;
Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair
I'll bind my heart for evermair.

The devoted wife was buried with her husband. In a deserted burial place, which once surrounded the keep of Henderland, the monument was lately, and perhaps is still, to be seen. It is a large stone, broken into three parts, but some armorial bearings are traceable, and the following inscription—legible though much defaced, "Here lyes Perys of Cokburne and his wyfe, Marjory."

During the civil wars with the "Roses," Carlisle suffered severely; sometimes from the one party and sometimes from the other—a calamity which it shared, however, with all the other principal towns of the kingdom. In the formidable rising against Henry the Eighth, led originally by Sir Robert Aske, and known as the Pilgrimage of Grace, the city was besieged by 8000 men. They were under the command of Nicholas Musgrave, Thomas Gilley, and others, who appeared as leaders of the movement, after it had been abandoned by Aske and its other originators. The citizens, knowing that the Duke of Norfolk was marching to their relief, sallied out upon their besiegers, and put them to flight. Seventy of the leaders were captured by the Duke; but Musgrave, the prime mover, escaped. The others were hanged and beheaded, and their heads placed upon the gates of the city. This happened in the year 1537.

Little more than a century afterwards, Carlisle suffered a severer siege by the Scotch and Parliamentary forces, under General Lesley. It was defended for the Royalists by Sir Thomas Glenham; and surrendered on the 28th of June, 1645, after having held out for more than six months. During the siege, the distress of the garrison and the inhabitants was so severe, that the flesh of horses, dogs, rats, and other vermin was eaten. Bread was exhausted and hemp-seed substituted; which in its turn became so dear as to be unpurchasable by all except the most wealthy. A coinage of silver pieces, of three shillings value, was instituted in the castle during the siege, from the plate of the inhabitants, which was sent in for the purpose. The diary of Isaac Tullie, a resident in the city during the siege, preserved among the Harleian MSS. in the British Museum, states that "the citizens were so shrunk from starvation, that they could not choose but laugh at one another, to see their clothes hang upon them as upon men on gibbets, for one might put one's head and fists between the doublets and shirts of many of them."

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[THE DRUIDS' SACRIFICE.]
A LEGEND OF KESWICK.

Mark yon altar
... See this wide circus
Skirted with unhewn stone; they awe my soul,
As if the very Genius of the place
Himself appeared, and with terrific tread
Stalked through his drear domain....
Know that thou stand'st on consecrated ground—
The mighty pile of magic-planted rocks,
Thus ranged in mystic order, marks the place
Where but at times of holiest festival
The Druid led his train.

Mason.

The old road between Keswick and Penrith passes over a rough hill, called Castle Rigg, which the new road now avoids. In a field adjoining this road, on the right hand side going to Penrith, just on the crown of the hill, and at the distance of a mile and a-half east by north from Keswick, are the remains of a Druidical Temple, popularly named the Druids' Stones.

These interesting memorials of the primeval age of Britain consist of forty-eight rude, unhewn blocks of granite, thirty-eight of which are disposed in an oval figure, of which the diameter is thirty-four yards from north to south, and nearly thirty from east to west: the remaining ten stones form an oblong square on the eastern side of the oval area. The latter enclosure, which is seven yards by three, is supposed to have been the sacred place, exclusively appropriated to the Druidical order, where the priests assembled to perform their mystical rites, and to determine on matters of government and judicature. The largest of the stones is upwards of seven feet in height, and may weigh about eight tons, but the greater number measure only three or four feet in height; they mostly stand in an erect position.

The situation of this ancient place for superstitious worship has been skilfully chosen, when considered with reference to the idolatrous superstitions of the Druids; the objects of which were to subdue the mind with appalling images, and to extort obedience through the agency of terror. It is seated in the neighbourhood of Skiddaw, Blencathara, and Helvellyn, and some of the highest mountains of Cumberland, whose clouded summits impended over the sacrificial altar, casting obscure shadows through its precincts. Hither the trembling worshippers repaired, to hear and to acknowledge the teachings and denunciations of their potent masters. In the eyes of the barbarian Britons, alike ignorant, credulous, and superstitious, the place would appear to be the very sanctuary of Omnipotence, and the Druid ministers themselves an impersonation of their gods. Wind and cloud, storm and tempest, wrought powerfully in the abstruse mysteries and terrific incantations constituting the Druidical worship; and the mind was prostrated, with terrific awe, at the shrine where natural sublimity combined with human cunning to thrill its scarcely awakened faculties. Here, at midnight, every Druid, summoned by the terrible horn, never sounded but upon high occasions, and descending from his mountain or secret cave, might assemble, without intrusion from one sacrilegious footstep, and celebrate a festival.

"By rites of such strange potency,
As, done in open day, would dim the sun,
Though 'throned in noontide brightness."

The tourist will tread this once hallowed circle, where the Druids offered their adorations to Deity, and sat in judgment on their fellow-men, with a mixture of awe and veneration, so well expressed by the poet:—

"Skirted with unhewn stone, it awes my soul
As if the very Genius of the place
Himself appeared, and with terrific tread
Stalked through this drear domain."

In spite of the ravages of time, assisted by the destructive hand of man, many Druidical monuments still remain amongst the seclusions of the lakes and mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and many are the strange tales connected with them. For the interest of our readers, we select the following:—

In times long gone by, when these mountains reared their naked heads to the clouds—when their sides were clothed with oak, and their feet were wet with morasses—when the wild cow and the wolf contested the mastership of the unclaimed property—when human feet had never trod these hills or vales—a mighty warrior left his companions in the south and journeyed hitherward. His followers, as they traversed the forests towards the north, met with a beautiful river, at the foot of a gentle hill, well clothed with wood. The warrior said to his companions, let us here construct our tents. Here is wood for shelter and fire; and this river and these mountains will supply us with food.

Then they fixed poles in the ground, and fastened them together with wicker-work of branches, and covered them with the green sod from the ground. And the warrior said, the old oak trees around our dwellings will shelter us from the storm in winter, and shade us from the sun in summer. Thus they continued to pass the time in hunting the wild deer among the hills, and in fishing in the adjoining river; and as they were not disturbed by wars, they rapidly increased in strength and numbers.

Their ancient priests or Druids retired farther north, because their solemn rites required the greatest privacy; and the mistletoe, their sacred emblem, abounded more among the northern forests. Besides, stones to construct their temples of were more easily procured among these hills; and being far from the haunts of men, they could indulge in the gloomy contemplation of the vindictive character of the Deity—for they knew him only as a Being capable of revenging every insult offered to His name.

When their town was become very populous, there lived in it a youth of superior strength and agility, who was remarked for being particularly expert with the bow, and so swift that few could outstrip him in the race. At feats of strength or skill, he was ever foremost: and, in attacking the wolf, or the wild cow, few possessed so daring a soul. It is an old maxim, with few exceptions, that love is the companion of bravery—and Mudor loved the gentle Ella. They had retired, at an early age, to a grove farther up the river, where stood the image of their God Mogan, which had been purchased of some Phenician merchants, along with some iron hatchets, in exchange for the skins of beasts, slain in the chase. Before this rude representation of the Deity they mutually pledged their vows; and to render those pledges more binding, they each stained a blue sun on their breasts, as a memorial that their faith should be as durable as the light of that luminary. No one felt so proud on hearing the praise of Mudor as Ella did—no one hailed his return from the chase, loaded with spoils, with the warmth of Ella—nor did any one so much admire the elegance of the blue symbols of his prowess and his faith, which were painted on his skin, as did the faithful Ella. Reared in two adjoining cabins, their infant sports had been together. For her he had plunged into the morass to procure the richest and sweetest water-lilies—he had climbed the loftiest oak to gain the cushat eggs—and the scarf of squirrel skins which screened her from the cold, was the produce of his most early adventures in the chase. Thus circumstanced, their hearts were knit together by those ties which bind the savage as well as the civilized; for the heart of the naked Indian who treads the burning sands of the desert is as warm to the tender impressions of love as the prince who stretches his limbs on a silken couch, or reposes on a bed of down.

These faithful lovers dreamt of no unkindly fate interfering, when a fever broke out in the town, and swept away a number of its inhabitants. Application was made to the priest of Mogan to avert the awful visitation by prayer; but he returned for answer, that the wickedness of the people had offended the Great Invisible, and the fever was sent as a just punishment. The Druids, therefore, who resided in the neighbourhood, made a pilgrimage to one of their largest temples, situated among the mountains, in the midst of a vast forest. The Arch-Druid, having gathered the mistletoe, just as the rising sun licked the dew from its berries, and performed a number of other rites, to obtain answer from the Great Spirit, informed them that Heaven would not be appeased unless a young virgin was immolated as a sacrifice for the sins of the inhabitants. When this intelligence was announced, the utmost dismay seized on every heart. Parents trembled for their daughters, and the daughters trembled for themselves; for no one knew on whom the lot would fall.

The Druids of the neighbouring groves assembled together, and cast lots, according to their established usage. The lot fell on Ella! Sad was the heart of Mudor when he heard this; and vainly did he entreat that some other victim might be selected in her stead. It was the irrevocable decree of heaven, and the priests had not the power to alter it. No one felt the sentence less severely than Ella did. She resigned herself to the will of the Deity; and would not render unavailable the sacrifice by any vain and foolish complaints. Still the affection she felt for Mudor would steal across her mind, and a momentary wish that she might have lived to fulfil her vows would interrupt her devotional complacency.

The morning arrived when Ella was to be conveyed far into the deserts, among the northern mountains, to the gloomy dell, where Heaven would alone be appeased. Mudor, at a humble distance, followed the procession of the Druids, and separating himself from the crowd which usually assembled to witness those awful rites of the Druid priests, appeared like one who had no conception of what was passing before him. They at length arrived at the place of sacrifice, which was a gloomy dell, in the midst of a forest, near the banks of a river, surrounded by magnificent scenery. This dell was a curious cavity in the rock, of considerable extent, and rendered almost dark by the overhanging branches of the ancient oaks which grew above it. A small circular area, surrounded with large upright stones, was the place of sacrifice. The priests assembled to perform their horrid rites; while the gaping crowd hung in the fissures of the rock on each side, or sat on the branches of the trees, waiting the celebration of the awful ceremony. The bards, with their heads crowned with oak, advanced to the north side of the circle; and after paying obedience to the sun, they chanted the following hymn:—

"Being great, who reign'st alone,
Veiled in clouds, unseen, unknown,
Centre of the vast profound,
Clouds of darkness close thee round.

"Thy nod makes storms and tempests rise,
Thy breath makes thunder shake the skies,
Thy frown turns noon-day into night,
And makes the sun withdraw his light.

"Beneath thy anger we expire,
The victims of thy vengeful ire;
Destruction rules at thy command,
And ruin blackens all the land."

A small cabin of basket-work was erected near the western side of the circle, in the lowest part of the dell, with a door opening towards the Druidical circle. In this the youthful Ella was to be immolated. She was brought into the circle; a garland of oak leaves was bound round her neck, a chaplet of wild flowers placed on her head, and a piece of mistletoe in her hand. Thus adorned she was led to the centre of the circle, and supported there by two aged priests, while the bards chanted the following invocation to the sun:—

FIRST BARD.

"See, thy destined victim see,
Bright, and chaste, and pure as thee,
Let this sinless virgin please thee,
Sinful man could ne'er appease thee."

SECOND BARD.

"Round her brows the wild flowers see,
Emblems of thy purity—
Touch'd by mortal's fingers never;—
Round her breast the oak survey,
Which like thee can ne'er decay—
Innocence endures for ever."

THIRD BARD.

"Spirit! who no birth has known,
Springing from thyself alone,
We thy living emblem show
In the mystic mistletoe:—
Springs and grows without a root—
Yields without flower its fruit—
Seeks from earth no mother's care—
Lives and blooms the child of air."

FOURTH BARD.

"Thou dost thy mystic circle trace
Along the vaulted blue profound,
And, emblematic of thy race,
We tread our mystic circle round."

ALL THE BARDS.

"Shine upon us, mighty God—
Raise this drooping world of ours—
Send from thy divine abode,
Cheering sun and fruitful showers."

The lovely Ella was then enclosed in the wicker cabin: a quantity of dry withered leaves, and small dry branches, were laid all round the cabin ready to set fire to. Every one of the crowd was obliged to furnish at least one stick towards producing a fire to consume the victim. But Mudor stood at a distance, determined rather to incur the vengeance of the Invisible Spirit than add one particle to the destruction of his adorable Ella. The Arch-Druid took two pieces of wood, and exposing them to the sun, rubbed them together, while all the bards chanted the following verse:—

"Sun descend in a ray of light,
Wrapp'd in thy power and clad in thy might;
Come in a red and a fiery stream,
Come in a bright and glowing beam;
Come in thy flaming chariot down,
Burn the wood in a flame of thy own."

The friction of the two pieces of wood had the desired effect—they took fire. The sticks and leaves round the cabin which contained the ill-fated Ella were instantly in a blaze. As the flames arose the bards chanted, with loud voices, the following verses:—

"Mighty Sovereign of the skies,
Accept this virgin sacrifice,
Let her spotless soul atone
For wicked actions not her own.
As to death her spirit stoops,
As she faints and as she droops,
Lay aside thy fiery crown
And spare, O spare, her native town!
She was good, and she was kind,
And she possess'd a heavenly mind;
Wicked man could ne'er atone
For his sins and crimes alone,
A purer victim must be found
To wash the stain away."

The bards stopped short, and raised their hands with astonishment—the crowd shrieked out with fear—and all the rites were suspended; for at that moment a flood of water burst out from the fissures of the rock on every side, and came rolling down the dell like a river. The wicket hurdle in which Ella was confined was instantly surrounded by the flood—the fire was quenched, and she came out unhurt. It is said that a voice was heard by the Arch-Druid of solemn import, intimating that human victims were not acceptable to the Deity—that a greater sacrifice was about to be offered—and that the reign of Druidism was at an end. The Arch-Druid, turning his face towards the sun for a moment, and then to the other priests, remarked that some mighty change was surely about to take place among them; for this was a miracle they could have no conception of.

The assembly dispersed in consternation; and the devoted Ella was happily restored to the arms of the overjoyed Mudor, with whom she lived to a good old age; and the rock has occasionally poured forth its stream ever since.

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[THE HEIGHTS OF HELVELLYN;]
OR, THE UNFORTUNATE TOURIST.

IN making an ascent of Helvellyn, some tourists are bold enough to traverse the giddy and dangerous heights of Striding Edge: "but this road," says the Bard of the Lakes, "ought not to be taken by any one with weak nerves, as the top in many places scarcely affords room to plant the foot, and is beset with awful precipices on either side." The path on one part of the pass is certainly not more than two yards broad, and a tremendous precipice descending on each side makes it truly appalling and perilous.

Mr. Baines, who, with a companion, ascended Helvellyn by this pass some years ago, thus describes it:—"The ridge we were upon—Striding Edge—was the shorter but more rugged path; and, in spite of the warnings of our boatman, we chose it, being incited by curiosity, and perhaps quite as much by the motive which actuates most men in fighting duels—a fear lest our courage should be called in question if we declined the danger. We therefore addressed ourselves to the passage of Striding Edge; but if we had seen the most dangerous part before we came to it, we should have been content to take the safer though more cowardly branch of the alternative offered to us. As we ascended, the hill became more steep and rugged, till at length the ridge presented nothing but rocks, the narrow edges of which lay upwards in the direction of the sky. Their sides became steeper and steeper, and it was with difficulty that we crept along paths not wider than a goat-track, to avoid clambering among the crags which formed the very ridge of the hill. At length it became impossible to find footing on the side, and we betook ourselves of necessity to the ridge itself. We now came in view of the most formidable part of Striding Edge, and found that it rather deserved to be compared to a narrow wall, several hundred feet in height, connecting the hill which we had been ascending with the head of the mountain, than to the steep roof of a house. It appeared to us to be absolutely precipitous on each side, and the top of the rocky wall was not more than from one to two yards wide, whilst in some places we could not see, before we came to it, as much ground as would serve to plant a foot upon—the rocks presenting their sharp and rugged edges upwards, like slates or tiles standing on end. If we had had a guide, all this would have been much less terrific, because he would have led the way, and shown us where to place every footstep. The possibility that we might, after all, have taken a wrong direction, or that in some part of the pass we should find ourselves in a situation where we could neither advance nor retreat, gave us considerable alarm. Neither of us, however, expressed our fears at the time; and I felt myself bound to keep up both my own spirits and George's, as the blame would have been chiefly mine if any accident had happened. I therefore talked loudly and confidently as we scrambled along, keeping all my eyes about me, and giving him such instructions as his want of experience in climbing rendered necessary. He said little or nothing, and never ventured to cast a look either at the tarn which lay several hundred feet below us on one side, or to the equally awful depth on the other; but, fixing his eyes on the ridge itself as if he were fascinated, he crept on after me as cautiously and yet as fast as he could. In this way we crossed the long and dangerous pass of Striding Edge, till we came to the last ascent of the mountain."

A melancholy interest attaches to this spot, from the fate of a young man who perished in its locality some years ago. It was here that Charles Gough, of Manchester, a frequent visitor to the Lakes, met with an accident which caused his death. This unfortunate "young lover of nature," confiding in his knowledge of the country, attempted to cross Helvellyn from Patterdale to Wythburn by the pass of Striding Edge just described. He set out late one afternoon early in the spring of 1805, without any guide, and attended by no companion but his faithful dog. Darkness, it is supposed, came on before his expectation, and a fall of snow having partially concealed the path, rendered it still more dangerous. He wandered from the track, and his body was found in one of those deep recesses where human foot rarely treads. It could never be ascertained whether he was killed by falling from the rocks, or he perished from hunger. Let us hope that death came with friendly care to shorten sufferings that might have been yet more awful.

Three months elapsed before his remains were discovered; when the faithful dog, which was his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles amidst the wilds of Cumberland and Westmorland, was discovered still watching over the lifeless remains of his master. This striking and affecting instance of canine faithfulness has been commemorated by Wordsworth in his beautiful poem entitled Fidelity.

A barking sound the shepherd hears,
A cry as of a dog or fox;
He halts, and searches with his eyes
Among the scattered rocks:
And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain breed;
Its motions too are wild and shy;
With something, as the shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry.
Nor is there any one in sight
All round, in hollow, or on height:
Nor shout, nor whistle, strikes the ear;
What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess,
That keeps till June December's snow;
A lofty precipice in front,
A silent tarn below!
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land,
From trace of human foot or hand.

There, sometimes doth the leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The crag repeats the raven's croak,
In symphony austere;
Thither the rainbow comes—the cloud—
And mists that spread the flying shroud;
And sunbeams, and the sounding blast
That, if it could, would hurry past;
But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts awhile
The shepherd stood: then makes his way
Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may;
Nor far had gone before he found
A human figure on the ground;
The appall'd discoverer, with a sigh
Looks round to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fall'n, that place of fear!
At length upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:
He instantly recall'd the name,
And who he was, and whence he came;
Remember'd too the very day,
On which the traveller pass'd this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell!
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.
The dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,
This dog had been, through three months' space,
A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain, that since that day,
When this ill-fated traveller died,
The dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his master's side:
How nourish'd here through such long time,
He knows, who gave that love sublime;
And gave that strength of feeling, great,
Above all human estimate.

The melancholy circumstances connected with the death of Charles Gough have also been beautifully depicted by the powerful pen of Sir Walter Scott, who has paid a pleasing tribute to the "pilgrim of nature" in some highly pathetic stanzas, which, by the by, are rendered additionally interesting from the following anecdote connected with them:—"Our two charming poets, Walter Scott and Campbell, walking together" (says Ryan, in his Poetry and the Poets), "and speaking of this incident, each agreed, in the spirit of amicable rivalship, to make it the subject of a poem. Scott, on his way home, composed the following exquisite lines, which he sent the next day to Campbell, who returned them with this reply:—'I confess myself vanquished: if I were to live a thousand years, I could never write anything equal to this, on the same subject;' and he never attempted it."

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;
All was still—save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And, starting around me, the echoes replied.
On the right, Striding Edge round the Red Tarn was bending,
And Catchedecam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in front was impending,
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer died.

Dark green was that spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather,
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay:
Not yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of his master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber—
When the wind waved his garments how oft didst thou start—
How many long days and long nights didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?—
And ah! was it meet that no requiem read o'er him;
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him;
And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him,
Unhonoured the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With escutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And the pages stand mute by the canopied pall;
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming,
In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming,
Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
When, wildered, he drops from some rock high in stature,
And draws his last breath by the side of his dam:
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With but one faithful friend to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecam.

Charles Gough is said to have been a young gentleman of talent, and of an amiable disposition. His remains peacefully repose in the chapel-yard at Patterdale.

---

[THE REGATTA;]
OR, THE LOVERS OF DERWENTWATER.

AN annual regatta takes place on Derwentwater, when the several sports of racing, rowing, and wrestling, are maintained with great spirit.

The following is an excellent description of one of these occasions in former times:—"At eight o'clock in the morning a vast concourse of ladies and gentlemen appeared on the side of Derwent Lake, where a number of marquees, extending about 400 yards, were erected for their accommodation. At twelve, such of the company as were invited by Mr. Pocklington passed over in boats to the island which bears his name; and, on their landing, were saluted by a discharge of his artillery, consisting of five four pounders and one nine pounder. This might properly be called the opening of the regatta; for as soon as the echo of this discharge had ceased, a signal gun was fired, and five boats, which lay upon their oars (on that part of the lake which runs nearest the town of Keswick), instantly pushed off the shore and began the race. A view from any of the attendant boats, of which there were several, presented a scene which beggars all description. The sides of the hoary mountains were clad with spectators, and the glassy surface of the lake was variegated with numbers of pleasure barges, which, trimmed out in all the gayest colours, and glittering in the rays of the meridian sun, gave a new appearance to the celebrated beauties of this matchless vale. The contending boats passed Pocklington's Island, and rounding St. Herbert's Isle and Rampsholme, edged down by the outside of Lord's Island, describing, in the race, almost a perfect circle, and, during the greatest part of it, in full view of the company.

"About three o'clock preparations were made for a sham attack on Pocklington's Island. The fleet, consisting of several barges, armed with small cannon and muskets, retired out of view, behind Friar Crag, to prepare for action; previous to which a flag of truce was sent to the governor, with a summons to surrender on honourable terms. A defiance was returned; soon after which the fleet was seen advancing with great spirit before the batteries, and instantly forming a curved line, a terrible cannonading began on both sides, accompanied with a dreadful discharge of musketry. This continued for some time, and being echoed from hill to hill in an amazing variety of sounds, filled the ear with whatever could produce astonishment and awe. All nature seemed to be in an uproar; which impressed, on the awakened imagination, the most lively ideas of "the war of elements" and "crush of worlds." After a severe conflict, the enemies were driven from the attack in great disorder. A feu-de-joie was then fired in the port, and oft repeated by the responsive echoes. The fleet, after a little delay, formed again; and practising a variety of beautiful manœuvres, renewed the attack. Uproar again sprung up, and the deep-toned echoes of the mountains again joined in solemn chorus; which was heard at the distance of ten leagues to leeward, through the easterly opening of that vast amphitheatre, as far as Appleby.

"The garrison at last capitulated; and the entertainment of the water being finished, towards the evening the company rowed to Keswick, to which place, from the water's edge, a range of lamps was fixed, very happily disposed, and a number of fire-works played off. An assembly room, which was built for the purpose, next received the ladies and gentlemen, and a dance concluded this annual festivity.

"Whilst we sat to regale, the barge put off from shore, to a station where the finest echoes were to be obtained from the surrounding mountains. The vessel was provided with six brass cannon, mounted on swivels; on discharging one of these pieces the report was echoed from the opposite rocks, where, by reverberation, it seemed to roll from cliff to cliff, and return through every cave and valley, till the decreasing tumult died away upon the ear.

"The instant it ceased the sound of every distant waterfall was heard; but for an instant only; for the momentary stillness was interrupted by the returning echo on the hills behind; where the report was repeated like a peal of thunder bursting over our heads, continuing for several seconds, flying from haunt to haunt, till once more the sound gradually declined. Again the voice of waterfalls possessed the interval, till to the right the more distant thunders arose upon some other mountains, and seemed to take its way up every winding dale and creek; sometimes behind, on this side, or on that, in wondrous speed running its dreadful course; when the echo reached the mountains within the line and channel of the breeze, it was heard at once on the right and left at the extremities of the lake. In this manner was the report of every discharge re-echoed seven times distinctly."

The following descriptive poem appeared on the occasion of a regatta at Keswick:—

"Scarcely had day's bright god begun his course,
And chas'd the misty vapours from the lake,
When, ardent all for pleasure, forth there sprung
A bright assemblage of firm, active youths,
And virgins blushing like the op'ning bud.
Nay, some there were who sought the sportive scene
Whom frozen age had bow'd with iron hand;
Drawn by the force of curiosity,
Or by the workings of parental care,
To watch and guard their blooming daughter's steps.
The neigh'bouring rustics, too, with massy limbs,
Inur'd to toil, inur'd to fun and rain;
Each led his fav'rite damsel to the sight,
And talk'd of love, or laugh'd with hearty roar.

"And now the vessels all in order range,
To try the fortune of the wat'ry race.
The rowers sit; their eyes with ardour glow,
Attentive watching the appointed sign.
And now the gun, the signal for the course.
Rends with its iron voice th' o'ervaulting sky,
And distant rocks, redoubling, echo back
The horrid note. Instantly they start,
And, adverse looking, try their utmost skill.
Big swells each bulky muscle, strain'd with toil;
O'er their knit brows the drops of labour pour,
Whilst on their faces anxious fear and hope
Alternate sit depicted. Now they come
Almost within the grasp of victory:
Then, then what rapture fires the victor's mind,
When with his toil-strained arm he shakes the flag,
And shouts, applauding, echo all around.

"Now o'er the azure lake the horrid din
Of mimic war resounds; the echoing cliffs
Reverberate, in doubled thunder, back
The awful sounds: fierce peal succeeds to peal,
In savage dire confusion. Had the rocks,
Which awful frown above this limpid plain,
Been shaken from their venerable seats,
Rift by the bolts of Jove, and scattered round,
No sound more loud, more awful, could be heard!
The hero, who, inur'd to bloody war,
Has stood by Elliot, or by Rodney's side,
Whilst million-winged deaths were whistling round,
Now feels his heart beat high; strong throbs each pulse,
His kindling eyes flash fire: upright he stands,
As when on some dread, memorable day
He saw the Frenchmen strike, or Spaniards burn.
His tender spouse, the dear, the soft reward
Of all his toils, astonish'd with the din,
Clings to his side, half-pleased and half-afraid;
When softer echoes roll the distant roar,
She smiles; but when the air-affrighting guns
With iron clamours shake th' impending rocks,
She trembling presses hard her husband's hand,
And weeps to think the perils he has 'scap'd.

"But hark! 'tis silent! see, the fleet retires!
The mellow horns now pour victorious sounds,
Whilst every rock returns the softened strain.
O! now for Shakspeare, or for Milton's muse,
To paint this mingled tide of harmony!
Each cliff, each rock, each mountain, wood, and dale,
Return a varied note; it floats in air;
It mixes, meets, returns; 'tis soft, 'tis loud:
As if th' unnumber'd spirits of the rock
Held their aërial concerts 'midst the hills;
And to his golden harp each join'd his voice,
To welcome to their bower the 'Fairy Queen.'

"Thus joyous and delightful pass'd the day,
Yet not unruffled was this tide of joy:
The fair, the innocent Amelia was
The pride and flower of all the virgin throng!
Her long Damœtas loved, she too loved him,
But looks alone revealed the mutual flame,
For virgin modesty had bound their thoughts
In chains, as yet unbroken. On this day,
Whilst she in rapture viewed th' enchanting scene
(Urged by the motion of the limpid wave),
Her vessel rolling, headlong plunged her in
The blue profound! She sank, then rose again;
Then sank, to rise no more! Damœtas, near,
Beheld her fall: of life regardless then,
He leaped into the flood; with nervous arm
He cut the crystal deep, and plunging down,
Seized, and brought her up again to life.

"Restored now, she op'd her radiant eyes,
And looking gratitude ineffable,
'Is it then you, Damœtas? you whom long
My virgin heart hath own'd!' She could no more:
The rosy hue again forsook her cheek,
The light her eyes, and pallid death awhile
Seemed to return and re-demand his prey.
What then, Damœtas, were the dire alarms
That rent thy manly bosom? Love, despair,
Grief, and astonishment, exert at once
The utmost of their force to tear thy soul!
But see, the rose again resumes its seat
Upon her cheek! again her op'ning eye
Beams softened lustre! Kneeling by her side
Damœtas press'd her hand; in falt'ring words
Propos'd his am'rous suit. Her parents near,
Relieved now from the heart-corroding fear,
First poured in tender words their grateful hearts,
Then to Damœtas gave the willing hand
Of their beloved Amelia. Instant joy
Flushed lively in his cheek, and fired his heart
With all the rapt'rous bliss of mutual love.
He tried in vain to speak, for words, alas!
Could ill express tumultuous joys like his;
He stammer'd, blush'd, and thanked them in thought.

"And now the fiery charioteer of day
Drove down the western steep his blazing car,
When homeward all return to close their sports,
And usher in with dance the sable night.
The sprightly music sounds, the youths advance,
And blooming virgins from the beauteous group:
Then joined in couples, active as the light,
They tread the mazy dance; the swains the while
Join in sweet toil, and press the given hand,
And slyly talk of love; or else, askance,
Speak by their looks the feelings of the heart."

---

[THE SHEPHERD OF GREEN-HEAD GHYLL.]
A TALE OF GRASMERE VALE.

IF from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this dell
But for one object which you might pass by—
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that place a story appertains,
Which, though it be ungarnished with events,
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
Or for the summer shade. It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
Whom I already loved:—not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence this tale, while I was yet a boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think
(At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life.
Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts:
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful poets, who among these hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength; his mind was keen,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes
When others heeded not, he heard the south
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say,
"The winds are now devising work for me!"
And, truly, at all times, the storm—that drives
The traveller to a shelter—summoned him
Up to the mountains: he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
That came to him and left him on the heights.
So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks
Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts.
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed
The common air; the hills, which he so oft
Had climbed with vigorous steps; which had impressed
So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill, or courage, joy or fear;
Which like a book preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals whom he had saved,
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts,
So grateful in themselves, the certainty
Of honourable gain; these fields, these hills,
Which were his living being, even more
Than his own blood—what could they less? had laid
Strong hold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there is in life itself.

His days had not been passed in singleness.
His helpmate was a comely matron, old—
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woman of a stirring life,
Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
Of antique form, this large for spinning wool,
That small for flax; and if one wheel had rest,
It was because the other was at work.
The pair had but one inmate in their house,
An only child, who had been born to them
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began
To deem that he was old—in shepherd's phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only son,
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,
The one of an inestimable worth,
Made all their household. I may truly say,
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
And from their occupations out of doors
The son and father were come home, even then,
Their labour did not cease; unless when all
Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there,
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal
Was ended, Luke (for so the son was named)
And his old father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card wool
For the housewife's spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge
That in our ancient uncouth country style
Did with a huge projection overbrow
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim the housewife hung a lamp;
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn and late,
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
Which going by from year to year had found
And left the couple neither gay perhaps
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
Living a life of eager industry.
And now when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old lamp they sat,
Father and son, while late into the night
The housewife plied her own peculiar work.
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public symbol of the life
The thrifty pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,
And westward to the village near the lake;
And from this constant light, so regular
And so far seen, the house itself, by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
Both old and young, was named The Evening Star.

Thus living on through such a length of years,
The shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his helpmate; but to Michael's heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear—
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
Blind spirit, which is in the blood of all—
Than that a child, more than all other gifts,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
His heart, and his heart's joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For pastime and delight, as is the use
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked
His cradle with a woman's gentle hand.

And, in a latter time, ere yet the boy
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
To have the young one in his sight, when he
Had work by his own door, or when he sat
With sheep before him on his shepherd's stool,
Beneath that large old oak, which near their door
Stood—and, from its enormous breadth of shade,
Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was called
The Clipping Tree,[5] a name which yet it bears.
There while they two were sitting in the shade,
With others round them, earnest all and blythe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the child, if he disturbed the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

And when by heaven's good grace the boy grew up
A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old,
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hands a sapling, which he hooped
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,
And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipp'd
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
And, to his office prematurely called,
There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
Something between a hinderance and a help;
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his father hire of praise;
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
Or looks, or threatening gestures could perform.

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,
He with his father daily went, and they
Were as companions, why should I relate
That objects which the shepherd loved before
Were dearer now? that from the boy there came
Feelings and emanations—things which were
Light to the sun and music to the wind;
And that the old man's heart seemed born again.

Thus in his father's sight the boy grew up:
And now when he had reached his eighteenth year,
He was his comfort and his daily hope.

While in this sort the simple household lived
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before the time
Of which I speak, the shepherd had been bound
In surety for his brother's son, a man
Of an industrious life, and ample means;
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had prest upon him, and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture;
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.
As soon as he had gathered so much strength
That he could look his trouble in the face,
It seemed that his whole refuge was to sell
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
"I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sunshine of God's love
Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours
Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I;
And I have lived to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and if he were not false,
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him; but
'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.
When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st,
Another kinsman, he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade, and Luke to him shall go,
And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift,
He quickly will repair this loss, and then
May come again to us. If here he stay,
What can be done? Where every one is poor,
What can be gained?" At this the old man paused,
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
Was busy looking back into past times.
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
He was a parish-boy; at the church door
They made a gathering for him—shillings, pence,
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares;
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
Went up to London, found a master there,
Who out of many, chose the trusty boy
To go and overlook his merchandize
Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,
And left estates and monies to the poor,
And at his birth-place built a chapel, floored
With marble which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts and many others of like sort,
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The old man was glad,
And thus resumed:—"Well, Isabel! this scheme
These two days has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
We have enough; I wish indeed that I
Were younger; but this hope is a good hope.
Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
If he could go, the boy should go to-night."
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The housewife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work; for, when she lay
By Michael's side, she through the last two nights
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go:
We have no other child but thee to lose,
None to remember—do not go away,
For if thou leave thy father he will die."
The youth made answer with a jocund voice:
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

With daylight Isabel resumed her work;
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in spring: at length
The expected letter from their kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the boy;
To which requests were added, that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over; Isabel
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;
Nor was there at that time on English land
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel
Had to her house returned, the old man said,
"He shall depart to-morrow." To this word
The housewife answered, talking much of things
Which if at such short notice he should go,
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
In that deep valley, Michael had designed
To build a sheepfold; and, before he heard
The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked;
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped.
And thus the old man spake to him:—"My son,
To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart
I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part
Of our two histories: 'twill do thee good
When thou art from me; even if I should speak
Of things thou canst not know of.——After thou
First cam'st into the world—as oft befals
To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy father's tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside
First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
When thou, a feeble babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy mother's breast. Month followed month,
And in the open fields my life was passed,
And on the mountains, else I think that thou
Had'st been brought up upon thy father's knees.
But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,
As well thou know'st in us, the old and young
Have played together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
He sobbed aloud. The old man grasped his hand,
And said, "Nay, do not take it so: I see
That these are things of which I need not speak.
Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good father; and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at others' hands; for, though now old
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who loved me in my youth.
Both of them sleep together: here they lived,
As all their forefathers had done; and when
At length their time was come, they were not loth
To give their bodies to the family mould.
I wish that thou shouldst live the life they lived:
But 'tis a long time to look back, my son,
And see so little gain from threescore years.
These fields were burthened when they came to me;
Till I was forty years of age, not more
Than half of my inheritance was mine.
I toiled and toiled: God bless'd me in my work,
And till these three weeks past the land was free.
It looks as if it never could endure
Another master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
That thou shouldst go." At this the old man paused;
Then pointing to the stones near which they stood,
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:
"This was a work for us, and now, my son,
It is a work for me; but lay one stone
Here; lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.
Nay, boy, be of good hope; we both may live
To see a better day. At eighty-four
I still am strong and hale: do thou thy part,
I will do mine. I will begin again
With many tasks that were resigned to thee;
Up to the heights, and in among the storms,
Will I without thee go again, and do
All works which I was wont to do alone,
Before I knew thy face. Heaven bless thee, boy
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast
With many hopes; it should be so: yes, yes,
I knew that thou couldst never have a wish
To leave me, Luke; thou hast been bound to me
Only by links of love; when thou art gone,
What will be left to us! But I forget
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,
As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,
When thou art gone away, should evil men
Be thy companions, think of me, my son,
And of this moment: hither turn thy thoughts,
And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou
Mayst bear in mind the life thy fathers lived,
Who, being innocent, did for that cause
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare-thee-well;
When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see
A work which is not here—a covenant—
'Twill be between us. But, whatever fate
Befal thee, I shall love thee to the last.
And bear thy memory with me to the grave."

The shepherd ended here, and Luke stooped down,
And, as his father had requested, laid
The first stone of the sheepfold. At the sight
The old man's grief broke from him, to his heart
He pressed his son, he kissed him and wept;
And to the house together they returned.
Hushed was that house in peace, or seeming peace,
Ere the night fell; with morrow's dawn the boy
Began his journey, and when he had reached
The public way, he put on a bold face;
And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That followed him till he was out of sight.

A good report did from their kinsman come,
Of Luke and his well-doing; and the boy
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,
Which, as the housewife phrased it, were, throughout,
"The prettiest letters that were ever seen."
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
So, many months passed on, and once again
The shepherd went about his daily work
With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour
He to that valley took his way, and there
Wrought at the sheepfold. Meantime Luke began
To slacken in his duty; and at length
He in the dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses; ignominy and shame
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
To seek a hiding place beyond the seas.

There is a comfort in the strength of love;
'Twill make a thing endurable, which else
Would overset the brain, or break the heart.
I have conversed with more than one who well
Remember the old man, and what he was
Years after he had heard this heavy news.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went, and still looked up upon the sun,
And listened to the wind; and, as before,
Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,
And for the land, his small inheritance.
And to that hollow dell from time to time
Did he repair, to build the fold of which
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet,
The pity which was then in every heart
For the old man: and 'tis believed by all
That many and many a day he thither went,
And never lifted up a single stone.

There, by the sheepfold, sometimes was he seen
Sitting alone, with that his faithful dog,
Then old, beside him lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years from time to time
He at the building of this sheepfold wrought,
And left the work unfinished when he died.
Three years, or little more, did Isabel
Survive her husband: at her death the estate
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.
The cottage, which was named the Evening Star,
Is gone; the ploughshare has been through the ground
On which it stood; great changes have been wrought
In all the neighbourhood; yet the oak is left
That grew beside their door; and the remains
Of the unfinished sheepfold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.

---

[THE INSCRIBED ROCKS OF WINDERMERE.]

OUR boatman told us, that at a short distance on the eastern side of Windermere lake, were some inscriptions on the rocks, which were the greatest curiosities of the place. The guide-book having made no mention of them, we were the more anxious to see what they were, and were rowed ashore accordingly, at a point not far from Lowood Inn. Here we found every smooth surface afforded by the rocks—every slab on the stratified formation—covered with inscriptions, engraved with much toil, in letters varying from six to twenty or twenty-four inches in height. On one large red stone of at least ten feet square, was engraved "1833. Money. Liberty. Wealth. Peace;"—a catalogue of blessings very much to be desired. On another stone was the simple date "1688:" expressive enough of the engraver's political sentiments. And on another, in larger characters, "A slave landing on the British strand, becomes free."

All the largest stones, and slabs, some of which were horizontal, others vertical, and the rest inclined at various angles, and the whole of them giving evidence that the place had formerly been a quarry, were covered with inscriptions of a like purport. The following are a few of the most striking. One immense surface of rock bore the following names, which are transcribed in the original order:—"Sun. Bulwer. Dryden. Davy. Burns. Scott. Burdett. Garrick. Kemble. Gray. Kean. Milton. Henry Brougham. James Watt. Professor Wilson. Dr. Jenner." To which were added the words in characters equally conspicuous, "The Liberty of the Press." "Magna Charta." This slab was a testimony, apparently, of the engraver's admiration of great intellect. One close alongside side of it was of a different style, and bore the date "1836," followed by the words, "William IV. President Jackson. Louis Philippe. Britannia rules the waves." Next to that again was a still larger surface of rock on which was indented, "National Debt, £800,000,000. O save my Country, Heaven! George III. and William Pitt." "Money is the sinew of war." "Field Marshal Wellington. Heroic Admiral Nelson. Captain Cook. Admiral Rodney." One stone, at least eight feet square, bore but one word in letters a yard long, and that was significant enough—viz. "Steam."

On inquiring of the boatman who it was that had expended so much labour, he pointed out another stone, on which were the words, "John Longmire, Engraver," and informed us that it was a person of that name, who had spent about six years of his prime in this work—labouring here alone, and in all weathers—and both by night and by day. He took great pleasure in the task; and was, as the boatman took pains to impress upon us, rather "dull" at the time. This phrase, as he afterwards explained, implies, in this part of the country, that he was deranged; and I thought, when looking with renewed interest upon these mementos of his ingenuity and perseverance, misapplied though they were, that it was a happy circumstance that an afflicted creature could have found solace under calamity, in a manner so harmless. There was a method in the work, and a sense, too, in the poor man's ideas, which showed that his sympathies were in favour of the moral and intellectual advancement of mankind; and that, amid the last feeble glimmerings of his own reason, he could do honour to those whose intellect had benefited and adorned our age. I could learn no further particulars of him; our friend, the boatman, not being able to say whether he were dead or alive, or whether his "dullness" had ever manifested itself in a more disorderly manner than in these inscriptions.

---

[EDGAR, THE LORD OF ENNERDALE.]
A TRADITION OF WOTOBANK, NEAR EGREMONT.

IN the neighbourhood of Egremont, there is a romantic hill called Wotobank, with which a traditionary story is connected, and from which its name is said to have originated. The tale relates that "a lord of Egremont, with his lady Edwina and servants, was hunting the wolf; during the chase, the lady was missing, and after a long and painful search, her body was found lying on this romantic acclivity, or bank, mangled by a wolf, which was in the very act of ravenously tearing it to pieces. The sorrow of the husband, in the first transports of his grief, was expressed by the words—"Wo to this bank!"—whence the hill obtained the name of "Wotobank." Mrs. Cowley has adopted this legend for the subject of her beautiful poem "Edwina." After ascending Skiddaw, and casting a glance around:—

"Here—across the tangley dells;
There—on the misty distant fells,"

the poetess thus proceeds:—

—"But chiefly, Ennerdale, to thee I turn,
And o'er thy healthful vales heart-rended mourn!
—For ah! those plains, those vales, those sheltering woods,
Nourish'd by Bassenthwaite's contiguous floods,
Once witness'd such a sad and heavy deed
As makes the aching memory recede."

Then introducing the Lord of Ennerdale, she continues:—

"He, the sole heir of Atheling was known,
Whose blood, stern Scotland! 'midst thy heaths has flown.
Not five and twenty summers o'er his head
Had led their orbs, when he preferr'd to wed
The sweet Edwina. Blooming were the charms
Which her fond father gave to Henry's arms.
Long had he woo'd the charming, bashful maid,
Who, yet to listen to Love's tales afraid,
By many modest arts—(so Love ordains)
Increas'd his passion, though increas'd his pains.
At length the nuptial morn burst from the sky,
Bidding prismatic light before her fly;
Soft purple radiance streamed around her car,
Absorbing all the beams of every star;—
Roses awaken'd as she pass'd along,
And the high lark perform'd his soaring song,
Whilst pinks, their fragrance shaking on the air,
The proud carnation's glories seem'd to share;
The breezes snatch'd their odours as they flew,
And gave them in their turn pellucid dew,
Which fed their colours to a higher tone,
Till all the earth a vegetative rainbow shone.

Beneath her husband's roof the matchless fair
Graced each delight, and each domestic care.
Her plastic needle bade fresh flow'rets grow;
And, hung in rich festoons, around her glow;
In cooling grots her shellwork seized the eye,
With skill arrang'd, to show each melting dye;
Her taste the garden everywhere sustain'd,
In each parterre her vivid fancy reign'd.
Submissive yews in solid walls she form'd,
Or bade them rise a castle, yet unstorm'd;
In love the eagle hover'd o'er its nest,
Or seem'd a couchant lion sunk to rest.
Her husband's sports his lov'd Edwina shar'd,
For her the hawking party was prepar'd;
She roused the wolf—the foaming boar she chased,
And Danger's self was in her presence graced.

Thus roll'd two years on flowery wheels along,
Midst calm domestic bliss, and sport, and song.
O, Edgar! from pernicious Gallia's shore,
Hadst thou, immoral youth! return'd no more,
Such years tho' lengthen'd time had sweetly run,
Down to the faintest beams of life's last sun.
But thou returnd'st! and thy voluptuous heart,
Which from temptation never knew to start,
Seized on Edwina as a lawful prize—
All dead to Honour's voice, and Conscience' secret cries.

Edgar to Ennerdale oft bent his way,
His form was courtly, and his manners gay;
To Henry he would speak of wars he'd seen,
Of tournaments, and gaudes, 'midst peace serene.
When for Edwina's ear the tale was fram'd
The beauties of bright Gallia's court were nam'd,
Their lives, their loves, all past before her view,
And many things were feign'd he never knew.
At length the prudent fair remark'd the style,
And saw beneath his ease distorted guile;—
For virtue in his tales ne'er found a place,
Nor maiden vigilance, nor matron grace,
But wild and loose his glowing stories ran,
And thus betray'd the black designing man.
As when, in eastern climes, 'midst hours of play,
A sweet boy (wand'ring at the close of day,
Along the margin of a gadding stream,
Whilst Hope around him throws her fairy dream)
Sudden beholds the panther's deadly eye,
And turns, by impulse strong, his step to fly—
So turn'd Edwina, when she saw, reveal'd,
The net th' ensnaring youth had hop'd conceal'd:
Whenever he appear'd her air grew cold,
And awed to mute despair this baron bold;
He by degrees forbore to seek her gate,
Who sat enshrin'd within, in Virtue's state.
But his wild wishes did not cease to rage,
Nor did he strive their fever to assuage—
For sinful love is ever dear to sin,
Its victims self-correction ne'er begin;
But, hurried on by hell, pursue their road,
Nor heed surrounding woes, nor tremble at their God!

The huntsman blew his horn, ere listless day
Had from his shoulder thrown his robe of gray,
Ere he had shaken from his shining hair
The rosy mists which irrigate the air.
Lord Henry heard—and from his pillow sprung,
And bold responsive notes he cheerily sung;
Then, "Wake my love!" the happy husband cried,
To her, who, sweetly slumbering at his side,
Wish'd still, thus slumbering, to wear the morn,
And almost chid the tyrant horn—
Yet quick she rose, and quick her busy maids,
Folding her yellow locks in careless braids,
Equipp'd her for the field—sweeping she flew,
Like a slim arrow from the graceful yew.
Her jet-black steed more lively seem'd to bound,
When the light burden on his back he found—
The jet-black steed her husband had bestow'd,
When first, a huntress, at his side she rode;
Long was his streaming main, his eye of fire,
Proved his descent from no ignoble sire;
He sprung 'midst Araby's far distant plains,
Whose sands the bleeding violet never stains.
And now the day in all his glories drest,
Seem'd at the bugle's call to shake off rest.
He pour'd his beams around in ample floods—
Rivers of light descended on the woods;
The plains, the valleys drank the radiant shower,
Each plant received it, and each gentle flower.
The Hunt inspir'd, the ambient æther rent
With varied sounds, as their keen course they bent:
The dogs, deep-mouth'd, in chorus form'd the cry,
And sent their forest greetings to the sky;
The horn's full tone swell'd each pervading note,
And harmony and joy around the country float.

At length a boar, thro' a dark coppice side,
Amidst the rustling bushes seem'd to glide;
Cautious he moved, like a fell thief of night,
Strung by his fears to unintended flight.
Close to the earth he softly crept along,
And shrubs, and underwood around him throng;
But ah! in vain he creeps, the air so thin,
Catches th' effluvia from his reeking skin,
The titillations to the hounds' keen nostrils fly,
Who instantly the brown recesses try.
When turn'd before them into open view,
Quick transports from each bosom flew;
The huntsman's law the churning savage found,
They suffer'd his escape twelve roods of ground,
Ere loose was let the eager mad'ning pack,
To follow in the bristly monster's track;
At length in close pursuit they pour along,
Urged or retarded by their Leader's thong.
O'er hills, through brakes, he led them many an hour,
Straining each nerve—exhausting ev'ry power:
Now hears the dogs' faint mouthings far behind,
Then scents them as around a beck they wind—
With dread and joy alternately is fill'd
Now high with hope, and now with terror chill'd;
Then in despair he turns to meet the foe,
And rage and madness in his eyeballs glow—
When Henry, darting on before the rest,
Fix'd the bright lance within his heaving breast,
His struggling breast convulsive motions strain,
His spouting veins the foaming coursers stain:
The death-notes issue from the brazen horn,
And from th' enormous trunk the head is torn.
Straight with the tusk-arm'd head upon his spear,
Lord Henry turn'd to Her—for ever dear!
To lay the bleeding trophy at her feet,
And make his triumph more sincerely sweet—
But horror! no Edwina could be seen,
Nor on the hill's soft slope, or pasture green;
Not shelter'd, near the torrent's fall she lay,
Nor on the forest's edge, escaped the day,
Nor was she on the plain—the valleys too,
Gave no Edwina to the aching view.
Wonder and dread compress her husband's heart,
O'er the surrounding scene his eye-beams dart;
He moves—stands still—terror lifts up his hair,
He seems the pale-cheek'd spectre of despair.
And now was heard her steed's sonorous neigh,
Whose voice the rocks' firm echoes would obey;
Bounding, he comes towards them from the plain,
But his sweet mistress held no guiding rein—
The reins float loosely, as he cleft the air,
No mistress sweet, with guiding hand, was there!
From all but Henry burst terrific cries,
Silent his dread—and quite suppress'd his sighs.
His manly features sink, his eyelids close,
And all his lineaments express his woes.
Speech! O, how weak, when mighty sorrows spring,
When fears excessive to the bosom cling!
Words may to lighter troubles give a show,
But find no place where griefs transcendent grow.
At length they each a different way diverge,
Some to the mountain's haughty brow emerge,
Others pursue the plain—the wood—the dell,
Appointing where to meet, their fortune dear, to tell.

And now, O Lady! Empress of the day,
My pensive pen pursues thee on thy way!
Amidst the heat and fury of the chace,
When the fleet horsemen scarce the eye could trace.
A road succinct Edwina meant to take,
And push'd her steed across an ancient brake;
But in the thicket tangled and dismayed,
And of the thorny solitude afraid,
Again she turn'd her horse—ah! turn'd in vain,
She miss'd the op'ning to the neighb'ring plain.
At length dismounting, tremblingly she strove,
To force a path, through briars thickly wove;
The horse releas'd, straight vanish'd from her eye,
And o'er opposing brambles seem'd to fly—
The distant hounds his prick'd-up ears invade,
And quick he skims o'er ev'ry glen and glade.
His mistress, thus forsook, with prickles torn,
And weeping oft with pain, and all forlorn,
At length achiev'd a path, and saw a rill,
To which she mov'd, her ruby mouth to fill;—
Her taper'd hand immers'd beneath the stream,
Flash'd through the glassy wave with pearly gleam,
It bore the living moisture to her lips,
And eagerly the panting beauty sips,
The shining freshness o'er her brow she threw,
And bless'd the current as it sparkling flew;
Then on its borders sought a short repose,
Whilst round her, doddergrass, and pansies rose.
Sleep soon, unbidden, caught her in his snare,
And folded in his arms the weary fair,
Two aspen trees in one smooth bark were bound,
And threw a thin and trembling shadow round,
The waters gently tinkled as they fell,
And a near sheep sustained a silvery bell,
Whilst breezes o'er her temples softly stray'd,
And 'midst her floating ringlets, leaping, played,
Who would not wish to linger in such rest,
Where waters, shades, and sounds, make sleeping blest?
But, Powers Sublime! who tread the burning air,
And give to sainted charity your care,
Where roved ye now?—Where waved your filmy wings,
Where struck your harps their million-bearing strings?
If on Light's rays, swift shot from pole to pole,
Your essences supine you chose to roll,
Or the rich glowing tapestry to weave,
Which must the sun's retiring orb receive,
Yet still you should have left each task undone,
Fled from the glowing west—forsook the sun,
Rush'd in whole troops, nor left one sylph behind,
And all your cares to Ennerdale confined:
Clung round the aspens where Edwina slept,
And o'er her form your anxious vigils kept—
Whose slumbers long spun out their rosy dreams,
And still consoled her 'midst the noontide beams.
When a hard grasp which seized her listless hands,
Rude, snapt asunder their narcotic bands,
She started, and she found,—O! hated sight,
Close at her side the am'rous villain knight,
Who tried in specious terms his hopes to paint—
Inspir'd by ev'ry fiend, he call'd on every saint!

Surprise, at first, held mute Edwina's tongue,
And many changes on his theme he rung,
Ere she could pour her chaste, her proud disdain,
Or check with cold contempt his odious strain.
At length she spoke. So once, Judean Fair!
Thou turn'd'st upon the sober, hoary pair
Who slunk, with wanton thoughts and aspect grave,
To watch thee, rising from the gelid wave.
Insulted Virtue thunder'd from thy tongue,
And o'er thy eye indignant lightnings hung,
Swift came the vollied speech;—grand was thy tone,
And Chastity in bright effulgence shone.
Around the ivory form dark myrtles grew,
To snatch thee from the gazing monster's view;
Through their deep foliage came thy pointed words,
Thy glance was fire—thy sentences were swords!

Such were Edwina's tones, her look, her air,
Striking the young seducer with despair!
Yes, young he was, in beauty's fullest prime,
Untarnish'd yet, untouch'd by withering time!
O'er his red cheek soft dimples playful ran,
Whilst grace and sinewy strength proclaimed The man!
His charms, his passion, sweet Edwina spurned,
And with unfeigned abhorrence, stately turned;
Then walk'd with mien composed across the moor,
Though tremblings seized her heart, and doubtings sore.
But Edgar soon she heard, step quick behind,
And then to mad'ning fears her soul resigned.
She seemed to borrow from the wind its wings,
When from its southern portal first it springs—
Flying, as borne upon the billowy air,
Urged by distraction on, and blank despair.
Her base pursuer spurr'd by dire intent,
Kept closely in the track the fair one went;
Nor hurried much, but thought her failing feet
Would soon retard a course so wondrous fleet—
He thought aright, and in his felon arms,
Pressed Henry's beauteous wife, half wild with dread alarms.

Scarce had he dared to grasp her sinking frame,
When with the quickness of devouring flame,
A furious wolf from out the bordering wood
With eyes all glaring near Edwina stood—
The brindled hair rose stiff upon his chine,
Of ghastly, deathful joy, the horrid sign;
His clinging sides confessed his famished state,
And his deep howl proclaimed a victim's fate.
The coward fled!—O! now my pen forbear,
Nor with the shrieks of terror rend the air!—
The wolf's fell teeth—but O! I check the song,
Nor can the horrid, agonizing chord prolong.

The savage, starting from his bleeding prey,
Rush'd to his haunt, and briefly fled away;
Approaching steps declared swift danger nigh,
And forc'd—too late! the unglutted beast to fly.
Those steps were Henry's!—he first reached the spot,
For him to reach it, was the dreadful lot!
He saw her marble bosom torn—her mangled head;
He saw—mysterious fate! Edwina dead!
Those eyes were closed, whose rich and beamy light,
Would shed a lustre on pale Sorrow's night—
Dumb was that honied mouth, whose graceful speech,
Beyond the schoolman's eloquence would reach!
The snowy arms which lately clasped her lord,
Now streaked with flowing blood—O! thought abhorred!
Before his starting eyes, all lifeless hang,
And give him more than death's last, rending pang.
His cries of agony spread o'er the plain,
And reached the distant undulating main;
His screams of anguish struck with terror more
Than the lank wolf's most desolating roar.
Vain his attendants sooth—in vain they pray,
In stormy grief he wearied down the day.
A furious maniac now he raged around,
And tore the bushes from the embracing ground,
Then spent, all prone upon the earth he fell,
And from his eyes the gushing torrents swell;
When sorrow could articulate its grief,
When words allowed a transient short relief,
"Woe to thee, Bank!" were the first sounds that burst,
"And be thy soil with bitter offspring curst!
"Woe to thee, Bank, for thou art drunk with gore,
"The purest heart of woman ever bore!"
"Woe to thee, Bank!" the attendants echoed round,
And pitying shepherds caught the grief-fraught sound.
Thus, to this hour, through every changing age,
Through ev'ry year's still ever-varying stage,
The name remains; and Wo-to-Bank is seen,
From ev'ry mountain bleak, and valley green—
Dim Skiddaw views it from his monstrous height,
And eagles mark it in their dizzy flight;
The Bassenthwaite's soft murmurs sorrow round,
And rocks of Buttermere protect the ground,
Rills of Helvellyn raging in their fall,
Seem on Lodore's rough sympathy to call—
From peak to peak they wildly burst away,
And form, with rushing tone, a hollow, dirge-like lay.
Not rocks, and cataracts and alps alone,
Paint out the spot, and make its horrors known.
For faithful lads ne'er pass, nor tender maid,
But the soft rite of tears is duly paid;
Each can the story to the traveller tell,
And on the sad disaster, pitying dwell—
Thus Wo-to-Bank, thou'rt known thy swains among,
And now thou liv'st within an humble stranger's song!"

---

[LADY EVA AND THE GIANT.]
A LEGEND OF YEWDALE.

AS you enter the romantic vale of Yewdale, about a quarter of a mile above the saw-mills, by looking over the hedge to your right, you may perceive, near to the verge of the precipitous bank of Yewdale Beck, and a few yards from the roadside, a long narrow mound which seems to be formed of solid stone covered with moss, but which a nearer inspection would show to be composed of several blocks fitted so closely together as to prove the mound to have had an artificial, and not a natural origin. You observe it is somewhere between three and four yards long. That singular accumulation of lichen-clad rock has been known for centuries amongst the natives of Yewdale and the adjacent valleys, by the romance-suggesting designation of Girt Will's Grave. How it came by that name, and how Cauldron Dub and Yewdale Bridge came to be haunted, my task is now to tell.

Some few hundred years ago, the inhabitants of these contiguous dales were startled from their propriety, if they had any, by a report that one of the Troutbeck giants had built himself a hut, and taken up his abode in the lonely dell of the Tarns, above Yewdale Head. Of course you have read the history and exploits of the famous Tom Hickathrift, and remembering that he was raised at Troutbeck, you will not be much surprised when I tell you that it was always famous for a race of extraordinary size and strength; for even in these our own puny days, the biggest man in Westmoreland is to be found in that beautiful vale.

The excitement consequent upon the settlement of one of that gigantic race in this vicinity soon died away, and the object of it, who stood somewhere about nine feet six out of his clogs, if they were in fashion then, and was broad in fair proportion, became known to the neighbours as a capital labourer, ready for any such work as was required in the rude and limited agricultural operations of the period and locality—answered to the cognomen of "Girt (great) Will o' t' Tarns," and, once or twice, did good service as a billman under the Knight of Conistone, when he was called upon to muster his powers to assist in repelling certain roving bands of Scots or Irish, who were wont, now and again, to invade the wealthy plains of low Furness.

The particular Knight who was chief of the Flemings of Conistone, at the period of the giant's location at the Tarns, was far advanced in years, and, in addition to some six or eight gallant and stately sons, had

"One fair daughter, and no more,
The which he loved passing well."

And Eva le Fleming, called by the country people "the Lady Eva," was famed throughout the broad north for her beauty and gentleness, her high-bred dignity and her humble virtues; but it is not with her that my story has to do. She, like the mother of "the gentle lady married to the Moor," had a maid called Barbara, an especial favourite with her mistress, and, in her own sphere, deemed quite as beautiful. In fact, it was hinted that, when she happened to be in attendance upon her lady on festive or devotional occasions, the eyes of even knights and well-born squires were as often directed to the maid as to the mistress, and seemed to express as much admiration in one direction as the other.

And when mounted on the Lady Eva's own palfrey, bedecked in its gayest trappings, she rode, as she oftentimes did, to visit her parents at Skelwith, old and young were struck with her beauty, and would turn, as she ambled past, to gaze after her, and to wonder at the elegance of her figure, the ease of her deportment, and the all-surpassing loveliness of her features. Her lady, notwithstanding the disparity of their rank, loved her as a sister, and it was whispered amongst her envious fellow-servants, that her mistress's fondness made her assume airs unbecoming her station. True enough it was that she seemed sufficiently haughty and scornful in her reception of the homage paid to her charms by the young men of her own rank, and by many above it. The only one to whom she showed the slightest courtesy on these occasions was wild Dick Hawksley, the Knight's falconer, and he was also the only one who appeared to care no more for her favours than for her frowns.

The Lady Eva, as well befits high-born dames, was somewhat romantic in her tastes, and would often row for hours upon the lake, and wander for miles through the woods, or even upon the mountains, unattended, save by her favourite bower-maiden. And one evening in autumn, after having been confined for two whole days to the hall, by heavy and incessant rain, tired of playing chess with her father, and battledore with her younger brothers, or superintending the needlework of her maids, and tempted by the brilliant moonlight and now unobscured skies, she summoned Barbara, and set out upon a stroll by the lake side.

The pair were sauntering along a path cut through the dense coppice, the lady leaning in condescending affection upon the shoulder of her maiden, and listening to a recital of how, on her return from some of her visits to her parents, she had been waylaid by Great Will of the Tarns, and how on a recent evening he had attempted to seize her rein, and would have stopped her, had she not whipped the palfrey and bounded past him. The lady was expressing her indignation at this insolence, when a gigantic figure sprang upon the pathway, and, snatching up the screaming Barbara with the same ease with which she herself would have lifted an infant, vanished on the instant amongst the thick hazels.

The Lady Eva stood for a minute struck powerless with terror and astonishment at this audacious outrage; but the sound of the monster crashing his headlong course through the coppice, and the half-stifled screams of his captive, soon recalled her suspended faculties, and then

"Fair" Eva "through the hazel-grove
Flew, like a startled cushat dove,"

back to the hall, where, breathless with terror and exertion, she gave the alarm that Barbara had been carried off by the giant. There was noisy and instantaneous commotion amongst the carousing gentles at the upper, and the loitering lacqueys at the lower end of the hall. Dick Hawksley, and a few more, darted off in immediate pursuit on foot, while several rushed to the stables, in obedience to the call of their young masters, who were, one and all, loudly vociferating for their horses. Scarce a minute passed, ere half a dozen Flemings, attended by as many mounted followers, were spurring like lightning through the wood in the direction of Yewdale. They came in sight of the giant and his burthen as he neared Cauldron Dub, with the light-heeled falconer close behind, calling loudly upon him to stay his flight; but he held on with tremendous strides, till he reached the brow over the pool, when, finding that the horsemen were close upon him, and that it was hopeless to try to carry his prize farther, he stopped—uttered one terrible shout of rage and disappointment—and whirled his shrieking victim into the flooded beck, resuming his now unencumbered flight with increased speed.

Dick Hawksley rushed over the bank a little lower down, and the horsemen, abandoning the chase, galloped to the brink of the stream, which was high with the recent rains. They saw the falconer plunge into the torrent, as the bower maiden, yet buoyant with her light garments, was borne rapidly down. They saw him seize her with one hand, and strike out gallantly for the bank with the other, but the current was too strong for him, encumbered as he was with the girl in his grasp. The devoted pair were swept down the stream, at a rate that made the spectators put their horses to a gallop to keep them in sight, even while the exertions of the brave falconer sufficed to sustain their heads above water, which was only till they came under the bridge, where the water, pent in by the narrow arch, acquired four-fold force, and there they heard him utter a hoarse cry of despair, and the gallant Hawksley and the Lady Eva's beauteous favourite were seen no more, till their bodies were found, days after, on the shore far down the lake.

One or two of the horsemen continued to gallop down the side of the beck, in the bootless hope of being able even yet to render them some aid, but the most of them turned their horses' heads, and went off once more at their utmost speed in pursuit of the murderous giant. He, considering the chase at an end, had slackened his pace, and they were not long in overtaking him. Great Will struck out manfully with his club (time out of mind the giant's favourite weapon) as they rushed upon him, but they speedily surrounded him, and, amid a storm of vengeful yells and bitter execrations, the Giant of the Tarns was stretched upon the sward, "with the blood running like a little brook" from a hundred wounds; for he was so frightfully slashed and mangled by their swords, that, as my informant naively averred, there was not so much whole skin left upon his huge body as would have made a tobacco-pouch.

It will be apparent enough to the most obtuse intellect, that, after such events as these, the localities where they occurred must, of necessity, be haunted; and, as the ghosts of murderers, as well as of murderees, if they be right orthodox apparitions, always appear to be re-enacting the closing scene of their earthly career, it is scarcely required of me to dilate farther upon the manner of their appearance. Of course I do not expect, and certainly do not wish to be called upon to prove the even-down truth of every particular of the story, with which I have been doing my little best to amuse you; but the assured fact of the Dub and the bridge being haunted, and that by sundry most pertinacious spirits, I am ready to maintain against all comers.

---

[KIRKBY LONSDALE BRIDGE.]
A LEGEND.

NEAR to the bridge which crosses the Lune, not far from Kirkby Lonsdale, the scenery is truly romantic. The river, which is here of considerable width, winds through the bottom of the valley, and is overshadowed by the trees that grow upon its banks. Its current is roughened by the rocks which form its bed, some of which stand up in huge moss-grown blocks in the midst of the stream. The water is clear to a great depth, and the steep grassy banks, and abundance of trees which close in the prospect, give it an air of seclusion. This stream is plentifully stocked with trout and salmon, and here the angler may sit and watch the gilded fly with a devotion worthy of a Davy or a Walton.

The singular construction of the bridge renders it an object of curiosity; and when viewed in connection with the river and valley of the Lune, it forms one of the most romantic prospects on which the eye can dwell. It is composed of three beautifully ribbed arches, the centre one rising to the height of thirty-six feet above the stream. It is a lofty, firm and handsome structure, but so narrow as almost to deserve the taunt cast upon the "auld brig of Ayr:"—

"Where twa wheelbarrows trembled when they met:" at least no two carriages of a larger size can pass each other; but, for the security of the foot passengers, there are angular recesses in the battlements, corresponding with the projecting piers.

Antiquity has cast her veil over this erection, and a consequent obscurity envelopes its history. If, however, we may rely on popular tradition, the building is to be ascribed to an unmentionable personage; of whom it is said, "that he built the bridge one windy night, and that in fetching the stones from a distance, he let fall the last apronfull as he flew over a fell hard by." This gentleman has been "a bridge-builder," "time out of mind," notwithstanding the improbability of his employing "himself in works of so much real utility to men." Such an historical fact may, however, account for the huge blocks of stone found in various parts of the neighbouring moors.

"Still grand, and beautiful, and good,
Has Lonsdale bridge unshaken stood,
And scorned the swollen, raging flood,
For many ages;
Though antiquaries, who have tried
Some date to find, in vain have pryed
In ancient pages.

Then hear what old tradition says:—
Close by the Lune in former days
Lived an old maid, queer all her ways,
In Yorkshire bred;
Though now forgot what she was named,
For cheating she was always famed,
'Tis truly said.

She had a cow, a pony too;
When o'er the Lune, upon the brow,
Had passed one night these fav'rites two,
'Twas dark and rainy;
Her cow was o'er, she knew her bellow,
Her pony too, poor little fellow,
She heard him whinny.

Alack, alack a day! she cries,
As overflowed her streaming eyes,
When lo! with her to sympathise,
Old Nick appears;
'Pray, now, good woman, don't despair,
But lay aside all anxious care,
And wipe your tears.

'To raise a bridge I will agree,
That in the morning you shall see,
But mine for e'er the first must be
That passes over;
So by these means you'll soon be able
To bring the pony to his stable,
The cow her clover.'

In vain were sighs and wailings vented,
So she at last appeared contented,
It was a bargain, she consented,
For she was Yorkshire;
Now home she goes in mighty glee,
Old Satan, too, well pleased he,
Went to his work, Sir.

When Ilus' son surrounded Troy
With walls that nothing might destroy,
Two gods some time he did employ,
But never paid 'em;
Here Satan, certain of his prize,
With building made a desp'rate noise,
So fast he laid on.

In short, the morning streaks appear,
The bridge is built and Satan there,
When this old lady now drew near,
Her lap-dog with her;
'Behold the bridge,' the tempter cries,
'Your cattle, too, before your eyes,
So hie you thither.'

But mark! she well the bargain knew,
A bun then from her pocket drew,
And showed it first to little Cue,
Then overthrew it;
Now flew the bun, now ran the dog,
For eager was the mangy rogue,
Nor stood to view it.

'Now, crafty Sir, the bargain was,
That you should have what first did pass
Across the bridge, so now, alas!
The dog's your right,'
The cheater cheated, struck with shame,
Squinted and grinned, then in a flame
He vanished quite."

---

[THE SPECTRE ARMY.]
A WEIRD TALE OF SOUTRA FELL.

SOUTER FELL, or Soutra Fell as it is sometimes called, is a considerable mountain situated to the eastward of Skiddaw and Blencathara. The west and north sides are barricaded with steep rocks, apparently 900 yards in height, and everywhere difficult of access.

A very remarkable phenomenon has exhibited itself on this mountain, which, though difficult to account for satisfactorily, is too well authenticated by numerous spectators to be discredited. We allude to the appearance of troops of visionary horsemen, crossing the mountains, advancing, retreating, and performing different military evolutions—an optical delusion which has been observed in this vicinity, to the great astonishment of the rustics of the vale.

"As when a shepherd of the Hebrid isles
Placed far amid the melancholy main
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,
Or that aërial beings sometimes deign
To stand, embodied, to our senses plain),
Sees on the naked hill or valley low,
The whilst in ocean Phœbus dips his wain,
A vast assembly moving to and fro;
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show."

Thomson.

The following account of this singular appearance, which is scarcely paralleled in history, is contained in Hutchison's History of Cumberland, the particulars being collected by Mr. Smith, who observes that he went himself to examine the spectators, who asserted the facts very positively. "On midsummer eve, 1735, a servant in the employ of William Lancaster, of Blakehills, about half a mile from Souterfell, related that he saw the east side of the mountain, towards the summit, covered with a regular marching army for above an hour together. They consisted of distinct bodies of troops, which appeared to proceed from an eminence in the north end, and marched over a niche in the top, marked A and B in the sketch given in the above work; but as no other person in the neighbourhood had seen a similar appearance, he was discredited and laughed at.

"Two years after, on midsummer eve also, between the hours of eight and nine, William Lancaster himself imagined that several gentlemen were following their horses at a distance, as if they had been hunting; and taking them for such, paid no regard to it, till about ten minutes after, again turning his head towards the place, they appeared to be mounted, and a vast army following, five in rank, crowding over at the same place, where the servant said he saw them two years before. He then called his family, who all agreed in the same opinion; and what was most extraordinary, he frequently observed that some one of the five would quit the ranks, and seem to stand in a fronting posture, as if he was observing and regulating the order of their march, or taking account of the numbers, and after some time appeared to return full-gallop to the station he had left, which they never failed to do as often as they quitted their lines, and the figure that did so was generally one of the middlemost men in the rank. As it grew later, they seemed more regardless of discipline, and rather had the appearance of people riding from a market, than an army, though they continued crowding on, and marching off, as long as there was light to see them."

This phenomenon was no more observed till the remarkably serene midsummer evening which preceded the last Scotch rebellion. The parties who had witnessed it on the previous occasion, having been much ridiculed for their report, were determined to call a greater number of witnesses of this strange phenomenon; and having first observed it rigidly, and with great caution themselves, and being fully assured they were not deceived as to the actual appearances, they convened about twenty-six persons from different places in the neighbourhood to bear testimony to the existence of the fact. These all affirmed, and attested before a magistrate, that they saw a similar appearance to that just described, but not conducted with the same regularity, having also the appearance of carriages interspersed. The numbers of the troops were incredible, for they filled lengthways nearly half a mile, and continued so in a brisk march for above an hour, and would probably have done so much longer had not the darkness of approaching night intervened.

"Anon appears a brave, a gorgeous show
Of horsemen shadows, moving to and fro.

* * * * *

Silent the visionary warriors go,
Wending in ordered pomp their upward way,
Till the last banner of the long array
Had disappeared, and every trace is fled
Of splendour—save the beacon's spiry head,
Tipt with eve's latest gleam of burning red."

Wordsworth.

The horse and man, upon strict looking at, appeared to be but one being, rather than two distinct ones, but they did not at all resemble clouds or vapours of any kind.

William Lancaster observed that he never considered these aërial images to be real beings, because of the impracticability of a march over the precipices they seemed to traverse, where horses' hoofs had never trod before. They did not, however, appear to be any less real than on the former occasion; for so convinced were the spectators of the reality of what they had seen, that, as soon as the sun had dawned next morning, several of them climbed the mountain, through an idle expectation of finding the marks of horses' feet, after so numerous an army; but when they arrived at the supposed scene of action, not the mark of a single hoof was discernible, nor have any tidings been received of troops being in the neighbourhood up to this time.[6]

Though this part of the country, like every other, where cultivation has been lately introduced, abounds in all the aniles fabellæ of fairies, ghosts, and apparitions, these are never even fabled to have been seen by more than one or two persons at a time, and the view is always said to be momentary. But in this case the twenty-six spectators saw all alike the same changes, and at the same time, as they discovered by asking each other questions as any change took place. Nor was this wonderful phenomenon observed by these individuals only; it was seen by every person, at every cottage, for a mile round; neither was it confined to a momentary view; for, from the time it was first observed, the appearance must have lasted at least two hours and a half, viz., from half-past seven, till the night coming on prevented the further view; nor yet was the distance such as could impose rude resemblances on the eyes of credulity. The whole story has certainly much of the air of a romance, and it may appear to some fittest for Amadis de Gaul, or Glenville's System of Witches, than for insertion here as a fact. But although it may be difficult to reconcile its probability, and beyond even philosophy to explain, yet such is the evidence we have of its occurrence, that I do not myself entertain the slightest doubt of its having actually taken place as here related. The whole, however, was unquestionably an optical delusion.

As instances have frequently occurred in which the forms and action of human beings have been pictured in the clouds, or in vapour, it seems highly probable, on a consideration of all the circumstances of the case, that certain vapours must have hovered round the mountain when these appearances were observed. It is also possible that these vapours may have been impressed with the shadowy forms which seemed to "imitate humanity," by a particular operation of the sun's rays, united with some singular, but unknown, refractive combination then taking place in the atmosphere.

It has been remarked that these appearances were observed most particularly on the eve of the last Scotch Rebellion, when troops of horsemen might be privately exercising at no great distance. Indeed, the Editor of the Lonsdale Magazine, without giving his authority, observes, that it was afterwards actually discovered "to have been the rebels exercising on the western coast of Scotland, whose movements had been reflected by some fine transparent vapour similar to the Fata Morgana."[7]

Instances are recorded of the phenomena of spectral armies having been occasionally witnessed in other localities. It has been stated that a troop of phantom horsemen was seen coursing over the heights of Helvellyn the day before the battle of Marston Moor.[8] Hutchinson, in his History of Cumberland, relates the following as a parallel instance with that of Soutra Fell. In the spring of 1707, early in a serene morning, was observed by two persons in Leicestershire an appearance of an army marching along, till going behind a great hill it disappeared. The forms of pikes, and carbines were distinguishable; the march was not entirely in one direction, but was at the first like the junction of two armies, and the meeting of generals.[9] There is also a well-authenticated statement of a similar phenomenon, witnessed not long ago, on the Mendip Hills, in Somersetshire;[10] and Speed tells us of something of a like nature as preceding a dreadful intestine war.[11] Something of this kind may have given rise to Ossian's grand and awful mythology.

These optical illusions, occurring on Soutra Fell, form a subject peculiarly adapted for "the poet's pen," and are finely illustrated in the following poem, written in conformity with the popular belief of the lake villagers, that it really was a presentiment of the Scotch Rebellion, and that the horrors of the final battle were depicted in a prophetic manner. There can be no impiety in supposing, as this happened immediately before that rebellion which was intended to subvert the liberty, the law, and the religion of England, that though immediate prophecies may have ceased, these visionary beings might be directed to warn mankind of approaching tumults.

"Look how the world's poor people are amazed
At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies."

Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis.