All the sufferers in this dreadful conflagration seem to have been young. “Whom the Gods love die young,” I think is said by one of the Grecian poets.
A walk, extending from the north gate of the church-yard along the banks of the Lune, affords a delightful prospect of the county, with several gentlemen’s seats. N.B. The Rev. Mr. Hunt, the author of an elegant version of Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered, was once curate here. I believe the well-known Carus Wilson is the officiating minister at present.
18th, Evening—At Kendal. At Cowbrow half way between Kirby Lonsdale and this place, is the following stanza, beneath a sign representing a ploughboy:—
The weather’s fair, the season’s now,
Drive on my boys, God speed the plough;
All you my friends pray call and see
What jolly boys we ploughmen be.
Had this “poetry” been in the neighbourhood of Durham, I should have suspected it to have been written either by the late Baron Brown, or Vet. Doc. Marshall, though I do not think the doctor would have made such a bull as runs in the last line.
19. Left Kendal for Bowness. Arrived there in the evening, and took up my quarters at the posting-house at the entrance of the village. From the front windows of the inn is a good view of Windermere. At the time of my arrival it was invisible; both lake and village were enveloped in a thick mist. About eight o’clock the mist dispersed, the sky grew clear, and Windermere was seen in all its beauty. This is the largest of the English lakes; and, according to Mr. Athey’s Guide, is ten miles in length. The hills around it are delightfully wooded, but the scenery is tame when compared with that of the more northern lakes. Bell’s Island is now called Curwen’s Island, from its being the country residence of Mr. Curwen: it is the largest of the numerous islands on Windermere. In Bowness church-yard is a tomb to the memory of Rassellas Belfield, an Abyssinian. Near Troutbeck bridge, in the neighbourhood, is the seat of the laureate of the Palmy isle. In the midst of the village is a tree on which notices of sales are posted. Bowness is to the inhabitants of Kendal what Hornsey is to the cocknies, and during the summer months gipsying excursions are very frequent. On the evening that I arrived some Oxonians were “astonishing the natives:” they seemed to think that, as they were from college, they had a right to give themselves airs. The inhabitants appeared to regard them with mingled looks of pity and derision.
July 20. Left Bowness for Grassmere, through Ambleside and Rydal. At the last place I turned aside to see Rydal Mount, the residence of the celebrated poet, Wordsworth. While proceeding to his cottage, an old woman popped out her head from the window of a rude hut, and asked me if I should like to see the waterfall: I entered her dwelling, where a good fire of sticks and turf was burning on the hearth; and, from the conversation of the dame, I gleaned that she was a dependant on the bounty of Lady le Fleming, in whose grounds the waterfall was: she at length conducted me to it. This waterfall is certainly a fine one, but as seen through the window of a summer-house it has rather a cockney appearance. Rydal Hall is a huge uncouth building; the beautifiers have made the old mansion look like a factory: when I first saw it from the road I mistook it for one. N.B. For seeing the waterfall, the price is “what you choose!”
I now proceeded to Rydal Mount, which, from the trees surrounding it, can hardly be seen from the road: the approach is shaded by beautiful laurels—proper trees for the residence of Wordsworth! While reconnoitring I was caught in a heavy thunder-shower, and should have been drenched, had not a pretty servant girl invited me into the kitchen, where I sat for at least an hour. On the dresser, in a large wicker cage, were two turtledoves; these, I learnt, were great favourites, or rather pets, (that was the word,) with the bard. The shower having ceased, I obtained Mrs. Wordsworth’s leave to walk through the garden: from the mount in it I gained an excellent view of the front part of the house. I had scarcely reached the village of Rydal when another shower drove me into a cottage, from the door of which I had my first view of the author of the Lyrical Ballads: he is rather tall, apparently about fifty years of age; he was dressed in a hair cap, plaid coat, and white trowsers. It was gratifying to hear how the Rydal peasantry spoke of this good man. One said he was kind to the poor; another, that he was very religious; another, that he had no pride, and would speak to any body: all were loud in his praise.
At Rydal is a neat gothic church, lately erected at the sole cost of Lady le Fleming. I have not seen any new church that pleased me so much as this; the east end is finely conceived, and both the exterior and interior reflect the highest credit on the taste and talent of the artist, Mr. Webster of Kendal. I wished Mr. Hone had seen it with me, for I know he would have been delighted with it. The church tower forms a pretty object from many parts of the neighbourhood. Rydal lake is small, but very romantic. On some of the surrounding hills I observed those rude erections of loose stones which the country boys are in the habit of building, and which they call men. Wordsworth alludes to these men in his Lyrical Ballads:—
To the top of high[341] —— they chanc’d to climb,
And there did they build, without mortar or lime,
A man on the top of the crag.