A few of these “men” being provided with arms, resemble crosses, and transport the imagination of the beholder to catholic countries. The “Opium Eater” resides in this part; I saw him; his name is De Q——.
July 21. Grassmere. Arrived here at nine in the morning, and took up my quarters at Jonathan Bell’s, the Grassmere inn. This is a most lovely village. The poem of the “City of the Plague,” in which its lake and church are so exquisitely described, conveys but a faint idea of its beauties—even my favourite, Wilson, has failed in delineating this fairy spot. On entering, the first object that struck me was the church and its cemetery.
There is a little church-yard on the side
Of a low hill that hangs o’er Grassmere lake.
Most beautiful it is! a vernal spot
Enclos’d with wooded rocks, where a few graves
Lie shelter’d, sleeping in eternal calm—
Go thither when you will, and that sweet spot
Is bright with sunshine.
Death put on
The countenance of an angel, in the spot
Which he had sanctified——
City of the Plague.
I found the description correct, with the exception of the sunshine passage; for when I entered the church-yard not a sun ray smiled on the graves; but, on the contrary, gloomy clouds were frowning above. The church door was open, and I discovered that the villagers were strewing the floors with fresh rushes. I learnt from the old clerk, that, according to annual custom, the rush-bearing procession would be in the evening. I asked the clerk if there were any dissenters in the neighbourhood; he said, no, not nearer than Keswick, where there were some that called themselves Presbyterians; but he did not know what they were, he believed them to be a kind of papishes.[342] During the whole of this day I observed the children busily employed in preparing garlands of such wild flowers as the beautiful valley produces, for the evening procession, which commenced at nine, in the following order:—The children (chiefly girls) holding these garlands, paraded through the village, preceded by the Union band, (thanks to the great drum for this information;) they then entered the church, where the three largest garlands were placed on the altar, and the remaining ones in various other parts of the place. (By the by, the beautifiers have placed an ugly window above the altar, of the nondescript order of architecture.) In the procession I observed the “Opium Eater,” Mr. Barber, an opulent gentleman residing in the neighbourhood, Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Wordsworth, and Miss Dora Wordsworth. Wordsworth is the chief supporter of these rustic ceremonies. The procession over, the party adjourned to the ball-room, a hayloft, at my worthy friend, Mr. Bell’s, where the country lads and lasses tripped it merrily and heavily. They called the amusement dancing, but I called it thumping; for he who could make the greatest noise seemed to be esteemed the best dancer; and, on the present occasion, I think Mr. Pooley, the schoolmaster, bore away the palm. Billy Dawson, the fiddler, boasted to me of having been the officiating minstrel at this ceremony for the last six and forty years. He made grievous complaints of the outlandish tunes which the “Union band chaps” introduce: in the procession of this evening they annoyed Billy by playing the “Hunters’ Chorus in Friskits.” “Who,” said Billy, “can keep time with such a queer thing?” Amongst the gentlemen dancers was one Dan Burkitt; he introduced himself to me, by seizing my coat collar in a mode that would have given a Burlington Arcade lounger the hysterics, and saying, “—— I’m old Dan Burkitt, of Wytheburn, sixty-six years old—not a better jigger in Westmoreland.” No, thought I, nor a greater tosspot. On my relating this to an old man present, he told me not to judge of Westmoreland manners by Dan’s; “for,” said he, “you see, sir, he is a statesman, and has been at Lunnon, and so takes liberties.” In Westmoreland, farmers residing on their own estate are called “statesmen.” The dance was kept up till a quarter to twelve, when a livery-servant entered, and delivered the following verbal message to Billy—“Master’s respects, and will thank you to lend him the fiddlestick.” Billy took the hint; the sabbath morn was at hand, and the pastor of the parish had adopted this gentle mode of apprizing the assembled revellers that they ought to cease their revelry. The servant departed with the fiddlestick, the chandelier was removed, and when the village clock struck twelve not an individual was to be seen out of doors in the village. No disturbance of any kind interrupted the dance: Dan Burkitt was the only person at all “how came you so?” and he was “non se ipse” before the jollity commenced. He told me he was “seldom sober;” and I believed what he said. The rush-bearing is now, I believe, almost entirely confined to Westmoreland. It was once customary in Craven, as appears from the following extract from Dr. Whitaker:—“Among the seasons of periodical festivity, was the rush-bearing, or the ceremony of conveying fresh rushes to strew the floor of the parish church. This method of covering floors was universal in houses while floors were of earth, but is now confined to places of worship: the bundles of the girls were adorned with wreaths of flowers, and the evening concluded with a dance. In Craven the custom has wholly ceased.”
In Westmoreland the custom has undergone a change. Billy remembered when the lasses bore the rushes in the evening procession, and strewed the church floor at the same time that they decorated the church with garlands; now, the rushes are laid in the morning by the ringer and clerk, and no rushes are introduced in the evening procession. I do not like old customs to change; for, like mortals, they change before they die altogether.
The interest of the scene at Grassmere was heightened to me, by my discovering that the dancing-room of the rush-bearers was the ball-room of Mr. Wilson’s children’s dance. The dancing-master described so exquisitely in his poem is John Carradus. From an old inhabitant of Grassmere I had the following anecdotes of the now professor of moral philosophy. He was once a private in the Kendal local militia; he might have been a captain, but not having sufficient knowledge of military tactics, he declined the honour.
Wilson, while in the militia, was billeted at one of the Kendal inns, where a brother private was boasting of his skill in leaping, and stated, that he never met with his equal. Wilson betted a guinea that he would outleap him; the wager was accepted, and the poet came off victorious, having leaped seven yards; his bragging antagonist leaped only five. Mr. Wilson appears to have been celebrated in Westmoreland for these things; being a good climber of trees, an excellent swimmer, and a first-rate leaper.
The poet had a curious fancy in wearing his hair in long curls, which flowed about his neck. His sergeant noticed these curls, and remarked, that in the militia they wanted men and not puppies; requesting, at the same time, that he would wear his hair like other Christians. The request of the sergeant was complied with, and the poet’s head was soon deprived of its tresses. On a friend blaming him for submitting to the orders of a militia sergeant, he coolly said, “I have acted correctly; it is the duty of an inferior soldier to submit to a superior.”