“High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate,
And Emont’s murmur mingled with the song.”
A little beyond the castle, by the roadside, stands the Countess’ Pillar, a record of filial affection, and Christian charity to which also he has paid a poetical tribute; and the woods of Lowther, at a short distance on the south, were ever associated in his memory with the delightful days which he passed in his vacations at Penrith, and were afterwards the scene of intellectual enjoyment in the society of the noble family whose name they bear.”
A remarkable man, and one connected by friendship with the poet, lived between Penrith and Lowther, at Yanwath. This was Mr. Thomas Wilkinson “a quaker, a poet, a professor of the topiarian art, a designer of walks, prospects, and pleasure grounds.
‘Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till’d his land,
And shap’d these pleasant walks by Emont’s side,’
and the verses which follow, will hand down the name of Wilkinson to posterity, together with that of John Evelyn, and the Corycian old man of Virgil.”
Wordsworth’s last college vacation was spent in a pedestrian tour in France, along with his friend Robert Jones, of Plas-yn-llan, near Ruthin, in Denbighshire. De Quincy thinks that the poet took Jones along with him as a kind of protective body-guard, against the rascality of foreign landlords, who in those days were apt to play strange tricks upon travellers, presenting their extortionary bills with one hand, whilst they held a cudgel in the other, to enforce payment. De Quincy, however, is not quite sure of this, but conjectures the fact to have been so, because Wordsworth has only apostrophised him in one of his poems commencing
“I wonder how Nature could ever find space
For so many strange contrasts in one human face.”
Jones, however, seems to have been a scholar and gentleman; and Wordsworth frequently visited him, not only at his house, in Plas-yn-llan, but afterwards at Soulderne, near Deddington, in Oxfordshire, when Jones was made incumbent of that place. At all events, whatever sympathies—whether intellectual or those of friendship—united these college chums, it is certain that they commenced their tour together, and ended it with mutual satisfaction. They set out on the 13th of July, 1790, for Calais, via Dover, “on the eve of the day when the king took an oath of fidelity to the new constitution.” The poet gives a highly coloured account of his wanderings through France, Switzerland, and Italy, in the “Prelude,” and a chart of the entire journey, commencing July 13th, at Calais, and ending September 29th, at a village three miles from Aix-la-Chapelle, is recorded in the “Memoirs.” There is likewise a letter addressed to his sister, dated September 6th, 1790, Kesill (a small village on the Lake of Constance), in which the poet describes his own feelings and reflections during this romantic journey. In this letter he says, “My spirits have been kept in a perpetual hurry of delight, by the almost uninterrupted succession of sublime and beautiful objects which have passed before my eyes during the past month.” He then describes the course they took from, the wonderful scenery of the Grande Chartreuse to Savoy and Geneva; from the Pays de Vaud side of the lake to Villeneuve, a small town seated at its head. “The lower part of the lake,” he says, “did not afford us a pleasure equal to what might have been expected from its celebrity. This was owing partly to its width, and partly to the weather, which was one of those hot, gleamy days, in which all distant objects are veiled in a species of bright obscurity. But the higher part of the lake made us ample amends; ’tis true we had some disagreeable weather,—but the banks of the water are infinitely more picturesque, and as it is much narrower, the landscape suffered proportionally less from that pale steam, which before almost entirely hid the opposite shore.” From Villeneuve they proceeded up the Rhone, to Martigny, where they left their bundles, and struck over the mountains to Chamouny, and visited the glaciers of Savoy.
“That very day,
From a bare ridge, we also first beheld,
Unveiled, the summit of Mont Blanc, and grieved
To have a soulless image on the eye,
That had usurped upon a living thought
That never more could be. The wondrous vale
Of Chamouny stretched far below, and soon,
With its dumb cataracts, and streams of ice,
A motionless array of mighty waves,
Five rivers, broad and vast, made rich amends,
And reconciled us to realities;
There small birds warble from the leafy trees,
The eagle soars high in the element;
There doth the reaper bind the yellow sheaf,
The maiden spread the haycock in the sun;
While Winter, like a well-tamed lion, walks,
Descending from the mountain to make sport,
Among the cottages, by beds of flowers.”
From Chamouny they returned to Martigny, and went from thence, along the Rhine, to Brig, where, quitting the Valais, they made for the Alps, which they crossed at Simplon, and visited the Lake Como, in Italy. Wordsworth’s description of the scenery round Como, is in his highest manner:—