I have said that the end of Mary Hird was melancholy, and it may not be improper, trivial and slight though these lucubrations be, to relate the circumstances attending it here.
On the afternoon of February the 4th, 1848, she left home in accordance with an arrangement made with a traveller from Ulverstone, who had offered to take her over Birker Moor in his gig to Eskdale, where she wished to visit some relations—the friendly traveller agreeing to pick her up at a stated hour at the end of the Birker Moor road. She unfortunately had been too late, and had walked onwards, as was supposed, under the impression that he was behind and would overtake her. However that might be, no alarm was felt on her account at home, until Miss Tyson, the clergyman’s daughter, called at the cottage on her way from Eskdale, and it then came out that she had not been seen there, though that was the sixth day after her departure. The neighbourhood was alarmed instantly, and a long line of willing and anxious friends, taking the whole breadth of the wild moor before them, soon discovered her body lying about forty yards from the road, where, but for the continual misty state of the atmosphere during the whole week, she must have been discovered days before by people passing along the road. The lacerated condition of her hands and knees and her torn dress shewed that the poor old woman, after losing the power of walking, had struggled onwards, no one knows how far, upon her hands and knees: she had taken out her spectacles, as it was thought, to assist her in seeing THE FELLS IN WINTERher way through the bewildering mist; and she had lost a handkerchief, containing oranges for her grandchildren, at some distance from the spot where she died. I am well qualified to speak as to what the poor old creature must have suffered from the weather, for I had to cross over Walna Scar (which is near two thousand feet high) twice upon the day she perished, and though I am tolerably robust, and had the assistance of an active pony, I nearly sunk under it myself. There had been a heavy snow which, for a day or two, under the influence of soft weather and showers, had been melting; the whole country was saturated with wet—“every road was a syke, every syke a beck, and every beck a river.” The high lands were covered with a thick, cold, driving, suffocating mist, which every now and then thinned a little to make way for one of these thorough-bred mountain showers, of which none can have any conception who have not faced them on the fells in winter—wetting you to the skin and chilling you to the marrow in three seconds, and piercing your exposed skin like legions of needles and pins. The hollows in the road, which are neither few nor far between, were filled with snow in a state of semifluidity, cold as if it had been melted with salt, through which I splashed and struggled, dragging my floundering, jaded pony after me with the greatest difficulty. Though my road was over a much greater elevation than Mary Hird's, hers would be nearly as much exposed to the weather and as completely covered in by the smothering mist; it is therefore not to be wondered at that, though an active hale old woman, she sank upon the dreary moor.
CHAPTER VI.
The Present Incumbent of Seathwaite—His Appearance, Manner, Conversation, and Preaching—A Contre-Temps—Causes of Defection—Undercrag—“A Vale within a Vale”—“The Old Church Clock”—“Bad Customs”—Country versus Town—Ascent of Walna Scar—Old British Camp?—View from the Summit and Descent of Walna Scar—Gaits Water and Dow Crags—Return to Conistone.
As you loiter about the church-yard, you will be inevitably saluted by an elderly personage arrayed in an elderly black coat, corduroy “never-mention-thems” ending at the knees, dark rough yarn stockings, by way of continuations, and strong country made shoes fastened with leather whangs. He has the appearance of one with whom the world has gone smoothly. His double chin, broad convex shoulders, “fair round belly with” fell mutton “lined,” sturdy, well-developed under-limbs, and, above all, the cheerful and benevolent expression pervading his venerable features, all indicate one whose lot in life has been peaceful, happy, and contented. His outer man would seem to fix his rank in life very little above the surrounding farmers and yeomen. His manner is simple, easy, and unaffected, and his style of language is vastly superior to that of any with whom you have exchanged words during your Seathwaite expedition. I may as well tell you who and what he is. Well, then, he is the Rev. Ed. Tyson, and a collateral descendant of the famous individual AN OBLIGING CICERONE.I told you so much about in our last chapter,—was, for a short time, his coadjutor, and, at his death, succeeded him in the ministry of this romantic chapelry. Ask him for how long he has watched over the spiritual interests of his unsophisticated flock, and he will answer “only forty-six years this time.” The “this time” means that, after acting as Mr Walker’s curate for some time, he left Seathwaite, and returned at his death in 1802. Forty-six years added to sixty-six, the duration of Robert Walker's ministration, gives the sum of one hundred and twelve years, during which the clerical function has been discharged in Seathwaite by only two individuals. To this, I fancy, you can scarcely find a parallel! Mr Tyson will have much pleasure in pointing out what is worthy of note in and about his chapel; as the pew lined with cloth of “Wonderful Walker's” own spinning, and again I may say that you will scarcely find a parallel to this in any English church—a pew lined with cloth spun by a clergyman! The pulpit is worth looking at on account of its antiquity, and so is the door of a cupboard beside it, both being of carved oak, and bearing a date which I forget.
One of the many writers who have chosen the Duddon for their theme, says that he has seldom witnessed anything so gratifying as the manner in which Mr Tyson greets his parishioners on a Sunday morning, as he passes through amongst the assembled groups in the church-yard. He might have increased his gratification by entering the church, and hearing the church service read in Mr Tyson's unpretending, but earnest and even affectionate style, and still more, by staying to hear one of his plain, practical, and convincing discourses, so perfectly adapted to the circumstances and understanding of his rustic congregation, and yet so good in their matter, so impressive in the manner of their delivery, and so excellent in their diction, composition, and arrangement of topics, that any congregation, the most polished and intellectual, might listen to them with the same pleasure and profit, as that with which they are evidently attended to by the simple-minded and uncultivated worshippers in Seathwaite. I have latterly made it a custom to go to Seathwaite once a year to hear Mr Tyson preach, which custom I mean to keep up, so long as I may be permitted.
KERNEL NOT HUSK.
I once witnessed a rather amusing scene occasioned by the plainness of Mr Tyson’s exterior. I had accompanied a gentleman from London on an excursion to Seathwaite, and introduced him to Mr Tyson, without thinking it requisite to mention his position in the parish, and noticed with some surprise, that whilst the worthy parson, with his usual ready kindness, was shewing us through the chapel, and pointing out the remarkables in its vicinity, my companion scarcely treated him with the consideration due to his rank, character, and profession; but my surprise increased almost to consternation, when the stranger, looking over his shoulder to our venerable Cicerone, asked very abruptly, “but, I say, who is the parson here?” Mr Tyson looked rather astonished for an instant, but immediately answered, with some little dignity, “I am the parson, sir—for want of a better.” The gentleman's hat was off directly, and, with a deep obeisance, a muttered apology was tendered to what he doubtless thought the clergyman’s insulted dignity.—“Yes, sir,” continued Mr Tyson, “I am the parson here, and if you calculated upon finding parsons in these dales dressed in black silk stockings and broad-cloth breeches, you see you have been mistaken!”
A WORD FOR MINERS.