Ambleside is a very fashionable place for travellers to visit in the summer months, and we saw there many distinguished and agreeable people.
I had a conversation with an intelligent lad of fourteen years of age, which impressed me very much. He was talking with me about our country, and finding faults with it of various kinds. While I could, I defended it. He thought our revolution was only a rebellion. I told him that all revolutions were only successful rebellions, and that we bore with the tyranny of his country as long as we could. "I don't like the Americans," said he; he blushed as he thought of the discourtesy of saying this to me, and then added, "they are so inconsistent; they call themselves republicans, and then hold slaves, and that is so wicked and absurd." He went on to say all he thought and felt about the wickedness of slavery. I heard him to the end, and then said, "There is nothing you have said upon that subject that I do not agree to entirely. You cannot say too much against slavery; but I call myself an abolitionist, and while I live, I mean to say and do all I can against it. There are many people in America, also, who feel as I do, and we hope to see it abolished."
While we were in Westmoreland, we made an excursion of four days among the beautiful lakes. Miss Martineau was our guide and companion. She knows the name of every mountain, every lake, every glen and dale, every stream and tarn, and her guidance lent a new charm to the scenes of grandeur and beauty through which she conducted us.
We took a vehicle which the people call a jaunting car; it is a square open carriage with two side seats and a door behind; and is drawn by one horse. Two easy steps and a door easily opened let you in and out when you please. The car holds four persons. The driver has a seat in front, and under it he tied our carpet bag.
Never did four souls enjoy themselves more than we on this little excursion. I could not give you an adequate idea of what we saw, or of the pleasure we took. Think of coming down from one of these beautiful hills into Eskdale, or Ennesdale, of walking four miles on the banks of Ullswater, of looking with your living eyes on Derwent Water, Grassmere, Windermere, and many other lovely spots of which you have seen pictures and read descriptions; and of being one in the pleasantest party in the world, as you think, stopping where, and when, and as long as any one pleases.
It was on this journey that I first saw a real ruin. The ruins of Calder Abbey I had never heard of; but the impression it made upon me I can never forget; partly, perhaps, that it was the first ruin upon which I ever gazed. One row of the pillars of the great aisle remains standing. The answering row is gone. Two tall arches of the body of the main building remain also, and different pieces of the walls. It is of sandstone; the clusters of columns in the aisle look as if they were almost held together by the ivy and honeysuckles that wave around their mouldering capitals with every motion of the wind. In every crevice, the harebell, the foxglove, and innumerable other flowers peep forth, and swing in the wind. On the tops of the arches and walls large flowering shrubs are growing; on the highest is a small tree, and within the walls are oak trees more than a century old. The abbey was built seven hundred years ago; and the ruins that are now standing look as if they might stand many centuries longer. The owner of the place has made all smooth and nice around it, so that you may imagine the floor of the church to look like green velvet. It seems as if the ivy and the flowers were caressing and supporting the abbey in its beautiful old age.
As I walked under the arches and upon the soft green turf, that so many years ago had been a cold rough stone pavement, trodden by beings like myself; and felt the flowers and vines hanging from the mouldering capitals touch my face; and saw, in the place where was once a confessional, an oak tree that had taken centuries to grow, and whose top branches mingled with the smiling crest of flowers that crowned the tops of the highest arches,—the thought of the littleness and the greatness of man, and the everlasting beauty of the works of the Creator, almost overwhelmed me; and I felt that, after all, I was not in a decaying, ruined temple, but in an everlasting church, that would grow green and more beautiful and perfect as time passes on.
There is a fine old park around these lovely ruins; and, not far off, a beautiful stream of water, with a curious bridge over it. The old monks well knew how to choose beautiful places to live in. All harmonizes, except—I grieve to tell of it—a shocking modern house, very near, very ugly, and, I suppose, ridiculously elegant and comfortable inside. From this hideosity you must resolutely turn away; and then you may say, as I did, that your mortal eyes have never rested on any thing so lovely as the ruins of Calder Abbey.
Sometimes Miss Martineau would tell us some pretty legend, or some good story.
This was one of the legends: Near the borders of the Ullswater is the beautiful Ara Force, one of the most lovely falls I have seen in England. One may stand below, and look up at the rushing stream, or above, on the top of the fall. Here, long ago, in the time of the crusades, stood a pair of lovers; and here grows an old oak which was their trysting tree. The lady was of noble birth, and lived in a castle near by; and her true knight used to come at the still hour of evening to meet her at the Ara Force.