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CORNELL
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
THE
WORDSWORTH COLLECTION
FOUNDED BY
CYNTHIA MORGAN ST. JOHN
THE GIFT OF
VICTOR EMANUEL
OF THE CLASS OF 1919REDSTAN.ENTERED AT STATIONERS’
HALL.
©
A TALE OF THE WELSH BORDER,
AND OTHER
SKETCHES,
BIOGKAPHICAL AND DESCRIPTIVE :
BY
ROBERT HAY.
LONDON: WM. TWEEDIE, 337, STRAND.
MANCHESTER : JOHN HEYWOOD.
1865.
IdTO THE READER.
This volume of sketches needs no introduction nor explan-
ation. Each part will speak for itself, and the concluding
article indicates sufficiently what of unity there may be in
the collection. The writer makes neither pretension nor
apology. If he has written well, it is what he has aimed to
do, and if his manner is below mediocrity, he knows he will
be plainly told of it when the volume is before the public.
He asks only a candid criticism ; and if he asks for the
volume to be read through before it is thrown aside, he asks
for little, as it is not large.
To that portion of his readers who so promptly and
liberally responded to his circular before going to press, he
takes this opportunity to return his sincere thanks, and toIV.
INTRODUCTION.
inform them that his object in issuing the circular was
abundantly answered, the number of subscribers being such
as to prevent all risk of pecuniary loss.
Wigan, Dec. Is/, 1805.REDSTAN
A TALE OF THE WELSH BORDER.
The country stretching southward from the Mersey to the
Severn is known to geographers as the plain of Shropshire,
though it includes only half of that county and the whole
of Cheshire. It is bounded on the east by the southern
portion of the Pennine range and the moorlands of Stafford-
shire, while its western limit is formed by a series of ridges
of long plain- ward slope and considerable elevation, extending,
in nearly a direct line from the mouth of the Dee, forty miles
southward.
From the heights of this range, the whole extent of this
sea-like plain is visible in clear weather, and often has the
writer looked upon it in the silver light of the summer
moon, and when the starry dome of winter has bent above
it,—and mused on its strange eventful history. When
looked upon in the broad sunlight, it is seen that it is not
all plain, but broken in places by eminences, whose steepness
seems to give them considerable altitude. Of these are
Cloud End and Nesscliffe, while in the south-east the giant
Wrekin rises to a height of 1,000 feet from the general
level, and seems like an outpost, as it really is, of those rugged
hills that, on the other side of Severn, form the southern
boundary of the plain.
This plain and its surroundings are highly interesting to
the geologist, for here are found a succession of rocks in the6
REDSTAN.
most desirable order for examination. The plain itself con*
tains, in its Triassic formations, those remarkable ornithicnites,
and not less wonderful deposits of salt-rock, while the coal
measures on all its boundaries teem with the remains of the
old world flora; while on the west the millstone grit is
fossiliferous, and the mountain limestone has its unending
variety of ores, crystals, and fossils ; and then stretch away in
grand confusion the mountains of the Silurian system. South
Shropshire is the typical district of many of the formations
of this series, containing as it does the towns of Wenlock
and Ludlow, and the heights bearing the names of Longmynd,
Stiperstones, and Caer Caradoc. The south-west corner of
the plain is prolonged southwards to form what is called by
geologists the Bay of Welshpool; and the two promontories
of the western and southern ridges that approach each other as
if to guard this opening, are named respectively Llanymynech
Hill and the Breiddyn (sound del like th in then). The former
is situate some six miles from the town of Oswestry, and is the
southern terminus of the ridge of carboniferous limestone
that extends to the Irish Sea, while the latter is a vast
mass of eruptive rock, cast up a million years ago, to mark
the introduction of some new era and the beginning of a new
creation. From Llanymynech to Breiddyn, across the alluvium
deposited by the Severn and its tributary, the Vyrniew, is a
distance of about three miles, and with this district our tale
is somewhat concerned.
Like the plain of Esdraelon, in Syria, this Shropshire
plain has often been the “ battle ground of nations,” for
here Roman has fought with Briton, Briton with Saxon,
Saxon with Dane, and Norman with Welsh. Here castlesREBSTAN.
I
have been held valiantly for the second Stuart, and mercilessly
dismantled by the conquering Cromwellians. Here the
Homans have left their marks in the form of roads and
Mosaic pavements, and excavations for ore, and Britons have
left entrenched camps at Bas-church and Oswestry, and Nor-
man castles are still inhabited, as Chirk and Shrewsbury, and
many are in ruin.
It was just as the sun had sunk below Llanymynech Hill,
and the bare rugged front of Breiddyn was still bright with
his last rays, that in the summer of 1063 a number of men
might have been seen in the centre of a clearing on the
south bank of the Severn, just below its confluence with the
Vyrniew. The garments they wore and the light helmets
that were cast carelessly on the grass, told that they were
soldiers, and the bright battle-axes in their hands and the huge
block of wrood in their midst showed them engaged in a
soldierly exercise of their brawny sinews by trying to split it
at a blow. One after another they stepped forward, and
brightly gleamed and swiftly whirled the axe in air, and
heavily it fell; but the block was still only slightly chipped,
when from a glade in the dense forest came forth a man of
noble form and stately mien.
“ Earl Harold !” (CEarl Harold !”
• With this shout of welcome they rested from their toilsome
sport, and in respectful attitude waited his greeting.
“ How fare you, men,” said the Earl. “ What ! not split
that block % If the heads of the Welshmen had been so
hard, your victory yesterday would have been a defeat.
Alfgar, give me thy weapon.”
With that the axe was whirled rapidly aloft, and as8
EEDSTAN.
rapidly descending on the block, was buried in the earth
beneath, and a hearty cheer from the men showed their
appreciation of the skill of their chief.
“ Now Alfgar try.”
Another block was placed in position, and, eager to
emulate the Earl’s example, Alfgar put forth all his strength,
and clove it to the centre.
“ Oswy, show thy skill.”
And Oswy’s axe went nearly through. Then each
of the men in succession answered to Iris name as called
out by the Earl, and several blocks being split through,
he departed to the main body of the army, after giving words
of praise for their deeds, and words of warning with regard
to the night’s watch, and words of assurance as to the issue
of their present expedition.
And now, as the evening shades were deepening, and the
Severn seemed to turn to blackness underneath the intense
shadows of the forest, the camp fire was lit, and the supper
of fish, not long obtained from the stream, was prepared,
and dispositions made for the night’s watch. But before the
remains of the meal were disposed of to the two sleuth
hounds that lay anxiously expecting them, another step was
heard approaching, and both dogs and men started forward.
But the crackling of the underwood soon ceased, and the cry
of the dogs was hushed at once as a tall figure came slowly
upon the green turf. It was that of a white-haired old man,
with a long grey robe and a pilgrim staff, with Iris hood
fallen upon his back. The “ Who goes there ? ” died half
uttered on the lips, and with gestures and words of reverence
the hardy men asked what fortune had brought a holy pilgrimREDSTAN.
9
thither when war raged so fiercely on the border. They
offered him food, and as he ate he told them that he had
followed the army from the south, and last night he had
passed over the field of battle, and had spoken words of
comfort to the ears, and held the holy cross before the eyes
of dying men, and by the morning’s light he had read the in-
scription on the ridge of the Stiperstones—
“ Hie victor fuit Haraldus.”
By a toilsome journey he had been able to reach tins out-
post of the English, and wanted to cross the Severn with them
on the morrow, so that he might reach his destination at a hamlet
some miles higher on the other bank of the river. He told
those hardy Englishmen of the scenes of the wealthy east,—of
the beauty of the golden horn and the palace of the Eastern
Emperor. He told them of the cruelty of the fierce Saracen,
and the indignity with which he had been treated at Antioch,
and Ptolemais. He told them of Tyre, that used to be
queen of the sea, and now was decayed, as the prophet had
spoken. But when he told them of Bethlehem, where the
Holiest was born, and of Nazareth, where He had lisped
in childhood, and of Jerusalem, trodden down of the
Gentiles, and the insolence of the Paynim, he roused them
to the expression of fierce indignation, that protested against
such doings in such holy places. But then the holy palmer
told them it was for sin that men suffered, and that great
wrong done by himself twenty years before at Scrobbesbyrig*
had caused him to take the pilgrim staff, and atone in Holy
Land for his crime. Then he took out a long scroll, and by
the camp fire read about the agony in Gethsemane, and the
scourging and reviling, and the crown of thorns and bearing
* Shrewsbury.10
REDSTAN.
the cross, and the scene at Golgotha • and as his tones
trembled with deep feeling, and his soul went with the
words he uttered, breathless the warriors hung upon his voice,
and frequent expressions of astonishment and sympathy
escaped from their lips, and thoughts they were strangers to
before now were pondered upon, and dreams undreamt before
kept busy their minds while for a few short hours they slept.
The next morning was employed in crossing the Severn. The
weather being somewhat dry, fording was possible in a few
places, but the baggage of the army was taken over on im-
promptu rafts and the few boats that could be procured;
and at mid-day, Oswy sought out a boat, and, by permission
of the thane commanding his company, conveyed the palmer
some distance up the stream, so as to set him on the opposite
bank above the confluence of the Vyrniew. And when he
left the old man he entreated his blessing, which was heartily
bestowed. Then he fell down the stream, pondering deeply
words he had never heard before—“ Blessed are the merciful.’'
The district through which the pilgrim slowly passed was
not wooded, like that he had passed the previous night, but
was open meadow land, that, when Plinlimmon’s snows were
melting, was overflowed by the waters of the Severn.
Making frequent circuits to avoid the treacherous marshy
hollows, he at length arrived at a gentle eminence near what
is now the village of Llandrinio, and here he stood, and,
leaning on his staff, he heaved a heavy sigh. The plain was
still as he left it. Fields here and there enclosed, and show-
ing signs of their former fertility ; yonder the dense un-
cleared forest, and there the flats that the Severn periodically
claimed for himself ;—Llanymynech and all the hills to theREDSTAN.
11
west as bare as ever, and the ruined fort on the top of
Breiddyn scarce a stone the lower, and the same pair of
eagles were flapping around their eyrie on its precipitous
front. But it is a small clump of trees to the south-west where
his gaze rests, and thitherward at last he essays to go. But
he goes with faltering step, and the liquid eye and quivering
lip showed the working of inward feeling, and when he
stopped, after a few paces, his whole frame shook with strong
emotion. He bent down, and murmuring a few words of
prayer, he took out a crucifix, and kissed it fervently. He
arose and went forward, looking to the sun rather anxiously
as it descended towards the Yyrniew valley ; but before it was
quite out of sight, he had nearly reached the cluster of trees
at the foot of one of the western slopes, and, making a short
circuit, he approached it from the hill side, whence he could
see the smoke arising from the large farm-stead hitherto con-
cealed by the trees.
Passing into the shadow, he heard the sound of children
playing, and when nearer he distinguished angry tones, and
the word u niddering ” reached his ear. He started. He
did not expect to hear the Saxon tongue there. The
children saw him come, and ceased their contention, and
reverently saluted him, for they knew the pilgrim robe; and
one of them, a fair-haired girl, ran into the wide courtyard
that enclosed the buildings, calling to her mother that there
was an old palmer at the gate.
The mother came, a middle-aged, buxom, Saxon housewife,
with kindly features, though somewhat sad, and more than a
sprinkling of grey in her once golden hair. With tones of
welcome she bade the holy man come in and rest. But as12
REBSTAN.
she approached, her voice faltered and her step quickened, and
with a sudden cry she fell on his neck and wept. We need
not describe the scene. The daughter had found her long-
lost sire. The hoary man was restored to his only child. The
grandchildren were taken, caressed, and chidden, and he who
had called liis brother niddering was called to say why.
Madoc had refused to take part in an expedition against
a hawk’s nest, hence the contemptuous epithet used by Edmond.
But Madoc explained that “ tad ” had forbidden him to
climb during his absence, so now he was commended for his
obedience. But why does the boy say tad, why is he named
Madoc, and where is his father ? His father was a cymro,
named Jorwerth, and had that day left home with his eldest
son, Caradoc, to join the troop assembling at Llanfyllin, for
the purpose of opposing Earl Harold’s progress into Wales;
and Madoc had his father’s dark eye and Celtic blood, and
could ill brook the insulting epithet recently used to him; but
he was a noble boy, and loved his brother Edmond, and his
sister, the gentle Edith.
More than twenty years before this time, Bedstan the palmer
had been a thriving franklin on the Shropsliire plain, a widower
with one daughter, a fine blooming woman, named, after her
Danish mother, Ulrica. And often, when the border was
quiet, Jorwerth ap Griffydd, a peaceable Welsh cultivator,
would bring his produce to Scrobbesberie, and there he had
seen and loved the beauteous Ulrica, though Bedstan liked it
not. Their intercourse had not been frequent, when one night
the franklin’s house was burnt, his cattle stolen, his villeins
killed, himself wounded, and his daughter carried away by a
troop of Welsh marauders, who so quickly regained theREDSTAN.
13
mountains that the shirereeve who speedily pursued was not
able to overtake them, or do more than make severe reprisals.
For some time Itedstan joined every raid into Wales, but
though he heard nothing of his daughter, he cherished the
belief that Jorwerth had caused her abduction ; and meeting
him something more than a year afterwards in Scrobbesberie,
he at once charged him with it, and at the same time attacked
him with his sword, and left him for dead. Being seized,
however, with remorse for his sudden act, and yet dreading
what of justice might have been done upon him, he fled from
the town, succeeded in leaving the country, and at length,
reaching Constantinople, became one of that band of axemen
who surrounded the throne of the successors of Constantine.
After many years, he had been prostrated by sickness and
rescued from death by the careful attentions of a Greek
priest, who, obtaining from him an account of his past life,
urged him, as a penance for his hasty crime, to go on pilgrim-
age to Jerusalem. This he had accomplished, and he had also
reasoned himself into believing that Jorwerth was not con-
cerned in the abduction of Ulrica. So now he had, in war
time, entered Wales, to seek out Jorwerth’s friends, and make
such restitution as he could for taking without cause the life
of a man. But Jorwerth was not dead. He had recovered,
returned to his country, sought and found Ulrica, paid her
ransom to her captors, and given her the choice of returning
into England, where she had no relations, or becoming his
wife. The reader knows the rest.
Jorwerth, in obedience to his wife’s desires and his own
peaceful temper, never joined in any expedition into England,
but whenever Saxons crossed the Dyke within a dozen miles14
EEDSTAN.
of Croes Yswallt,*' he was one of the first at the^gathering of
the Cymry to repulse them, and now he was gone to support
King Griffydd against the best array of the Saeson. It was
all in vain. The Welsh inroads had been so numerous, their
massacres and burnings so barbarous, that the great son of
Godwin had determined to inflict signal vengeance. His
troops, lightly armed and well trained, were more than a match
for the hardy and fleet-footed mountaineers, and many a hill-
top had its inscription like that on the Stiperstones—
“Here Harold was victorious.”
At last starvation did what his troops were not pressed to
accomplish ; the Welsh chiefs submitted perforce, and Welsh
hands cut off the head of Griffydd, their king, and sent the
bloody token to their conqueror. Then was issued the terrible
order that all Welshmen found on the east of Offa’s Dyke
should lose their right hands.
In the final hard-fought struggle, before Griffydd sought
refuge amid the fastnesses of Penmaenmawr, Jonverth and his
son found themselves cut off from their companions and sur-
rounded by a small band, of brave Saxons; and soon the
father fell to the earth, his shoulder cloven by a stroke of the
battle axe, and then Caradoc, striding across the body of his
prostrate sire, fought so fiercely and so well, that, suffering
from the strokes of his short sword, and admiring the youth’s
bravery, his assailants paused, and one of them, throwing
down his weapons, advanced towards him, calling on him to
take quarter, which was the first offer of mercy made in that
savage war. The man who thus spoke was our friend Oswy.
The youth, seeing in his open countenance that he meant no
* The Welsh name of Oswestry.REDSTAN.
15-
treachery, gave up his weapon, and was immediately assisted
by Oswy and Alfgar to carry his wounded father to a place of
safety, where they bound up his wounds, and then acquainted
Edred, the thane, that they had made prisoners, and being
themselves substantial freeholders, they offered to pay ransom
for them, and begged that they might be released. This
Edred would not grant without informing Harold, who, when
he knew of the brave defence of his father by Caradoc,
desired to see them, and informed them he would remit their
ransom if they would promise never to take part in an
expedition into England. This was at once given, and the
Earl was informed by Jorwerth, in tolerable Saxon, that he
never had done so, but that he always had resisted, and always
would resist, Saxon invasion of his own land. Harold smiled,
told him resistance was useless, and asked how he had
acquired his knowledge of Saxon speech. Jorwerth informed
him that his wife was Saxon, and that he resided on the
border, some miles south of the monastery of Blancminster.*
'1Then go back to your farm,” said the Earl, “and beware of
approaching Blancminster or anywhere crossing Offa’s Dyke.’’
Ere the winter had set in, father and son had made their
■way back, with others weary, wounded, and dispirited, to
Llanfyllin. Then slowly they pursued their way down the
old Roman street in the valley of the Caen, and swimming the
Vyrniew below the church of St. Bride, they struck over the
hills, and in the cold November twilight reached their home
amid the trees.
Great was the joy of the household. Tenderly did wife
* The Grammar School at Oswestry is on or near the site of the old
monastery of Blancminster.16
REDSTAN.
and daughter administer to their wants, the boys shouted
their glee, and Redstan was made glad by his son-in-law’s
forgiveness, and in return fervently blessed him and his
household.
The winter passed away, and there was happiness in the
home of the Celt, but when the mountains were weeping off
their snows, and Severn and its tributaries were flooding the
valleys, news came of gatherings of men for raids across
“ Clawdd Offa.” For many families in Wales had been
bereaved in the late war, and now many left-handed men
rued that they had little regarded Earl Harold’s bloody
law. So, spurred on by revenge, and under cover of night,
they sought and obtained Saxon beeves and burnt Saxon home-
steads. But Jorwerth’s body was too weak, and his promise
too strong, to join them, and Caradoc held his word too
high to leave his home for such a purpose. Then neigh-
bours looked coldly on him, and chiefs exacted heavy taxes
on his produce and stock, and once he was cited to Math-yr-
aval to appear before his Prince on a most frivolous charge.
Thus he saw Ins substance wasting, and much it grieved
Ulrica to see her husband’s brow darkened, and Caradoc’s
brave spirit chafed, and the gloom of adversity settling down
on the household. Old Redstan could only meekly urge sub-
mission to the will of Heaven, and read with his failing sight
the words that had caused Oswy to spare life in battle.
At length, however, so determined had become the enmity
of the neighbours to this mixed household, that Jorwerth con-
sented to remove his residence, and Redstan undertook to go
to Scrobbesberrie, and seek in the reeve-mote the restoration
of his former freehold, so that they might remove thither.REDSTAN.
As the “ floods were out” on the plain, and it was not
safe for Jorwerth or Caradoc to cross the border, it was
decided that the old man should be put across the river
at the point opposite their own house, and with Edmond
for company, should climb the northern side of Moel-y-Golfa,
and so descend to the plain nearer to the town, and trust to
circumstances to enable them to recross the stream.
So, at early dawn, in two coracles, they crossed the now
diminishing Severn, Caradoc accompanying them to bring
back the boats, and having arranged the signal of their
arrival at the same spot, should they return that way, the old
palmer and his youthful companion made for the mouth of
the gorge between Moel-y-Golfa and the Breiddyn. They saw,
high above the naked precipices, the lonely giant pine over-
hanging the old ruin on the summit, and, swaying on its top-
most limb, an eagle on the look-out, which, seeing prey,
soared away, and then swooped down to the plain. Then
they entered the gorge. The Breiddyn side, all rugged and
steep, was devoid of trees, while the slope of Moel-y-Golfa
was covered with a dense forest of oak and ash, with here
and there a clump of pines. This wood they skirted, oft-
times pausing that Redstan might rest his aged limbs.
At length the wood was passed, and they found the com-
parative level behind the summit of Breiddyn bare, and the
view open northward over the Shropshire plain. The wind-
ings of the river they could trace to where the low tower of
St. Giles’s Church marked the town of Scrobbebvrie, their
destination, and to the north-west they could just distinguish
the trees that grew around the monastery of Blancminster,
and near them the turrets of the castle of Oswaldestre.
c18
REDSTAN.
The sunlight of eight centuries ago was as bright as that of
to-day, and that plain, though not then cultivated like a
garden, was indeed lovely to the sight, and Redstan expressed
to Edmond the sorrow of his heart that so goodly a scene
should so often be made the theatre of burning and blood-
shed.
Still toiling on, they descended the rugged hill, and before
mid-day found themselves again by Severn side, and, follow-
ing the stream, looked for boat, coracle, or raft to cross
but, none offering, they left the windings of the river, and,
having obtained refreshment and rest at a serf’s cot, they,
before sundown, arrived at the suburb now called Frank-
well, where they obtained a boat, and soon found rest at the
hostelry that, a quarter of a century before, had been his
house of call when he was a Mercian franklin. They had
chosen the time for the accomplishment of their object. It
was Easter week. On the morrow the reeve would open the
foke-mote for the adjustment of county business and the
view of frank pledge, and thither Redstan prepared to go at
the appointed hour. He was able to write (thanks to that
Greek priest on the Bosphorus), a statement of his case and
claim, and this he sent to the bishop, who presided jointly
with the reeve.
It was a stirring scene. From earl}’ in the morn came
splashing through the ford * armed franklins and lusty
churls. Grave ecclesiastics came to show their respect to
the bishop, and fine young fellows came to be enrolled
■lie tithings, and take their place among the free-
rs. It was a brave sight, the opening of the mote,
* Where now is the English bridge.REDSTAN.
19
but there was anxiety on all faces during the reeve’s address.
He spoke of the renewed inroads of the Welsh, and was
cheered for his expressed determination to check them, and
retaliate. He told the people of the failing health of King
Edward, and the intrigues of the Norman bastard. He spoke
of the unfitness for the throne of the descendant; of the Iron-
side, and though it was in Mercia, it was not without cheers
that he spoke of the English-hearted Earl Harold as the man
best fitted to guide the nation for its good. Before the civil
business was proceeded with, the bishop also spoke, and after
alluding to the matters ecclesiastical that would be brought
into the court, presented the petition of Redstan to be
restored to his holding, and, as far as he might in that
assembly, supported its prayer. The reeve, when other
preliminary matters had been arranged, told Redstan his case
would be considered on the morrow, and then adjourned the
mote.
Circumstances were favourable to Redstan. The churl
who had held his land since his flight was just dead, and
had left no heirs. Several wealthy franklins and a neighbour-
ing thane spoke well of Jorweth, the Welshman, and were
willing with Redstan to be sureties for his conduct in their
tithing. So, taking again the oaths, Redstan was restored to
his lands. Edmund, too, whose bearing and features bespoke
his lineage, being above the age prescribed by custom, was
then admitted in the same manner, nine franklins willingly
becoming the boy’s bondsmen.
The other business of the mote being disposed of the same
day, it was broken up, and on the following morning, Redstan
and Edmond prepared to visit their new home, which lay in20
REDSTAN.
the hundred of Baschurch, and near the village of that name.
Armed with the necessary authority from the mote, and
accompanied by two franklins, his neighbour's long ago, he
took possession of the house and land he had held before,
and, calling together the villeins, he gave them their instruc-
tions, and on the morrow went, in company with a body of
chapmen, to the market town of Oswaldestre, whence he would
reach the home on Severn side by way of the Vyrniew ford
at Llanymynech.
At Oswaldestre they heard sad news. Taking advantage
of the reeve-mote at Shrewsbury, a body of mountaineers
had descended from the cwmoedd above Llanfyllin, and had
ravaged the country to some distance below the confluence of
the Yyrniew and Severn, and had that day retreated to their
fastnesses with their plunder. With a sad heart, Bedstan
sought the chapel of the monastery of Blaneminster, and
after some time spent in devotion, he left Edmond in the
care of the good monks, and pursued his anxious way to the
south, on Saturday morning. The Yyrniew waters were not
now above their usual level, so, grasping firmly his pilgrim
staff, he essayed to cross the ford ; but still the current was so
strong, that he with difficulty reached the southern bank, and
with weary feet (for the fatigues of the week had been too
much for the old man) he struggled forward, and reached the
clump of trees that concealed from view the house of Jorwerth.
But no voice of children reached his ears now, and, entering
the farm yard, he found roofless buildings, charred timbers,
and empty cattle stalls. Truly, heavy sorrow had fallen on
that old man. He stood alone where his grand-children had
played, and his daughter had been the good-wife. JorwerthREDSTaN.
21
and Caradoc, where were they % lie sought around and saw
the dead bodies of others—strangers, and also the corpse of
Jorvverth. There had been a fierce struggle. But where
Oo
was Edith, and where Caradoc, where Ulrica, where Madoc %
All gone. His daughter again gone to captivity, her husband
killed, her children where 1 As the old man grasped all the
sad truth, and the extent of his bereavement was realized,
the tension of his feelings became too great, and he fell
senseless to the earth.
When he came to himself he found that he was being
carried on a rude fitter, and by the soimd he knew that the
bearers were passing through water, and looking round he
recognized in the distance behind the Breiddyn, and knew
that he was being carried towards Oswaldestre. Listening to
the voices, he knew that the bearers were monks, and that
they, the day before, had left Blancminster for the purpose of
rendering assistance to the sufferers from the Celtic inroad.
Bedstan was unable to speak, and not till hours alter he
reached Blancminster could he sufficiently collect his thoughts
to again realize his condition. Then bodily illness came, but
an old monk was a skilful leech, and Edmond’s attentions
were constant, so that in time the old man rallied, but for
the remainder of his fife he remained in the monastery.
Edmond became a favourite with the prior, and was in-
structed in such learning as could be given him there; and
often he would lead his grandfather to the brow of the hill
where is now the Oswestry racecourse, that he might strain
his feeble sight, to look on the Uesscliffe, standing out from
the surrounding forest, beyond which lay his former home.
Then he would turn and look at the Breiddyn, and, beyond99
-j +j
REDSTAN.
Llanymynech Hill, his gaze would rest on that clump of
trees, where once lived, in happiness, plenty, and family joys,
the daughter of his long dead wife. This could not last long,
and when arrived in Oswaldestre the news of the defeat of
the Norwegian King, by Harold, in Northumbria, that day
old Redstan died.
Soon after came tidings of the disaster at Hastings. The
great Alan lorded it in Oswaldestre castle, Roger of Mont-
gomery lorded it at Scrobbesberie, the monks of Blanc-
minster had a Norman prior, and Saxons, thanes, churls and
villeins, were treated as they, in the long-gone past, had treated
the Britons. Then young Edmond swore by his mother’s
memory to fight for his mother’s people, and bidding farewell
to the good monks of Blancminster, and the good town of
Oswaldestre, he crossed the country, and joined himself to
that sturdy band who for so long a time maintained in the
Isle of Ely, for fugitives from oppression and lovers of
liberty, a Camp of Refuge.GEORGE HERBERT.
It is often said that “ extremes meet ”—and certainly they
did meet in the family that inhabited Montgomery Castle at
the end of the sixteenth century. The eldest of seven sons
was that Edward Herbert who became known as Lord Herbert
of Cher bury, and famous as the father of the so-called Free-
thinkers, a disbeliever in the revelation of God; while the
fifth of those sons was George Herbert, a poet of sound
practical piety and earnest Christian soul.
Born in 1593, George Herbert had ten years to live in the
reign of Queen Elizabeth, and doubtless the doings of the
doughty Drake and Hawkins, and the triumphs of Essex
against Spain, would be spoken of to his young ears; but
the soldier’s fame seems not to have had any attraction for him.
The region around the home of the Herberts was and is
eminently fitted to foster a contemplative disposition.
Methinks the boy George would often wander by “ Severn
swift,” and meditate there. Oft, perhaps, would he climb
the hills about, and gaze in quiet rapture on the glorious
vision of mountain, and moor, and mead, and rejoice in the
goodly sight. Methinks not unfrequently he would descend
the Severn vale, and reach the precipitous front of Brieddyn?
and toil round its shoulder till he stood under the lonely pine-
tree by the ruined British fort on the summit, and gaze with24
GEORGE HERBERT.
almost inspired delight on a scene fit to be compared with
what Moses saw from Pisgah’s top, Severn coming down
his narrow valley from far-away Plinlimmon, and here rolling
out like a serpent at play across the Shropshire plain. Llany-
mynech, with its steep precipice abruptly terminating the
long ridge from the North, and the opening of the Vale of
Meifod, where ruled in the olden time ancient Princes of
Wales. Yonder is the rugged top of Allt-y-gader, (the forest
of the chair), and far beyond the peaks of Perwyn, and under-
neath the afternoon sun, are the pillared crags of Cader Idris.
Out in the plain, the Wrekin rises, and looks down upon
the ruins of Roman domination. The hills of the Clierbury
district and the far-away Malvern are to the south-east, and
every spot around is teeming with historic memories and
blushing with beauty. And the boy George saw all this, and
made an early vow that he would devote himself to God.
That vow, however, was not written at home, but in a
letter to his mother from college, where, having previously
passed some time in Westminster School, he went in 1608, the
year in which Milton was born. The college was that of
Trinity, at Cambridge, and seven years after he became
Master of Arts, and in 1619 was made Orator for the
University, which office he held for eight years. It fell to
his lot to offer the thanks of the University to King James
for the present of one of the monarch’s works, and this he did
in such sort that he obtained a sinecure of the value of £ 12 0
a-year, and after this was for some time constantly at court,
and aspired to be a politician. But the death of the King and
other friends threw him back into more congenial habits, and
in obedience to his mother’s desire he devoted himself strictly toGEORGE HERBERT.
25
the Church, taking first only deacon’s orders. His mother died
in 1627, and shortly after he took priest’s orders, and entered
on parochial duty, having obtained the Rectory of Bemerton
in April, 1630. There he remained till his death in 1632,
and in that time he wrought a wonderful change in his parish.
“He found religion little more than a form—he left it a
thing of life.” He had high notions of priestly dignity,
hut higher of priestly duty, and he honestly strove to uphold
the former by the performance of the latter.
George Herbert was singularly happy in his marj 'iage,
which, however, only took place when he entered on his
duties as parson. His wife was Jane Danvers, who, by the
mutual consent of the families had long been his destined
bride, but he never saw her till three days before he marrie d
her, but he had never occasion to regret the haste.
Herbert was a proficient classical scholar, and he delighted
in music, which was his chief recreation. He passed the
dangerous ordeal of college life without getting into dissipated
habits, and when he gave up his court life he was still pure.
He has been called “the holy Herbert,” and he v?ent to his
duties as a pastor determined to live well, as the strongest
argumemt he could use on behalf of religion. He wrote
poetry in his boyhood, and became favourably known during
his life as a writer in verse and prose ; but his most con-
siderable achievement, “ The Temple,” he kept to himself, as
the records of his own mental exercises, and it only became
known after his death.
When Herbert lived, the English language had been settled
in very much the form we have it. Excellent prose had been
written in it, and Shakespeare had stamped it with his clear26
GEORGE HERBERT.
style, and our present translation of the Bible was published
a.d. 1611. But Herbert, though he could and did write freshly
in modern English, seemed to delight in the forms of expres-
sion and the olden orthography that Spencer had so lately
made classical in the “ Faerie Queene” and that, farther back
still, had come so beautifully from the pen of Lord Surrey.
Pollock gives us vivid personifications of virtue and vice,
with warning or encouragement, but does so as out of his own
young life, with the genial freshness of Spring. Milton has
lessons of instruction, but his language is like the rich
luxuriance of Summer. But Herbert’s practical piety, linked
by his language to the olden time, in his quaint rhymes and
pretty conceits, comes with the mellowness of Autumn—
with the crispness of September frost.
Years ago we met with extracts from “ The Church Porch”
and just one couplet fastened itself on our memory, and in
our mind remained the impression that George Herbert was
worth knowing. Some time after that we heard “ The
Sacrifice” read by a lady in a way that few persons can
read, and thenceforward we have loved George Herbert.
Throughout all his poetry he shows a predilection for con-
ceits, but he always manages to get a lesson out of them.
He sees relationships in words that others miss ; he shows
a partiality for anagram, and a decided liking for antithesis.
He was very decidedly attached to the Church of England,
and some of his poems are in its praise, and nearly all have
reference to it; but much of what he says of it is true of the
Church of Christ, and the exhortations he gives as to life are
applicable to all Christians. Take the following from “ The
Ch urch	Porch” :—GEORGE HERBERT.
27
Beware of lust! it doth pollute and foul
Whom God in baptisme waslit with his own blood j
It blots thy lesson written in thy soul;
The holy lines cannot be understood,
How dare those eyes upon a Bible look,
Much lesse towards God, whose lust is all their
book 1
And again,—
Lie not ; but let thy heart be true to God,
Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both:
Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod ;
The stormie working soul spits lies and froth.
Dare to be true. .Nothing can need a ly:
A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby.
And so he writes against idleness, drunkenness, gluttony,
envy, and other forms of vice.
The Sacrifice is a long piece descriptive of the sufferings of
Christ, as though himself did say it. We give a few of its
expressive stanzas, though where all are good selection is diffi-
cult—
Behold they spit on me in scornful wise,
Who by my spittle gave the blinde man eies,
Leaving his blindness to mine enemies :
Was ever grief like mine 1
My face they cover, though it be divine,
As Moses’ face was vailed, so is mine,
Lest on their double dark souls either shine :
Was ever grief like mine 1
Servants and abjects flout me ; they are wittie,
Ncno prophecy who strikes thee, is their dittie,
S o they in me denie themselves all pitie ;
Was ever grief like mine 128
GEORGE HERBERT.
The souldiers also spit upon that face
Which angels did desire to have the grace,
And Prophets once to see, but found no place :
Was ever grief like mine ?
Thus trimmed forth they bring me to the rout,
Who Grucifie him crie with one strong shout,
God holds his peace and man cries out:
Was ever grief like mine ?
*****
And now I die ; now all is finished,
My wo, man’s weal : and now I bow my head ;
Onely let others say when I am dead,
Never was grief like mine.
There is one short piece in which he gives us the letters
J. C., meaning Joy and Charitie, and also, or rather because
they stand for Jesus Christ. In another piece, out of the
word Jesu, he gets these words addressed to a broken heart,
/, ease, you. In another he praises our language, and gives
as equivalents the words sonne and sunne. Thus—
How neatly do we give onely name
To parents’ issue and the sunne’s bright star—
A sonne is light and fruit:
* * *
What Christ once in humblenesse began
We him in glorie call the Sonne of Man.
Here we have an anagram. Mary—Army, and the couplet,
How well her name an Army doth present,
In whom the Lord of Hosts did pitch his tent !
Some of his prose is characterised by plain common sense,
and if parsons were generally as he sets forth “ the country
parson,” there would be more church-going. Not long before
his death he wrote some notes to a translation of “The
Divine Considerations” of Valdesso, a Spaniard, and theGEORGE HERBERT.
29
following is expressive of bis view of the value of the
Scriptures :—
I much mislike the comparison of images and Holy
Scriptures, as if they were but both alphabets, and after a
time to he left. The Holy Scriptures have not only an
elementary use, but a use of perfection ; neither can they be
exhausted (as pictures may be by a plenary inspection), but
still, even to the most learned and perfect in them, there is
somewhat to be learned more.
Cornelius had revelation, yet Peter was to be sent
for; and those that have inspirations must still use Peter—
God’s Word. If we make another sense of the text, we
shall overthrow all means save catechising, and set up
enthusiasms.
We have also of George Herbert’s quite a number of
sayings of proverbial pithiness, some of which he has bor-
rowed from the Spaniards. Here are a few :
Keep not ill men company, lest you increase the number.
When the fox preacheth, beware, geese.
He that goes thirsty to bed, riseth healthy.
We have spent another pleasant evening with George
Herbert, and mayhap usefully rehearsed old lessons and
learnt some new ones; and well shall we be rewarded if some
others will turn to his right religious rhymes and learn
thereby. We must say “Goodnight,” but before doing so
will go Dack to the quiet of his “ Church Porch, ” and listen
again to earnest exhortation—
Pitch thy behaviour low, thy projects high,
So shalt thou humble and magnanimous be :
Sink not in spirit: who aimeth at the sky
Shoots higher much than he that means a tree!
A grain of glory rnixt with humblenesse,
Cures both a fever and lethargicknesse.
DREGINALD HEBEP.
In the north-west of Shropshire, there is, or was a few
years ago, a quiet village named Whittington. On many of
the buildings, texts of Scripture are painted in large letters,
for the instruction and admonition of the people. These
were done at the desire of a former rector. There are also
in the village two fine old towers and other portions of the
ruin of a castle. The two towers are, however, inhabited.
There is a ditch, too, that has been a moat, and in a portion
of it, near the towers, there is water sufficient for water fowl
to swim. Eight centuries ago, this Manor of Whittington
was granted by the Conqueror to Gwarine, of Metz, and Fitz-
Gwarines held it for some generations, subject to the
customary feudalities. Hear the village is Halston, for ages
the seat of the Myttons. One of the family in the Great
Rebellion held a command under the Parliament. Like his
great master, he was a castle hater. He pounded the walls
of Oswestry Castle, and ruined the turrets of Harlech. A
more recent scion of the house was famous as a gambler and
spendthrift, and died in the King’s Bench Prison. Halston
has passed into the possession of another family.
In the old school-room of Whittington, more than forty
years ago, a meeting was held for the advocacy of the claims
of the missionary societies connected with the English
Church. The company sang a hymn that had not often been
snug before, but which was destined to become widely known.REGINALD HEBER.
31
Foremost among the company was the author c/f the hymn,
for it was his presence that had caused the meeting. He was
well known in Shropshire, hut he was about to leave it, for he
was the Bishop designate of Calcutta. The verses they sang
began :—
From Greenland’s icy mountains,
From India’s coral strand,
Where Afric’s sunny fountains
Boll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river.
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error’s chain.
Those lines had been written some few years before, and
the writer had been listening to the “ call” till he could no
longer delay. He was about to depart to the “ coral strand,”
to help the work of deliverance.
Beginald Heber was born at Malpas, in Cheshire, in
the spring of the year 1783. He seems to have been a docile
child, and somewhat precocious. He read well at five years
of age, and was learning Latin at six. His books were his
companions, and what he read a tenacious memory enabled
him to retain. He was fond of asking questions, but he did
not by his manner bring his inquisitiveness under rebuke.
At eight years of age, he was sent to the grammar school at
Whitchurch, and five years later he was placed under the care
of a clergyman near London. His home training, his
natural inclination, and studious habits, all combined to
preserve him from falling into the temptations of youth, and
at this early period he gave decisive indications of real piety.
At school he was a favourite, from his ability to tell stories,32
REGINALD HEBER.
Iiis school-mates frequently surroundingliim in a group to
listen to his narrations. The verses he made on the occasion
of Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt, are passably good for a
boy of fifteen. In the last year of last century, and nearly
at the end of the year, Reginald ITeber entered Brazennose
college, at Oxford, where his brother was then a fellow. By
his social qualities, he soon became esteemed by a wide
circle of friends. In his first year he gained the University
prize for Latin verse, and thus gave promise of a brilliant
scholastic career. Mathematics was never a favourite study,
but he gave considerable attention to it, and in classics he
became a thorough scholar, and his general information was
immense. In 1803 he composed a poem entitled “ Palestine.''’
It was a prize poem, and it fell to his lot to recite it before
the assembled University at the annual festivity. His father
was in the assembly. There was breathless attention. It
was a great triumph. One who heard it says that it was not
merely the passing victory of a clever versifier, but the
audience felt that “ here was a true poet indeed—one whose
name was already written in the high roll of the immortals.”
That same year, when down in Cheshire, he wrote some
stanzas in aid of the Volunteer movement, then all alive in
England, for that was the time when Napoleon’s
“ Banners at Boulogne,
Armed in our Island every freeman.”
It was also to the influence of Napoleon’s deeds that the
next considerable poetic effort of Heber owed its origin, for
in 1806, while travelling on the Continent, he composed some
lines on Europe, then almost entirely under the heel of the
Emperor.REGINALD HEBER.
33
In 1804 Reginald Heber stood bj^ the death-bed of his
father. How this affected him he himself has narrated.
The last scene is simply but pathetically told. We cannot
quote, we must only say he lost an aged and deservedly
respected father, a pious adviser, and friend.
Taking his degree, Heber again gained a University prize.
This was for a prose essay on The Sense of Honour. Then
came his travels. Germany, Austria, and Prussia he saw, and
Hungary, Russia, and the Crimea were visited, in company
with a friend, Mr. Thornton. France, Italy, and other parts
were not then accessible to Englishmen. It was at Dresden
that he began his poem on Europe, but it was not then com-
pleted nor publishred till three years after.
Before this was published, Heber had taken holy orders,
and was by his brother presented to the rectory of Hodnet,
in Shropshire. His father, Reginald Heber, had become Lord
of the Manor of Hodnet in 1766, as heir male of his
brother, Richard Heber, who had inherited it from his mother,
through whom he traced his ancestry to the Vernons and
Ludlows of the middle ages, and through them to Odo de
Hodnet, who came over with the Conqueror. How, Richard
Heber, possessed of the advowson of the rectory of Hodnet,
presented it to another Reginald Heber, his brother; and
himself residing at Hodnet Hall, that brotherly intimacy so
much valued by Reginald was continued and nursed. There is
a circumstance connected with the rectory of Hodnet that
is interesting historically. Charles the Second, to show his
gratitude to the family of the Pendrils of Boscobel, who
were so serviceable to him after the battle of Worcester,
directed that the sum of £2 15s. 2d. should be paid to them34
REGINALD HEBER.
annually out of the income of Hodnet rectory, and till
recently (if not yet) this same annuity was paid. Thus we
have two names brought together that are no way worthy to
be associated, though it is one of the best acts of the Stuart
that associates him with Reginald Heber.
A little while after the publication of Europe, Heber
married Miss Amelia Shipley, daughter of the Dean of St.
Asaph, and he found her all that was necessary to him in his
charge of a country parish, to the duties of which he now
thoroughly settled, giving up much of the society to which he
had been accustomed, that he might be untrammelled in the
work of the ministry. He had no curate then, and for years
he went on his way, doing a work that wrote his name deep
in the hearts of his people. He was found “ comforting
them in distress, kneeling often at their sick beds at the
hazard of his own life, exhorting, encouraging where there
was need,—where there was strife the peacemaker—where
there was want the free-giver.
But literary labours were not neglected rvhile his whole
soul seemed in his parochial work. He wrote in the
Quarterly Review, and commenced a Bible Dictionary, and
wrote some poems. For a long time a severe disorder pre-
vented him from accomplishing anything, but in 1815 he
gained golden opinions by his discourses on the Holy Spirit, as
Bampton lecturer. After this came poems, and one of them,
founded on a story of Chaucer’s, was dramatic in form. He
had written some hymns long before this, but it was in 1819
that he wrote the celebrated missionary hymn, which was
first sung at St. Asaph, on the occasion of a sermon andREGINALD HEBER.
3 5
collection on behalf of the Society for the Propagation of
the Gospel. Then other labours came : a History of the
Cossacks, a Life of Jeremy Taylor, the preachership of
Lincoln’s Inn, and Defences of the Church of England, and
last the offer of the Bishopric of Calcutta. This was declined
at first, “but, after communing with himself, and committing
his case to the quarter to which such pious men are wont to
carry their doubts, he withdrew his refusal, and prepared
himself for his mission, and to leave his beloved parish.” It
was one of the farewell meetings with which we opened this
sketch, and there they sung his hymn for himself, the
missionary. Then came the final parting. On April 21st,
1823, he was forty years of age, and the next day he took
his last farewell of Shropshire. All his parishioners subscribed
to a presentation plate ; Lord Hill presented it as the spokes-
man of the parish, county, and country. It was a great
parting. Heber felt he should see his people no more.
His last words to his weeping parishioners were—“ Little
children, love one another.” And then he went away. His
people kept him in their hearts, and long years after, when
they would praise one of his successors, they said, “ He is
like our beloved rector Heber.”
He sailed to India, with his family, on the 16th of June.
There, as at Hodnet, but in a wider field, he laboured for the
people, he learned their language, he entered into their
sympathies, he administered the ordinances of the Church, he
won his way into loving hearts. His own genial nature, his
true, gentle love is finely expressed in some lines to his wife
when on his journey :—3G
REGINALD HEBER.
if thou, my love, wert by my side, my babies at my knee,
How gladly would our pinnance glide o’er Gunga’s mimic
sea.
I miss thee at the dawning gray, when on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay, and woo the cooler wind.
I miss thee when by Gunga’s stream, my twilight steps I
guide,
But most beneath the lamp’s pale beam, I miss thee by my
side.
I spread my books, my pencil try, the lingering noon to
cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye, thy meek attentive ear.
But when of morn and eve the star beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far, thy prayers ascend for me.
Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, my course be onward
still,—
O’er broad Hindostan’s sultry meads, o’er bleak Almorah's
hiii.
That course nor Delhi’s kingly gates, nor wild Malwah detain;
For sweet the bliss Us both awaits, by yonder western main.
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, across the dark
blue sea,
But ne’er were hearts so blithe and gay, as there shall meet in
thee.
Thus his “ love and duty were his life’s aim.” Three
short years was he a bishop. He “ confirmed ” fifteen natives
at Trichinopoly, speaking to them in their own language, on
the 3rd of April, 1826, and then, taking a cold bath, he was
shortly afterwards found dead. So he passed awray. As at
Hodnet, so in India, there was great grief that they should
see “ his face no more,” and now in Hodnet Church the
white marble of Chantrey records how much he was loved.REGINALD HEBER
37
Bishop Heber was a poet. Europe, Palestine, and The
Passage of the Red Sea, show a wide range of scholarly
attainment, as do also his translations ; hut we think it is the
sweetness of his lines that is the chief power in them.
Those who relish hot, spiced aliment will not appreciate
Reginald Heber. The lines we have last quoted Thackeray
calls charming. A friend of ours, no mean judge, in speak-
ing of Palestine, said, “ Heber is very sweet.”
Europe, though essentially a warlike poem, contains some
lines that have this character in them. Thus, in the opening,
we have these lines—
At that dread season when th’ indignant Horth
Pour’d to vain wars her tardy numbers forth,
When Frederick bent his ear to Europe’s cry,
And fanned toe late the flame of liberty,
By feverish hope oppressed and anxious thought,
In Dresden’s grove the dewy cool I sought;
Through tangled boughs the broken moonshine play’d,
And Elbe slept soft beneath his linden shade ;
Yet slept not all;—
When Pedestime was being composed, Sir Walter Scott had
breakfast with Heber, and, speaking of Solomon’s temple,
observed that it was not much noticed that no tools were
used on the spot; and thereupon Heber at once composed
those fine lines which appear in that poem :—
Ho workman steel, no ponderous axes rung !
Like some tall palm the noiseless fabric sprung.
Majestic silence !
Heber’s verse is not lacking in energy, but the most forcible
passages are not lifted out of the region of sweetness.38
REGINALD HEBER.
Perhaps the conclusion of Palestine is a fair specimen of
tliis—
And shall not Israel’s sons exulting come,
Hail the glad beam and claim their ancient home 1
On David’s throne shall David’s offspring reign,
And the dry hones he warm with life again.
Hark ! white-robed crowds their deep hosannas raise,
And the hoarse flood repeats the sound of praise ;
Ten thousand harps attune the mystic song,
Ten thousand thousand saints the strain prolong—
“ Worthy the Lamb ! omnipotent to save,
Who died, who lives, triumphant o’er the grave !”
Perhaps there are no lines in our language more sweetly
expressive, though sad withal, than the opening of the
Passage of the Red Sea :—
With heat o’er laboured, and the length of way,
On Ethan’s beach the bands of Israel lay.
’Twas silence all the sparkling sands along,
Save where the locust trill’d her feeble song,
Or blended soft in drowsy cadence fell
The wave’s low whisper, or the camel’s bell,—
’Twas silence all!—the flocks for shelter fly
Where, waving light, the acacia shadows lie ;
Or where from far the flattering vapours make :
The noontide semblance of a misty lake;
While the mute swain in careless safety spread
With arms enfolded, and dejected head,
Dreams o’er his wondrous call, his lineage high,
And, late revealed, his children’s destiny.
These lines, in their plaintiveness, recall some of the
sweetest of Wordsworth.
We have reason to believe that Heber is sharing the fate,
of even greater men, viz., that people take his fame on trust.
A few of Iris poems, and those mostly hymns, are well-known
They are set to music; they have yet undiminished popularity ;REGINALD HEBER.
39
but who reads Europe—how many have heard of the Red
Sea ? After the hymns, we became first acquainted with the
Red Sea, and in our note book of fourteen years ago we find
written about it “ a most exquisite poem.” But more than
ten years passed before we knew Europe or Palestine, and
only a few days ago we met a gentleman of extensive read-
ing and large acquaintance with our best writers who had not
heard that Reginald Heber had written about Europe.
We would bespeak for Heber more attention, and we believe
that attention would be repaid. We cannot always, however,
guarantee originality. Like other men, Heber repeats him-
self, and at least in one instance we believe he has repeated
another poet. One of the best passages in Palestine is
manifestly an imitation. It is this—
Ye sainted spirits of the warrior dead,
Whose giant force Britannia’s armies led !
Whose bickering falchions, foremost in the fight,
Still pour’d confusion on the soldan’s might;
Lords of the biting axe and beamy spear,
Wide conquering Edward, Lion Bichard, hear !
At Albion’s call your crested pride resume,
And burst the marble slumbers of the tomb !
With this compare the following well-known lines by Camp-
bell, which appeared four years before Palesti7ie ivas com-
posed :—
Departed spirits of the mighty dead,
Ye who at Marathon and Leuctra bled,
Friends of the world! restore your swords toman,
Fight in his sacred cause and lead the van :
Yet for Sarmatia’s tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own ;
Oh ! once again to freedom’s cause return
The patriot Tell, the Bruce of Bannockburn !40
REGINALD HEBER.
Heber’s lines are an undoubted imitation, and it must be
confessed a good one. Still it would have been best to
acknowledge it.
From Heber’s hymns we scarce know how to select
examples. His sweetness runs through all. His purity is
there, a chasteness and gentleness, and withal a deep, broad,
sea-like flood of fervour ; not seething like wind-lashed waves,
but a sea heaving only, though still showing its mighty fulness.
The hymn for Epiphany is very fine. It seems the outpouring
of his life, the expression in words of his whole experience
at Hodnet. One verse will show this :—
Vainly we offer each ample oblation,
Vainly with gold would his favour secure;
Richer by far is the heart’s adoration,
Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.
It is these hymns that have made Heber’s fame. As a
missionary he would not have been known out of the
Church save to those in other denominations most interested
in missions ; as a clergyman he would not have been known
more than others who have been devoted to parochial duty ;
as a scholar he would have been known only among scholars :
but as the author of “ From Greenland’s icy mountains”
lie is known everywhere. The fame of scholar, priest, and
missionary are fused into one; and so perhaps no man is more
widely known than Reginald, Bishop Heber. A man of force
and sweetness, of pathos and power, he believed in the
Christ, and with a voice that rings yet through Christendom
he cried—REGINALD fctEBEK.
41
Waft, waft, ye winds, his story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory.
It spreads from pole to pole :
Till o’er our ransomed nature
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.
EPERIPATETICS.
Twenty-two hundred years ago, a restless man was giving
daily lectures to numerous hearers in the sheltered walks of
the Lyceum at Athens. He sat not in an easy professorial
chair, nor yet declaimed grandiloquently from platform or
desk, but, rapidly pacing about with his disciples, he taught a
philosophy that was destined to be adhered to through
centuries by earnest thinkers, and to influence for good or ill
the people of the world. He was Aristotle, the “ stout
Stagyrite,” the first of the peripatetics,—walking philosophers.
They of the Lyceum were the first who had this name,
but there had been of elder ages walking philosophers ; and
yet in the nineteenth century of the Christian era there are
peripatetics. Homer was a peripatetic. He walked about
Greece, telling not of metaphysical speculations, but grand
old legends that moved his feet to travel and his soul to
song. Xenophanes was a peripatetic,—a vagabond philoso-
pher, singing of Truth. Elijah was a peripatetic, walking
from Carmel to Horeb, and from Horeb to Syria, doing
Heaven’s high will. The minstrels, proven cals, and trouba-
dours, were peripatetics of the dark ages, who taught to harp
tones the mighty to do right.
And now we have teachers of the people, peripatetics, and
seekers after truth, who ramble about. To be a peripateticPERIPATETICS.
43
is to be an earnest man,—to have motives that influence the
actions of the body—not to be content with the statement of
a fact, or the enunciation of a principle, or the acquisition of
book-knowledge, but to possess desires to know at first hand,
and to communicate with energy. The wisdom of Aristotle
may now be accounted foolishness, but the energy of his
teaching may never be dispensed with. "We have seen on the
other side the Atlantic, the first preacher of religion dispen-
sing with the confinement of a pulpit, and pacing a platform
while he rivets the attention of his audience, and Henry "Ward
Beecher’s chapel is never empty. We have seen an eminent
head of a college take up in heat the book on which he has
been commenting, and read out the passage standing, and
finish his remarks at a rapid pace before his delighted
audience. We have even seen a Welsh chapel with platform
instead of pulpit, for the accommodation of a thunderer, and
we have seen him use it; but it did not continue, as in Wales
this is considered too theatrical.
Students of natural history are peripatetics. Think of
the journeys of a Waterton or Audubon in pursuit of bird
and beast. Lord Dufferin met a German - fly-catcher in
Iceland hunting for rare insects; he had hunted in Spain for
years. Geologists are peripatetics; witness the rambles of
Sedgwick, Murchison, and Hugh Miller. The geologists of
the Ordnance Survey down in West Shropshire got the
significant appellation of “ smellstones,” and there is an hotel
where their gastronomic powers are spoken of as something
wonderful after a day’s ramble. Botanists are peripatetics, and
miles and miles will they walk to find a small wild plant in
bloom in its native habitat, on high bleak moor or in secludedPERIPATETICS.
44
*
dell. They are all philosophers—real lovers of wisdom—and
the grand philosophy they read in bird and beast, and rock
and flower, is such as inspires their souls with high desire,
and stirs their feet to tramp. And by the way-side they tell
each other in earnestness what Nature has taught them, and
some of them who can handle the pen in quiet parlours, tell
to reading thousands the free-born thoughts and the varied
experiences of peripatetics.
But there is also a large class of people in our busy world
who have no scientific speciality, whose time is occupied by
commerce for the greater part of a year, but who nevertheless
find time to dabble in books, and who enjoy a holiday. The
majority of these, however, take the railways, and steamers,
and coaches, and go down to Brighton or Scarborough, Black-
pool or Llandudno, but many of them are peripatetics. We
have met them in our vagabond expeditions in Wales,
Cumberland, and elsewhere, and they are worth knowing. And
of those who are not engaged in commerce, the lords and
squires and lairds of Britain, there are many who “ do” the
lakes, the mountains, and waterfalls of our island on foot;
and some, obtaining aid from steamers where the seas are too
wide to swim, have walked in Swiss valleys and explored
Norwegian glaciers.
We have a little bit of a taste for finding rare plants, and
we do get rather enthusiastic at fossil finding, but we delight
most in peripatetics for the sake of the enjoyment of vaga-
bondism, and erecting “ chateaux en Espagne.” We love to
take a week or a month for mere walking, looking, and think-
ing, out of doors, and as we do not often have the opportunity
in winter, we read then gossiping books by persons like-footedPERIPATETICS.
45
with ourselves; and iust to commend the sayings of some of
them, and the doings of all of them, to our readers, we write
this peripatetic paper.
Since the beginning of railway riding, there has been
manifested a very multitudinous desire to travel and see
“ summut o’th’ world,” and, despite the advantages, yea the
necessity, of rail, boat, ’bus, and car, we commend as the
easiest, and yet most energetic mode of travelling, entire
dependence on a pair of Mr. Shank’s ponies. We have tried
them. They never fail. We take our time up the hills, we
lie down to rest on the green turf, and look up to the clear
heavens in perfect happiness ; and we can finish thirty miles
a-day at a rattling pace. We especially delight in climbing
mountains. We have seen men (1) ascend Snowdon on horseback*
and go through Elirkstone Pass on ditto, and not even know
there was a Kirkstone. But to climb a mountain on our own
feet really makes a man high-souled. It helps him on the oft
rugged hills of life. He becomes a philosopher whether he will
or not. Then by the peripatetic method he can see more of the
country through which he passes than by any other means.
Take the following from Forrester’s “ Norway” by way of illus-
tration :—“ I was sorry to find that, between Husunr and
Hoeg, I had hurried by, without being aware of it, the
church of Borgund, one of those curious relics of the old
timber buildings of Norway of which I have already spoken.
If it had occurred during our rambles on foot it could
scarcely have escaped observation.” This was the result of
travelling post.
To the same effect is the testimony of Dean Alford from
Italy :—46
PERIPATETICS.
“ At Turbia, which is close to the highest point of the road,
we left our carriage, and walked down the steep, paved,
winding path, which once formed the only access to the petty
principality of Monaco.
“ After all, there is no way of seeing even the least portion
of nature like visiting it on foot. Horseback has its unques-
tionable advantages, but it has its drawbacks. ‘ I came
because my horse would come,’ is true of many a rider
besides John Gilpin ; but the negative proposition, ‘ I
couldn’t come because my horse couldn’t,’ must be true of
all. What a magnificent view over both sides of the coast
that rock must command which is but ten paces above you,
but shuts out all the promontories which your eye longs to
trace out ! But you are on horseback, and there is the
trouble of alighting, tying up your horse, and remounting ;
and so you leave it unvisited. On yonder bank of olives
you see a strange bright flower. What is it i Between
the chinks of the walls which bound your path springs
some unknown fern-like growth. Can it be the Asplenium
Septentrionale, hitherto only seen pictured in books or
mythically reported as inhabiting Borrowdale '? These
questions must remain unanswered. The terrace your
horse could not approach, the wall he in all probability
would not on any persuasion. And so the horseman, if he
be also a sketcher and a naturalist, misses much that would
delight him, and makes his mountain way amidst many
regrets. As for a carriage, it is only good for getting from
one place to another where a railway is not yet made.”
The pedestrian rambles as he will. Sometimes he has
pleasant companions and joyous intercourse. At other timesPERIPATETICS.
47
he is solitary, and then the scenes he visits fix their images
in his soul, and long afterwards he can reproduce them by
word-painting for others. The reproduction of scenes
visited thus is often rendered easy and suggested by trivial
circumstances,—turning over the pages of an old pocket
book, or opening an old letter, or coming across a preserved
fern leaf that you had forgotten you had ever picked up.
Here is the case of a rambler in North Wales, who, on winter
nights, wrote an account of summer rambles :—“ Under just
such circumstances did I the other day stumble upon an old
dusty knapsack which I had not seen for years, and which
‘sent my memories slipping back into the golden days.’ I
took it and looked into it, and there arose therefrom an odour
to me sweeter than roses,—but one which to another philo-
sopher’s nose would only have seemed an unpleasant agglo-
meration of the odours of apples, spilt sherry, trout, and
oat cakes, over-ridden a strong suggestion of bird’s eye
tobacco. That knapsack, sir, had been my ficles Achates (if I
may apply that term to an inanimate friend) in many a
delightful vagabondisation, when I, with my knapsack—like
Goldy with his flute—trudged along with strong limbs and a
light heart through the solitary paradises of Snowdonia.”
To bring our paper to a conclusion, we must commend the
travelling propensity of the age as a good thing, and peripa-
tetics as the very best of philosophy, and the following extract
from “ Through Norway with a Knapsack” as a first-rate speci-
men. Speaking of the waterfalls of Romsdal, the author
says :—“Here they pour and dash down their own chosen
courses, the wild unfettered creatures of God’s bounty. Here
we may gaze upon them undisturbed, and revel in the wonder,48
PERIPATETICS.
gratitude, and veneration that such a scene awakens, by
reminding us that he has so fitted our faculties to his works
around, that every object or action in the universe has in it
some element of grandeur or of beauty capable of filling our
souls with joy. There are those who tell us that this world
is but a festering heap of wickedness and corruption, but the
man who would fit himself for the reception of a higher
manifestation of his Creator’s bounty in another world, must
first train his soul to be capable and worthy of fully enjoy-
ing the heavenly elements of this.”FURNESS.
Ip we look at the map of the northern counties of England,
we find that there is a peninsula of considerable size
separated from Cumberland by the estuary and stream of the
Duddon, and having also on the same side Coniston Lake as
the continuation of the boundary; and on the east Winder-
mere and the Leven separate it from Westmoreland, while
Morecambe Bay divides it from the rest of Lancashire, of
which county the peninsula forms a part.
Down this peninsula runs a ridge of hills, and as the whole
district is named Furness, these hills are known as Furness
Fells, which, declining in height near the southern end, slope
away into a low undulating tract in the south-east called Low
Furness. From the mouth of the Duddon to Morecambe
Bay, nearly parallel with the coast, runs the island of Walney,
about ten miles in length, which, as its name imports, is an
island wall, forming a gigantic breakwater, giving security to
the thriving port of Barrow. (Plymouth breakwater is nearly
the shape of this natural one in Furness.) The town of
Barrow, about midway between Duddon and Morecambe Bay,
was ten years ago but a small village, beginning to thrive,
however, by what has since caused it to attain its present
dimensions. The iron ore of the district began to be smelted
here, and so workmen’s houses were erected, the railway gave50
FURNESS.
communication north and south, and the dock dues, being less
than at Liverpool, gave encouragement to shippers. Now the
ironworks have been extended, and steel works are being
erected, and thousands of houses. The population, from a
few hundreds, has swelled to near eleven thousand. The south
eastern end of the straits separating Walney from the main-
land being of considerable width, room is found for several
islands, one of which is now being excavated for the docks of
Barrow, and on another, at the mouth of the strait in olden
times, stood the frowning battlements of Piel Castle, and still
stand there the ruins of its walls; but we opine the revolving
light on the south end of Walney is of more use than ever was
Piel Castle.
About two miles from the port of Barrow is the Valley
of the Deadly Nightshade, and in the valley the ruins of the
once famous Abbey of Furness. Famous yet, for who
knows not Furness ? Who of all our tourist people has not
visited Furness 1 Who of all who read of ancient grandeur
has not heard of Furness ? It ranks with Netley, and
Fountains, and famed Melrose. We have climbed the steps
of its tower and looked down on its grassy floor. We have
rambled in broad sunlight among the beautiful Norman
arches of the cloisters, we have taken in the grand coup cVceil,
including the broken arch and the oriel, and all is beauty;
but—
“ If thou would’st view fair Furness aright
Go visit it by the pale moonlight ;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins grey.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And the shafted oriel glimmers white ;FtJfiNESS.
51
When the cold light’s uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower ;
When buttress and buttress alternately
Seem framed of ebon and ivory ■
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die.
* # * *
“ Then go—but go alone the while,
Then view St. Mary's ruined pile.”
We have seen it thus. Willingly we yielded to the great
enchantment. The grass-grown pillars became dark figures
of the old grey friars from Savigny. The brook, in its
softened murmurings, became a sound of music, and we
were carried back seven centuries, and in fancy saw the
Abbey founded. Serfs of Anglo-Danish and mayhap of
Celtic blood, at the bidding of the Norman monks, toiled on.
The cloisters were built, the great gothic arches were raised,
the magnificent chapter-house was finished, and there in
solemn procession went abbot, and monks, and bishop, with
swinging censers and uplifted rood, and chanting non nobis
Domine, and calling on Mary to bless from Heaven their
noble founder Stephen, Count of Boulogne, and Henry the
King. Then, in 1135, they rejoiced that Stephen was King,
and three years after, when the Fell men returned from
Northallerton, where the holy standards had been displayed
in battle, with the sanction of the venerable Metropolitan,
they assembled again joyfully, glad of the defeat of the Scots
King, shouted Te Deum laudamus, and said mass for the souls
of the slain. Then, throughout those troublous years of
Stephen’s reign, when for the poor “ to till the land was to
plough the sea,” they held by the fortunes of the king, and
never had a prayer for Matilda, the empress. Then their52
FURNESS.
dress was changed, they forsook St. Benedict and adopted the
rule of St. Bernard, and for centuries the white cassock was
the dress of the monks of Furness. Sculptured effigies of
Stephen and Maude they made, but the Abbey had other
benefactors, till from Walney to Coniston and Wrynose Gap
the Abbot of Furness was king. He was mitred, ruled over
the monks of Calder, far away in Cumberland, and might
have sat in parliament had he been so disposed to make the
journey over sands and so to the south. But rarely was
Abbot of Furness seen at Westminster. He preferred
reigning in his almost inaccessible region, to facing the dangers
. of a journey to court. When Henry VIII had fallen in love
with Anna Bullen, and quarrelled with the Pope, Furness
came under the hand of the “ Mauler of Monasteries,” and
the Abbot retired from his abbacy, gave up his princely
revenue of £1,000 per annum, equal to twenty times that
sum of our time, and accepted the rectory of the town where
erewhile he held his court (Dalton), with the moderate in-
come of £33 a-year. Then came ruin, to the abbey ; despite
was done to the Virgin’s shrine, the walls crumbled, the stones
decayed, ivy and fern are growing where cassock and crozier
once were honoured, and here are we treading softly in the
shadows, gazing up to
“ The orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon.”
And we have heard “ the beat of the unseen feet” of the
ages passed away. We find ourselves standing uncovered in
the presence of the olden time.
We have said the first monks were Normans. The people
of Furness (the further ness) were of the old stock, that livedFtJRNESS.
53
here before the Conquest. When the monks came at the
bidding of Earl Stephen, but threescore years were gone since
the great Bastard had conquered at Hastings. Old men were
living who had fought with Harold at Stamford Brigg, and
had been ruled, nominally at least, by St. Edward. The
monks had hard work to get submission. The Saxons of the
South were not so warlike. Six centuries had gone since they
came over-sea. But the inhabitants of Furness and Cumbria
were mostly of the Danish stock, with a large mixture of
Norwegian amongst them. They, not the Saxons, had
subdued the old Celtic population, and well nigh exterminated
it. They had given most of the names to mountain, lake,
and river. On the shores there are yet some Saxon names,
but Danes and Norsemen peopled thehills. “ Eiord, forest, and
field,” are the three glories of Norway, and the names of the
first and the last are here, in the north-west of England, little
varied from the forms of the words still in use in Norway. While
the Solway owned British masters, it was a loch ■ but when
Norwegians came it became a firth. Pen-y-gant, Helvellyn,
and Black Combe retain their British names.	, Bow
Fell, Scaw Fell, Place Fell, Wans Coniston Fells, and
Furness Fells, tell of the progress of the Northmen. Ham and
ton are terminations that mark a Saxon hamlet, but the
syllable by shows u here Danes have dwelt. So here we have
Kirby and Newby. Thwoite, too, is Norse for a clearing in
the forest, and here we have Easthwaite, Nibthwaite, Hathwaite,
and Goatliwaite. These and other facts indicate the character
of the people who lived in Furness when the Norman monks
came to rule them. Bude and fierce to begin with, they
kept the character through generations. The people of Low
F54
FURNESS,
Furness might, from contact with the monks, get something
of gentleness and civilisation, but the people of the Fells
continued wild and uncultivated. Their hereditary love of
independence would make them regard all the arts that the
Normans could teach them as signs of servitude.
In the reign of the seventh Henry came thither, landing
at Piel, a pretender to the crown, Lambert the simnel-maker.
Sir Thomas Broughton, of Broughton under the Fells, gave
liim his support, but at the Battle of Stoke, in Nottingham-
shire, (June 1487), his fortune forsook him, and as a scullion
or falconer he passed the rest of his days.
When Sir Edward Stanley led on his forces to aid the
gallant Surrey against the Scots King in 1513, and at
Flodden Field
“ With Chester charged, and Lancashire,”
besides his own retainers and other followers, he had bowmen
and billmen from this district; for the old ballad says that to
that battle came
“ Fellowes fierce from Furnesse Fells.”
Fierce had they been of old, and fierce they remained.
The value of the iron ore obtained around Liver stone and
Dalton, the extent of the iron and steel works, and the
shipping at Barrow, the produce of the slate quarries, yield-
ing £14,000 a-year to his Grace of Devonshire, the two
railways into West Cumberland, and the famous Over Sands
line through Cartmel to Lancaster, all conspire to do away
with the peculiarities of the district and change its customs ;
but still there linger among the fells of Furness customs
that tell of the olden time. It fell to our lot first to ascend
the fells to the Kirkby slate quarries with a lady, and weFURNESS.
55
were informed that we should certainly he shouted after by
the workmen, but whatever may be usual we did not
experience that. Those we saw were civil, and civilly
answered all our questions, and we have known men amongst
them simple, earnest, God-fearing, without a trace of rude-
ness or fierceness. We have elsewhere recorded the pleasant
fare we had at an inn in Ivirkby. Still how slowly some im-
provements reach this district is illustrated by the fact that in
the winter of 1862-3, a certain well-to-do yeoman of the
Fells, a statesman in northern phrase, first burnt coal in his
house, and a lady, now sitting within a few feet of the writer,
went to the farm to see the effect of the first fire in the fine
old kitchen, with its stags’ horns for hat pegs.
A custom that has also prevailed in other parts of the
county is still in use here. At the death of any person not
of the poorest class, a man goes to the houses for some
distance round, and, opening the door without knocking, calls
out, “ Two persons from this house are bidden to the
burying of John Smith, at,” &c. The word in this
formula has authority in it; it means more than invite. It
contains a requirement; the persons bidden are quite
expected to attend. Of course attendance could not now be
enforced, or non-attendance visited with a legal penalty, but
the social ones might be sufficiently heavy. The sexton
formerly had it in charge to do the bidding, and the districts
are accurately divided, and for a person to be at the funeral
not residing in the bidding, except relatives, is unusual. The
biddings in the villages are not extensive compared with those
in more thinly-peopled parts, for a very obvious reason.
This custom is manifestly a relic akin to the method of56
FURNESS.
summoning the clans to war in Scotland by the fiery
the split war arrow of the ancient Danes, and the buclstick
not long ago in nse in Norway.
The Abbot of Furness, as we have noted, held his court
at Dalton, but Ulverston was more recently the chief town
in Furness, and in many important particulars is so yet, being
the post town, which doubtlessly it will continue to be, as it
is better situated for distributing the mails over the penin-
sula than its more thriving neighbour Barrow. The popula-
tion of Ulverston in 1830 was put down at 4,500 ; in
1857, it was approaching 7,000 ; now it has considerably
passed that number; but Barrow, in this respect, is before it.
Ulverston is on the east side of the peninsula, about a mile
from the mouth of the Leven, with which it is connected bv
a canal capable of floating vessels of two hundred tons
burthen. The name Ulverston is Saxon in its origin, the
latter part having its meaning plain to the eye, and the former
part is said to be derived from the name of a Saxon or
Danish thane, Ulf or Ulph, who lived in the eleventh
century. Conishead Priory, two miles to the south, affords,
from its beautiful situation and fine park, a favourite resort
of the people of Ulverston. The priory is gone, but its site
is occupied by a magnificent mansion not surpassed by many
in any part of the kingdom. Farther south, some centuries
ago, stood another town bearing the Saxon name of Alding-
ham, but the ever-wearing tide has long ago washed it away.
But it may, perhaps, be looked upon as some compensation
that the tide is daily adding something to the hooked southern
point of Walney Island, not far away. Bidge after ridge of
boulders are there deposited, and the land formed in twenty
years can be measured by acres.FURNESS.
57
The islands on the coast, the monument to Sir John
Barrow, the road from Ulverston to Newhy-bridge, the Moor-
land road to Kirkby, and thence to Coniston, all present
objects of interest and scenes of wildness or beauty, but
here our sketch must end, and we trust the reader will, if he
has not already seen them, soon take an opportunity to
explore scenes so rich in historical interest and natural
beauty, and if he has seen them, we hope, in the winter
hours, this paper will recall pleasantly the scenes of many a
delightsome day.
CONISTON OLD MAN.
Did yon ever eat Duddon flukes h Perhaps not. But even
as you buy them in the market, they are by no means despisable
food. But just watch sunset, as we did, over Duddon
Estuary, and then ramble by Duddon side, and get lost by
the sands as the darkness comes on—climb over the fenee to
the railway because you are afraid of getting into the mud of
a stream through the sands, as you once did on Walney Isle
—walk your best, and only just have light enough when you
get to Kirkby to know that the yew tree at the corner is a
yew tree—get to the station too late for the last train—be
refused admittance at one inn, and at last find yourself in
a snug little parlour at Stables’ Inn, with some splendid
coffee (with cream) before you, and a dish of flukes fresh
from Duddon, and fried exquisitely—and if you don’t enjoy
them, why we pity you—that’s all. We guess you -wouldn't
refuse them at breakfast next morning. Neither did we.
We acknowledge to having eaten five at supper. How many
more we won’t say, nor at breakfast either. After breakfast,
we strolled slowly towards the station, Black Combe standing
out in all its bold height, and purple in the morning sun, the
estuary bright, and the sea all calm 3 the valley northwards
beautiful to behold, and that bank of clouds there we know
is the nightcap of Coniston Old Man.
The train comes up from the Abbey, and in less than an
hour we have had our journey up Duddon Yale, we have seenCONISTON OLD MAN.
59
the lake, and jumped out at Coniston station. In the village
we find a respectable inn, where we engage our room. We
don’t need breakfast, for we had flukes at Kirkby Ireleth, but
we lay in our satchel sundry parcels of that “appetite-
provoking and satisfying mixture, ” ycleped ham sandwich,
and borrowing a heavy hammer from “ mine host,” we sally
forth on geological thoughts intent.
We have heard of a formation called Coniston limestone,
but we have neglected to provide ourselves with a map, so
we have to search for it. We will try the fells there. There
has been rain in the night, and every gully has its brawling
torrent, and there come spouting out in two or three places
tiny waterfalls. We make a circuit and try a quarry above
the waterhead, but without result, the rocks are unfossilifer-
ous. We cross a stream and the high road, and begin the
ascent of the fells. We try a fragment of stone—useless ;
another—no good • no sign at all of the ancient life.	We
chip portions of the native rock with the same result.	We
try again and again, though the appearances are such
I
as we have elsewhere seen, and know to be with-
out organic remains. At length we give up, lay down
hammer and bag, and look around. What a sight. The
clouds on the hills opposite have been dispersed by the sun,
and the lake is sparkling in his beams. Its whole length of
near six miles is visible, and its eastern shore fringed with
trees, and the grounds of the Waterhead Hotel are clearly
seen ; here and there a boat upon the water ■ northward,
glimpses of lofty mountains, and here, close to us, the front
of the fells we essay to climb. Yes, we will reach that
point. This steep ascent resembles much that in Ireland we60
CONISTON OLD MAN.
ascended last year, which, with an outline like the profile of
Napoleon, overhangs Belfast Lough. We toil upwards. Every
time we turn about there is a change in the landscape. East-
ward, northward, more hills, and the valley and the lake more
distinct and lovely.
Up. These raspberries are good. We drink at the brawl-
ing torrent. Now for it by shrub and rock. A tough, tough
climb. The hammer in the satchel does not add to the com-
fort of the journey upwards. We turn into a crevice, find a
warm sheltered seat, and feast our eyes on the landscape
below hill. Having recovered breath, we again address our-
selves to the ascent. It is now all climbing, no even slope
at all. By the help of a root we pull up to a rock, and by the
aid of our staff we pass over loose stones. But it is done.
Up that gully, and here we stand on the highest point of the
fell front • but yonder, stretching away before us, is an
enormous mass of mountain rising far above where we are.
It is Weatherlamb, and here, to the left, beyond a deep gulf,
without his nightcap, up in clear ether, is Coniston Old
Man.
We turn about. The lake and its valley beneath us spread
out like a map. The church seems close under our feet*
The hills opposite are dwindled down to mere rising ground,
over which we look, and beyond—yes, it must be Winder-
mere, yes, there it is, the river lake. All glad-hearted we
look, for Windermere has from childhood been a famous
name. Like Aladdin and Sinbad, it has been a name for
fairy-land, but as years have come upon us we have joyed the
more in Windermere, because, though lovely, it is real. Even
as we write now, we see it as we saw it that day from theCONISTON OLD MAN.
61
front of Weatherlamb, as we saw it from tlie Old Man, and
as we have seen it since from its own sweet shore. We, as
we sit, can conj ure up the scene when Mr. Bolton was the
host of famous guests and Christopher North was the admiral
of a fleet of fifty boats on Windermere, lovely Windermere.
We turn away. That heavy hammer is a sore perplexity
to us. We would fain return to the inn, and start again, but
the height we have gained would be lost. We struggle over
the rugged plateau we have reached, and stand on the edge of
the gulf that separates us from the Man, a deep deep vale,
almost circular in form ; a road winding along it. At the
upper end the wall of a tarn over which is pouring a silver
flood. Below the tarn, a tramway, a water-wheel, and other
signs of human industry—the copper works, the property of
a reverend baronet. We look with some regret. To reach
the Man we must descend, and we feel that the sun has
begun his descent, and our strength is far spent. We will
take the higher ridge there by the copper works ; perhaps a
few specimens of ore may be obtained that will repay us for
the loss of fossils, and remove the regret that we have not
ascended to the Man.
Down we go. The men at the works seem astonished at
being approached from that side. We turn along the
diverted torrent and its made channel, to where it flings it-
self in full force upon the water-wheel below. We descend.
We question the workmen engaged upon a larger water-wheel
as to its dimensions, and find that the new one is five
and forty feet in diameter. We descend no more—we
climb to that other torrent’s course that has been diverted,
and winds round the ridge towards the Man. We find now62
CONISTON OLD MAN.
that we are yet so very much above the bottom of the valley,
and our strength is the better for that sandwich and that
draught of clear water, and we feel that twenty hundred
feet higher to the Man will not be killing work, and so we
strike out for the dam there, across the torrent from Low
Water. Over the dam wre soon find ourselves on the track
which forms the customary ascent to Coniston Old Man.
Up now round this crag, over that rock, avoid that curve
by taking the sheer ascent. A lady on horseback toils past,
with a gentleman a-foot and a guide. Let them go. It may
be well for careless people who won’t carry a compass or
whose bump of locality is low, to take a guide, but we never :
not in the mists of Snowdon, the storms of Berwyn, or the
dangers of Helvellyn, do we take other guide than a book or
a chosen	compagnon de voyage.	The first we had, but not
the last, to introduce us to the Old Man of Coniston.
Up still. We are clear of those rugged rocks. Low water,
though very high up, is far, far below. A stone we throw
“ sends through the tarn a lonely cheer.” This more regular
ascent would be green if there were not so many loose stones,
which make the ascent here as difficult as over the broken
pillars of Cader Idris. The path improves now; there is
some grass, but more moss. The roundness of the moun-
tain here hides our goal from our sight, but on we go. We
go as straight as we can, and reach the Man, and have
sat. down to rest before the horse is in sight; but it comes,
with its company, in a few minutes. We take out map and
book, and look around. Eastward we have Underbarrow
Scar, and far away Ingleborough, in Yorkshire, two reaches of
Windermere, Esthwaite nearer to us, and all Coniston lakeCONISTON OLD MAN.
63
and vale at our feet : northward Scawfell Pikes, Helvellyn,
and Saddleback, and nearer Weatherlamb, which does indeed
seem. “ stupendous : ” westward a glorious confusion of hills :
south all the ridge of Coniston and Furness Fells ; all the
vale of Duddon, and all WaLney Island. Black Combe is
six hundred feet lower than we are, but as we gaze a cloud
from the sea covers his head, and hides him from sight for a
moment, but lifts as we look, and comes right our way.
Shall we be enshrouded 1 No. Upward it sails, and passes
above us as a silver mist saturated with light. The distant
view south is not to be had. We would fain have looked
for Snaefell and Snowdon, but there hung a mist over the
silver sea that, like “ a power of faint enchantment, ” hinders
us of our desire.
The Man is a pile of stones built on the edge of the preci-
pice overhanging Low Water Tarn. We cautiously look
down. There are sheep on the ledges far below, looking the
size of cats; a man by the dam we crossed is but the size of
a sheep. Levers Water is there, surrounded by Weather-
lamb. But where is Gates Water ? It must be here in this
valley or gorge. We run across the slope, but abate our
pace ; as the declivity rapidly increases, slowly we go. What
a gorge. This must be Bow Crag. We just go far enough
to see the tarn lying asleep and dark in the shadow, then
return to the Man, look around once more, and prepare to
descend. Not by the way we came, no, nor yet partly. We
take the side nearest to Coniston Village, and, scarce ever
deviating from the direct route till we come to wheel ruts,
we go over the ground faster, we know, than that horse and
party. We came into the village near the railway station64
CONISTON OLD MAN.
sadly bemudded outwardly, but elevated in spirit. We bad
breathed pure air, we had scented fresh heather, we had seen
a glorious panorama of lake, woodland, mountain, sea, and
river ; as for geology we returned “ barren and unfossili-
ferous,” but we were amply repaid—we had stood face to face
with Coniston Old Man.
HELVELLYN.
“ Alone I did it.”
We had walked eight and twenty miles. That day we had
been in Coniston, Ambleside, Kirkstone Pass, Patterdale, as
low as Lyulph’s Tower and Aira Force, and we were hack at
Glenridding; and, as it was near sunset, the reader will
exonerate us from the charge of cowardice when we tell him
that we thought it best not to go over Helvellyn that night,
hut rest quietly in that pleasant coffee-room overlooking the
lake, and, after discussing the good things on the table, write
a few letters and compare notes with another tourist who has
come over the mountain. Before retiring for the night we
took another short stroll by Ulleswater, the stars above us
gleaming pleasantly, and stars below answering quietly from
the wave. Place Fell, across the lake, is very dark, while
here, close to the house, the foliage and Stybarrow Crag make
the shadows intensely black.
We had seen much that day, and enjoyed all. We went
to our room glad and thankful to—
“ Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head
Upon a warm delightful bed.”
Next morning was wet, and the mountains enveloped in
clouds, so we lingered ; but it began to clear, and, having
taken instructions from our worthy host, we at length com-
menced the ascent of Helvellyn. We have refreshed our
G66
HELVELLYN.
memory of that journey by looking over a sketch we wrote
in the evening of that day, which appeared in a Shropshire
paper, and we cannot do better than here insert that
account.
* * * *.	“ From Glenridding Hotel I started, as soon
as there was a large piece of blue in the direction the wind
came from, and the rain had ceased. On the road to the
lead works, I spoke to a man going up, and he said there
would be more storm, as there had not been enough of wind
and rain to account for a great depression of the barometer
the previous night. I didn’t believe him. I did not want
to believe him; but he was right. When I had crossed the
bridge with holes in it, and was bravely treading the moun-
tain path, the clouds lowered, and the wind brought down
heavy rain. I stood to consider, and the result was that I
threw my plaid over my shoulders, securely fastened it,
re-crossed the beck to a path better trodden, grasped my
stout umbrella staff, and stepped out. The rain came down,
and the wind came cold. I tied my cap under my chin,
and on again. The beck divides, or rather two unite; which
shall I take % I decide for that to the right, though nearly
sure that it is wrong. Up I go, and come at length to the
tarn ; and now the question is, is it the Eed Tarn or Keppel
Cove ? If it is the Eed, I must by all means take the
elevation to the right, and on no account go over Striding
Edge in this wind ; but if it is the Keppel Cove, the
left will be right. To the right I go, and, rounding a
small promontory above the tarn, I set my face to a hollow
in the ridge, and away I go slantingdicularly up. But oh,
the wind ! Sometimes behind, lifting me up, now comingHELVELLYN.
67
with blinding rain straight down. My resolution sometimes
wavered ; but no, I will go over the mountain. So, over
rugged scaur and wet grass, I go till near the top, and then
the wind blew a perfect hurricane, and I could hear a
thundering up the other side. Precipices over there. I sat
down on the wet grass, put several pins in my plaid, tied
my handkerchief round my rneck, strapped my bag close
under my shoulders, and crept up to the top. There was
no precipice at all, only a long steep slope, upon which I
soon turned to the left, and though the wind blew its best
(or worst), I soon gained the comparatively wide easy slope,
and started for where I knew the Man must be, though out
of sight, and with the help of the wind T ran up the slope,
giving the precipices a very wide berth. Soon the Man (the
pile of stones) loomed up, and two figures in the distance
retreating, left me alone on the
“ Dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,
Lakes and mountains around me, gleamed misty and wide.”
I had come up by Iveppel Cove, and now I saw, 600 feet
below me, the waters of the Eed Tarn. There, to the left,
was Catchedicam, and the well-worn path on Swirrel Edge,
and to tbe right, Striding Edge, whence fell poor Charles
Gough fifty-five years ago. One glimpse at Esthwaite, a
longer view of Winandermere, a bare sight of Morecambe, a
bank of clouds covering, as with a pall, all Patterdale, with
High-street and Greyerag. A clear view of the lower and
middle reaches of Ulleswater—Stybarrow a mere dwarf.
Huge Saddleback away to the north, and to the west moun-
tains, clouds, tarns, waterfalls, all beautifully confounded—
I would not have missed it for a great deal But the storm68
helvellyn.
increases, and the rain, and hail, and sleet come right in my
face, and though it blows great guns I must face it. One
more glimpse at the Eed Tarn, then away right into the eye
of the wind towards the Lower Man, then down to the right,
then over a water-course, then down, and down, and down—
better than going up. Got some trout from a fisherman.
Crossed again a furious heck, and jumped ofi a wall into the
road to Keswick, where, beside a good fire and by a good
gas-light, I write this.”
BOER OWD ALE.
In Keswick Town Hall there was exhibited by a Mr.
Flintoft a beautiful model of the whole Lake district, and
this we spent some time in carefully inspecting, and from,
the information obtained from the worthy exhibitor we were
confirmed in the decision we had made as to our route for
the next few days. We walked down to Greta Bridge to look
at the house of him
“ Who sang of Thalaba, the wild and wondrous song,”
then called for our bag, paid our bill, and started southwards,
intending to reach Buttermere that night via Borrowdale
and Honister Crag.
Soon we were by the lake. The name Derwentwater re-
called sundry thoughts of the ill-fated nobleman of that
name, whose title came from this place, who, for hopeless
treason, died a traitor’s death, and whose
“ Farewell to pleasant Dilston Hall'
is among the sadder ballads that tell us of the past. His estates
being confiscated, the commissioners and governor of Green-
wich Hospital now are lords of the manor of Keswick. His
jewels were saved by his wife, who climbed up this crag
here by the lake, and lived in that recess of the rock yet called
the Lady’s Bake ; and the crag is called from her, for its name
means a woeful crag, and when the northern dawn lights up
the wintry sky, the people here call them Derwentwater
lights, because they blazed so brightly the night the poor Lord
died in London, February 24th, 1716.70
BORROWD ALE.
Our road lay under the crag, beside the shore of the lake,
and here to the right is Holy Herbert’s Isle. He who lived
there twelve hundred years ago loved St. Cuthbert of Durham
so much that they prayed, that they might die at the same
time, and so, says the legend, they did. Our mind, amidst the
loveliness, was busied to find resemblances for the scenes
before us. Now it was like a scene on the banks of the Wye,
and again ’twas like the valley of the Dee, and now, with
the whole breadth of the lake before us, we were reminded of
that land
“ Where Hudson rolls his lordly flood.”
As did Wallowbarrow Crag, so Falcon Crag looms up high on
our left, and across the lake we have Cat Bells. The road
running among the trees hindered the view a little, and some
distance before us we saw two pedestrians, and having over-
taken them, we found them of the right stamp, and we soon
were in agreeable conversation. We turned aside into the
grounds of Barrow House to see the cataract, which would
have been a very good waterfall had there been any water.
But as it was, we were considerably disappointed. There had
been much rain the last few days, but very little was running
here. From the terrace at the upper fall we got a fine view
of the lake, the mountains beyond, and a glimpse down
the valley at Bassenthwaite.
A little way farther on we came to the little inn of Lodore,
and depositing our bags, we go at once to the fall. Here,
over a series of huge blocks that have fallen down from the
cliffs on each side, with a constant supply, the water does all
that Bobert Southey says of it; for here—BORROWDALE.
71
“ Never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once, and all o'er, with a mighty uproar—
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.”
But there is something else besides the “ dashing and flashing
and splashing” of water at Lodore. The vast volume of
sound, by precluding the possibility of conversation, seems
to claim for the fall the entire attention of the observer; and
the trees that have fastened themselves on and among the
giant rocks, the loom of the perpendicular cliffs, 150 feet
high, the sunbeams that manage to penetrate the chasm, and
the water itself hurrying fiercely
“Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shattered, and the same for ever,”
all unite in laying a spell of strong enchantment on the
spirit ; and there conies a soul-absorbing ecstacy, and a lifting
up of heart, and a widening of thought, and a desire to muse
and linger.
But time lingers not, and we pass on. At Grange Bridge
we enter Borrowdale, but loiter to look again at Derwent-
water, and the crags and hills that bound it. Perhaps no
scene was ever lovelier. Some are divided as to the claims of
Ulleswater, but the majority of tourists, we believe, award
the palm to lovely Derwentwater.
Now Castle Crag is to our right, and rough rocks are
beside us ; the road winds among them. What do you think
of the origin of granite 1 This was a question asked by one
of our company, which started a pleasant discussion on
neptunian and plutonic theories, and the nebular hypothesis,
which lasted us nearly to the Bowderstone, not, however,ti
BORROWDALE.
without sundry digressions and notes of admiration for the
purple heather, the clear water of Borrowdale Beck, and the
narrowing of the vale, and the height of the mountains
around.
We turned aside to the Bowder Stone, an enormous rock—
“ Besembling, as it lay,
Bight at the foot of that moist precipice,
A stranded ship with keel upturned.”
We walked round it, and ascended to the top by a good set
of wooden steps. There we sat. One of us lunched, two
smoked—all of us speculated. The valley here is lovely in
the extreme. The steep isolated height of Castle Crag,
wooded to the very top, is before us, and further the bare
rough hills that form the western boundary of the dale.
Behind us are rude precipitous rocks, going up hundreds of
feet; and once on a time the huge block on which we are
sitting was up there, and being dissatisfied with its position,
came down from the height with a hop, skip, jump, and—
thunder ! We saw all this, or thought of it, and wished we
could have been there at the fall. We went back in imagina-
tion to times prediluvian and pre-Adamic, and then descended
to—yes, positively, from the Bowder Stone, to—change for
sixpence. An ancient dame waylaid us at the bottom, and
stuck a printed sheet before our noses, informing us that she
kept the Bowder Stone House, and that it (not the house) was
so many feet high, and wide, and long, and weighed so many
hundred tons, which the guide books tell you all about. We
gave her a few pence, and uTent on dissatisfied and grumbling.
But don’t think we were mean, dear reader ; we have heard
of a bishop who gave this same ancient lady the large sum of
one halfpenny.BORROWDALE.
73
The Romans found out this valley, and possessed it, for on
the top of Castle Crag they had an encampment whose traces
yet remain : and yet it has been shut up for ages, its inhabit-
ants having little communication with the world beyond their
mountains, and strange stories are told of their exceeding
simplicity. But this is passing away. Many good mansions
are erecting near, tourists come from far away, and carry away
a good report of the dale, and some associate with it their
tenderest recollections; for here we see a young couple
apparently unmindful of the things around. They saunter still
up Borrowdale ; they
* * * “ did not mark how the skies in wrath
Grew dark above their head.
They did not mark how the mossy path
Grew damp beneath their tread.”
But we did. The rain began to descend, or rather the drizzle
came, and gloom gathered round Glaramara. We spoke to a
photographic artist who had been at Ulleswater with us, and
was here now trying his camera on the clouds.
At Rossthwaite we looked at some specimens of plumbago
got at the mines above, and passed on, and soon we are at
Seatollar. Here our paths divide. Our companions will see
Wastwater, we go to Crummock. We bid them farewell, and
wish them joy of the storm in Sty Head Pass, then turn and
ascend the Buttermere Haws. An elderly gentleman alights
from a carriage mostly occupied by ladies, and we have some
chat on the toilsome ascent through the wood. We turn to
look again at bonnie Borrowdale, and when the rain ceased
in half an hour, we again encased the umbrella, and leading
our carriage acquaintance, (who did not overtake us for several74
BORROWDALE.
miles) we went on our upland path, none the less grand in i ts
wildness because, of the beauty of the dale we had left.
On our left is the frowning front of Honister, and, as we
begin to descend, its steep face becomes terrific. This is right
weather for a precipice ; the gloom adds to the grandeur of the
beetling height. We are by the shore of the lake. This is
beautiful Buttermere, beyond us is Crummock, so here we
stay in the hamlet, and enjoy amazingly the a la fourchette.
.——SCALE FORCE.
It was the Victoria Hotel at which we staid at Buttermere,
and after doing j ustice to the fine char from the lake, we
rambled in the gloaming down Crummock side. Our pace
was a saunter, and the quiet pall of the night, gently dropping
on mountain and mere, seemed to require that our thoughts
should be stately and slow, and we thought of the gloomy
hills fast fading into blackness, and the grey clouds looking
every moment greyer and grimmer, and the shadows of the
pines darker and darker still ; and we listened to the gentle
ripple breaking at our feet, and the soft wail of the wind
through the trees, till the deep solemnity transfused itself into
the soul, and, returning to our quiet parlour, we sat still in
the window for a long time staring into the darkness without.
Then we called for lights. Then we looked about the room, we
read, we wrote, we opened the visitors’ book, and found an
entry to this effect by some pedestrians who had come to this
place by the route we purposed pursuing on the morrow :—
“ Arrived here from---------, by way of Ennerdale, Floutem
Tarn, and Scale Force.	*	* Would advise those
who go that route to start early, as there is no path.” Con-
solatory that, thought we ; but it will not be the first track-
less desert we have passed, so we are off in the morning,
There are other entries in that same visitor’s book. Short,
pithy things some; some miserable attempts at poetry ; and76
SCALE FORCE.
We spent lanlf an hour conning them over. There is one
relating to the merits of the inn—“ Capital place for a
saturated traveller • landlord, landlady, Jane and Mary, vie
in attention.” Another is a good specimen of rhyme. It
comes after the following names, thus—
“June 7th, 1858.”
“ Mrs. Bobinson and party.”
“ Jabez Brown and two friends.”
“The Smiths and the Jones’s will come, never fear,
To see the famed beauties of sweet Buttermere ;
Then sail and enjoy the waters of Crummock,
Beturn and attend to the claims of the stomach.”
Shall we be infringing copyright by transferring that to our
pages 1 - We trust not, but hope the rhymester will see it,
and recommend our hook to his friends.
Our bed was soft, and what w as far better, clean ; our limbs
were tired, our brain drowsy, so our rest was perfect, our
sleep undisturbed. We arose in the morning fresh and lively,
and no way indisposed to use a fork at breakfast. That
duty performed and our bill paid, we have a chat with “ mine
host” about distances, paths, and such matters, and we go
out with him harnessed for our journey.
First through the hamlet (about three houses), then down a
dirty lane, Buttermere to the left, Crummock a little to the
right. We are instructed to get over a gate, and have our
route pointed out to us for some distance, and some plain in-
structions as to the rest. Here is Sour Milk Gill, streaking
the hill with white, and, taking a last look at it, we are soon
after skirting the foot of the steep slope. ' There had been
much rain in the night. The clouds are on the Bed Pike
yet, but old Sol is lifting them up, and though the ground
ISCALE FORCE.
77
is very mossy, very wet, ancl anon very stony, we have a
pleasant walk. All our nether garments are soon soaking
wet. Thick tough leather avails not here, so we determine to
make no more circuits to choose a path, hut go straight as
the crow flies to yon lone holly tree, one of the landmarks
pointed out to us from below. So we go, and as we go the
lake below us is brightening, for clouds are scattering. We use
our staff, for we need it • our path is athwart the slope of the
hill, and it is a stiff pull up to the holly tree, so while we
breathe, we look around. Above us goes sheer and rugged the
ascent of the Red Pike. Further up the valley is High Style,
and between them the clouds are stooping to drink from
the waters of Blaeberry Tarn. Beneath them is Buttermere.
Beautiful Buttermere !—quiet and glassy, now dark with
the shadow of clouds, now bright with the sheen of the sun.
Right up the valley is the frowning front of Ilonister, and all
around are mountains. Immediately beneath us is Crum-
mock, almost islandless, like Buttermere, taking its aspect
from the sky, beautiful where its banks are wooded, and grand
from its framework of hills. Two gems are these lakes—-
two mirrors fringed with emerald, and set in a carving from
the hands of Vulcan. Hone of your delicate workmen is
he. Rough, rude, and grand are the designs from his
studio.
So pass we on. We thought we were alone in the wilder*
ness, but here a dog breaks across our path, barking up the
hill. He may be going to collect sheep, but we can see none.
His master is below hallooing from the shore of the lake.
Beyond we see several men, not quarrying, but collecting large
blocks of stone, and bringing them, with lever and crow, to
H78
SCALE FORCE.
the water side. We get over a wall, and here is the heck
running down to the lake, and up that chasm is Scale Force,
the highest waterfall in South Britain.
Force ! A forcible word is that; and when one has seen
water leaping through a cleft scarce six feet wide from a
height of 150 feet, he will not have a mean idea of the
reason why our ancestors called a waterfall like this, or Stock
Gill, or Aira, by this name—Force. Here is something like
a path and a few rude steps, and the lower fall of 12 or 15
feet is passed, and we are in the chasm. We pass close to
one side, and with our staff can touch the other, which goes
straight up like the wall of a house. In the crevices are
mosses and ferns, and in the clefts are trees—vigorous, young
mountain ashes ; and they send up their trunks parallel with
the straight walls, and their branches across, to interlace
with others, and help to shut out the sunlight; and the spray,
on which the sun never shines, is soaking ; and yonder,
where it tires the neck to look, up through the trees—up
where blue sky can be seen—yonder is the front of the fall ;
and here around, above, and below, an everlasting thunder.
That is Scale Force—a chasm cleft by Yulcan, where the
Water Demon for ever howls.
We come out and seek the sunshine. We look back at the
narrow cleft. Not a sound do we hear from it. We are
only a few scores of yards away, but all sound has ceased.
Is it so really, or is it only an apparent quiet arising from the
contrast of the quiet hills, the quietly sailing clouds, and the
quiet lake, with the sound that ere now was all about us and
permeated us, like the spray our clothing 1 We will not
decide, but so it was • we could hear nothing save the bleat
of a distant sheep.SCALE FORCE.
79
Onward, and we reach the Saddle Gap pointed out by-
mine host of the Queen. We sit on the turf, and with map
and compass take the hearings, and decide our future route.
We make out all light, and proceed westward. The scene
has changed quite. Here is an upland marsh shut in with
hills. Till the gap through which we have come was formed,
here might have been a lake as large as Buttermere. Marsh
it is now, however, and we have to go through it for to go to
the hill side—either right or left would be to make a circuit
that would materially add to the fatigues of the day. Though
marsh the land is, there seems to be firm bottom, and a stony
stream winds through it, and finds an outlet below Mel-
break to Lowes Water. We find cranberries groAving here—
not plentifully, but Ave take some along Avith us. We see a
flock of geese. Are they Avild ones 1 We cannot tell. The
valley is secluded enough. The lakes are not visible here.
There is no sign of human habitation. If the}'-, the geese,
are domestic fowls, the OAvner has a wide range of pasture.
There they are quietly feeding on the edge of the hill. Some-
times there is a long leap to be taken to clear the stream,
but at last Ave come to a spur of the northern ridge, and Ave
take to dry land. But Avhat are these two eyes 1 We look
again. Yes, bright blue eyes, like the look of love from a
fair-haired maid. Shall Ave pluck them 'l Ho. But oft will Ave
think of them. There, by the mountain marsh, in the lonely
Avilderness, shining out sweetly, Ave suav them. Men call
them mouse-ear; in the books we see them named
palustris; but Ave, when we think of the hills and the
heather, the babbling brook or foaming torrent, the quiet lake
or thundering cataract, or aught in nature of bright, beauti-80
SCALE FORCE.
ful or grand, we shall call to mind that soft loving look of
the bright blue eyes, and their name will be “Forget me
not.”
Still upward and onward. There is sometliing like a path
here. It is certain men have trodden this way. We could
get along well here if we would go direct west, and soon
reach the highest point of the pass ; but we would see the
tarn, and that dam-like slope to the left certainly conceals it
from our sight. We turn aside and mount slowly up the
grassy brow. We reach the ridge, and stand on the margin
of Floutern Tarn. The water looks as black as ink at first
sight, but looking straight down into it we find it is as clear as
crystal. It is the boggy bottom that is black, and when we
taste we find a most disagreeable flavour is in that water,
owing to that turf at the bottom.
We look behind on the path we have come. USTo water in
sight but the tarn beside us, but yonder are the mountains
that are now like old friends—Eed Pike, High Style, High
Crag, and Honister, with Ling Crag nearer to us by the
Saddle Gap, and there behind Melbreak we know is the lower
part of Crummock. We look forward. We are on the
last slope of the hills. Below us is a broken plain, and
yonder, far away, the sea !
We descend, and shortly find ourselves approaching the
shore of Ennerdale Lake. We do not loiter now, but wre
ever and anon look up the lake, and find its surroundings
are very fine. It seems as though the lake, seeing it must
come out to the plain, would only do so with a grand accom-
paniment of high hills and steep crags, as a kind of finale to
the Lake District. In two hours we reached Whitehaven.CLIFFORD CASTLE.
In the west of Herefordshire, some fourteen miles from the
town of Leominster, is Kington or Kyneton, which some
years ago was the terminus of a railway from Leominster, hut
the line is now continued into Radnorshire. On a fine
day in August, 1858, we found ourself leaving the station
in Kington, and taking a direction something west of south,
on a road more of a byeway than a highway, we were soon
ascending the ridge that here divides the waters of the Arrow
from those which run to the Wye • and when we reached the
crest of the hill, we ascended a hank on the road-side, and
taking in the scene at a glance, there hurst from us in rapture
the exclamation—The Wye ! The Wye ! It was our first
vision of the river, and here we saw it leaving its narrow
Welsh valley, and debouching into the fine hut broken plain
of Hereford. We gazed long, till every feature of that view
left its deep impress on our memory, and then we passed on.
In a little while we left the road, and ascended rapidly the
steep declivity by a footpath through a wood, and at length
found ourself on a better road, the Wye flowing gently,
musically at our feet. We cross the wooden toll bridge,
loitering to list to the lulling sound of the stream, to take the
form of the mountains, and the beauties of the vale up the
stream, and to look downward to the course of the river
winding to the sea ; and we let our thoughts go with it, and82
CLIFFORD CASTLE.
forward they went till lost in the great sea of the future. We
turned to the right, and the sign of a roadside inn reined in
our prospective fancy, and as we were going up the stream,
so we ascended the stream of time, and lived again in the
ancient days. The sign was the Clifford Arms.
We turn aside from the road, and over a green mound we
entered the space enclosed by the ruined towers and broken
walls of Clifford Castle. This never could have been an
extensive building,—it was just the fortress of the holder of
a few manors in the days of Stephen, King of England. Well
situated within a curve of the river, the steepness of the river
bank on which it was built and the breadth of the stream
made it inaccessible on that side, and the promontory at its
commencement taking the form of a narrow ridge, on which
was the castle gate, garrisoned by resolute men and propeily
victualled, it might be in those days well nigh impregnable.
We climbed the crumbling walls to the top of what
remained of one of the circular towers, and found that it had
roof, but not of tile. Ivy had climbed the walls and spread
over the space between, interlaced and thickleaved, a roof
that well might bear the tread of feet. We surveyed the
enclosure, noticed the thickness of the walls, sat down in a
breach of the stone-v ork, and listened to the sound of the
murmuring Wye, which came softened to us from a depth of
a hundred feet.
So, thought we, Wye had murmured ’neath every sum-
mer’s sun for ages, and so had sat listening to it on the
greensward below, with dreamy eyes, the baron’s fair
child who lived here when Stephen was king. They were
troublous times when that child was young. Stephen, inCLIFFORD CASTLE.
83
spite of his oath to Henry Beauclerc, seized the crown on
his demise, and kept Henry’s daughter Matilda from the
succession. Then came civil war. Every turbulent baron •
found himself of importance, and enlarged his castle, and
mercenary adventurers, serving either the king or the queen
for pay and plunder, ground the poor people who tilled the
land or wrought at trades by an intolerable tyranny that
neither king nor queen could prevent. So the Baron de Clif-
ford, who had the Welsh marauders to look after as well as
take part in the English war, found his hands full of work,
and his castle more full of men than he always cared to victual;
and hence they were allowed to victual themselves at the
expense of any who took not the same side in the quarrel as
the Lord of Clifford.
Right glad was that fair child when the Baron was away,
and the castle held by a few, for then she could have quiet
strolls, and under the walls of the castle within sight of the
sentinel on the tower she could muse to the musical murmur
of Wye. So she grew. The lofty moimtains west and
south hindered her of extensive views; perhaps she went up
to Welsh Hay twice in a year, when it was thought there
were no enemies near ■ perhaps she never went down the
valley farther than to get a distant view of the towers of
Hereford city. So lived she till childhood changed to maiden-
hood—the lovely rose developed into the beautiful widely-
known fair Rosamond.
Then a long journey came, and the Wye was changed for
the Thames, and what was fitted for a baron’s daughter to
learn, she learned from the nuns of Godestow. When she
was about fifteen years of age, she saw one to whom her father84
CLIFFORD CASTLE.
rendered service. He was but a youth, scarce two years her
senior, but used to command. His handsome face carried
firmness in its features, and he who was readily obeyed by
warlike knights, was used to conquer female hearts. Her
father saw and dreaded their acquaintance. Tradition says
he sent her far away. But he could not otherwise resist, for
the bold youth was Matilda’s son, Henry Fitz-empress, the
first Plantagenet. She was found again. Time passed on.
Children were born to Bosamond, Henry became a King, but
she was not his queen. Years pass away. We are carried
back again to where Evenlode runs to Thamesis, where rich
meadows and gently flowing’ waters tell of fairer clime than
that of the upper valley of the Wye. Times are changed,
the mercenary soldiers are gone, hundreds of fortified
dungeons have been rased to the ground. It is safe for any
to travel, and there on the path by the river is a troop of nuns,
vowed to the service of the Virgin and St. John the
Baptist, who are talking of the service before the altar that
morning, and preparing their minds for evensong. They were
nuns of Godestow, taking their permitted walk to Medley, and
fairest among them, and withal the saddest, is fair Bose
Clifford, once their pupil, but now much honoured, for, for
her sake, ofttimes come gifts to the nunnery, and privileges
not elsewhere allowed are enjoyed there because of her.
Sweet and quiet was the evening of her life ; let us trust
that she realized how much of evil she had done ; but let us,
if we will blame, not forget him who knew how to love, but
yet would wed for ambition’s sake, and leave his love in the
cloisters of Godestow. She died, and the nuns buried her.
They held her in honour, even after her death, and she layCLIFFORD CASTLE.
85
in the choir of the chapel. A precisian bishop had her bones
removed and dishonoured, but despite her failings, she was
loved in her life, and after, and we may have a sympathy for
her as one who, though sinning, was greatly sinned against.
We have another scene before us. We are gone to sunny
France, by the pleasant town of Chinon. In a room in the
lordly castle an old man is dying. Hot old in years, for he
has not reached threescore. But he is old in griefs. Tis
Henry Plantagenet, King of England, erewhile master of all
the coast of France from the Seine to the Pyrenees, conqueror
of Ireland, and lord paramount of Scotland. ’Tis he who
left his love for his ambition. He gratified his ambition to
the utmost, but as truly, as completely, did he leave love.
His wife, his family, were a curse to him, and dying here, at
pleasant Chinon, he curses them. Even John, his youngest
born, his favourite child, had been disobedient, rebellious,
traitorous ! Hot a loving link had he to tie him to earth
among those who were laAvfully called by his name. But one
stood by him who sought to cheer his last hours, and brighten
by the consolations of religion his dying moments. His
name was Geoffrey, and he, with his brother, surnamed the
Longsword, were loyal and affectionate to the King. When
all others forsook him they were true, for his blood ran in their
veins, and gentler, truer blood than his, for their mother was
sweet Bose Clifford. The servants disregarded the dying
monarch. The very menials neglected his corpse. Hay,
they robbed it and stripped the room of its valuables. Then
hastily sheeted, the dead was carried to Fontevrauld, and
there, in the abbey church, it lay, and when a son viewed it,
and in unavailing remorse threw himself on his father’s clay,86
CLIFFORD CASTLE.
it. bled, say the chroniclers, as at the touch of a murderer. In
the abbey they buried him, and sculptured its effigy, and there
it lies
“ Unto this day,
To witness if I lie.”
They have written his name on the page of history, and in
the rolls of kings, but poor Rose Clifford has been embalmed
in tender traditions, and the crumbling walls and the ever-
flowing stream are her appropriate monuments.
A little bird is among the ivy, and its twittering has brought
ns back from France and the olden time. We are sitting on
the broken wall, and the Wye is murmuring far below. We
listen to the lark mounting with a mid-day song; we look to
the darkling woods, across the river, and yonder to the long
table-like top of the “Forest Fawr” (who was it mixed the
languages in that name 1) and up the lovely stream. We have
photographed the scene in our mind, and to us yet it is a
scene of beauty. Sure are we ’twill be “ajoy for ever.”
We descend from the wall, we pass through rhe grass-
grown court, we emerge on the highway, and pleasant and
still more delightful is the walk by the winding Wye. The
road is overhung with trees; we have bright glimpses of
sparkling water ; we see birds blithely hopping, and hear
their sweet song. And in the quietest spots, in the shadiest
places, there is “ an undertone of life ” that keeps up the
pleasure. But we have loitered long, and “ we have many
a league to go,” so, despite the noonday sun, we quicken our
pace.
Beyond the hills in front we see far, far away, a cloven
peak—the outline clearly defined up in the azure. We askCLIFFORD CASTLE.
87
a lady whom we overtake what that is so distant and dis-
tinct, and get in reply, “ That is the Beacon of Brecon.”
We passed on, sauntered through the old walled town of
Hay, and ere long, a good-natured youth in a vehicle asked
us to ride with him, which we then were not disinclined to, and
so we had with him a pleasant chat of things in general and
his horse in particular, whose paces he was proud of showing to
us. We passed on, and before eventide were in snug quarters
in Brecon town.BRECON BEACON-
The road out of Brecon westward bifurcates at a short
distance from the town, and the route to the left leads to
Merthyr Tydvil and Aberdare ; and a college chum residing
at the latter place was inducement enough for us to estend
our ramble southward; so on a rather gloomy Monday morn-
ing we found ourself taking this left-hand road, and begin-
ning a long toilsome ascent. The road swept in a large curve
up the west side of the valley, which was at its lower end
perhaps lialf-a-mile across, and which gradually narrowed to
the highest point, where it becomes a pass. The stream
which forms one of the tributaries of the Usk was on our
left, and many a gully in the steep hills on our right had
a brawling torrent, and many a steep rock had a tiny water-
fall.
When we reached the upper part of the curve, we had a
full—we might say, a front—view of Brecon Beacon. We
saw how it had appeared to us from the west as a cloven
peak. The more easterly top and the higher one was a peak,
but the other, from the view we now got, showed that it was
a long level ridge of remarkable appearance, and we could see
round its western end, and know that it was narrow. Through
its whole length it seemed overhanging, and as we got higher
and nearer, this appearance was more distinct. Perpendicular
naked rock immediately under the soil on the top for a goodBRECON BEACON.
89
many feet, and then it seemed that a lower stratum was of
softer material, which had been eaten away by the weather,
and so caused the upper strata to overhang.
We reach the summit of the pass, and the road passed
across a bog, the waters of which drained off both north and
south—those north down the vale we had ascended, to the
Usk, at Brecon, and those south formed the Biver Taff, and
the place is known by the name which in Welsh signifies the
source of that river—Blaen Taff. The little bridge we cross
before we begin the descent of Taff Yale is named Pont-yr-
Daf, and the stream beneath it tumbles over a rocky bed
downward to that valley, which here is so wild, and lower, so
lovely. Now, sheer above us to the left, is the ascent to the
overhanging top, and, considering the time of day, we question
whether we may not ascend the hill and yet reach our desti-
nation by daylight. We decide in the negative, though the
brightness of the sun and clearness of the sky tempt us much.
We determine, however, that we will take it on our return if
the weather should be favourable. Then down Taff Yale we go
to Merthyr, and climb over the ridge to Aberdare, and spend
a right pleasant evening. On the morrow, through Hirwain
and over a bleak moorland, and reach Taff Yale again, only a
short distance from Blaen Taff, and forthwith we commence
the ascent of Brecon Beacon.
The sun is bright and hot, the turf soft and springy, the
heather sweet, and the breeze pleasant and fresh, and we
go up, and under the length of that overhanging ridge. It
looks when we get higher up as if it would topple over upon
us. We do not approach very close to it to examine care-
fully, but it seems from this side perfectly inaccessible. We
i90
BRECON BEACON.
rest often, for our ascent is very steep, and we have a bag on
our shoulders. We go round the shoulder of the ridge,
and find ourself on another ridge that gradually rises to
the highest summit, where we can see the handywork of
man marking the very top. The descent to our left is very
steep, indeed precipitous, and so for a short distance is that to
our right. We have to keep the ridge, which is not very wide.
The sun is very hot; we have ascended a great height ; we are
perspiring at every pore. Some distance below, when we ate
a sandwich, we had looked in vain for water; but now, within
a short distance of the summit, we heard among the rocks a
trickling sound, wliich was then like sweetest music. We
jumped down a few feet to our right, and there, under a mossy
rock, was a little pool of sparkling water. Pleasant and cool
was the draught we took, and fresh life seemed to run
through our veins as we partook of the limpid liquid. A
short distance brought us to the top. The pile here was not
of stones, like those we have seen on Snowdon and Helvellyn.
It was made of turf. All the comparatively flat area was
covered with peat to the depth in places, we believe, of
several feet. Strange ! Put so it is. On that top there has
been much vegetation some time. Is it the remains of old
forest, or the long accumulation of the decayed short herbage,
such as now grows there 1 We will not say.
Reader, did you ever hear of Martin Parquhar Tupper 1
We had before we were at Brecon, but at that time he did not
stand very high in our estimation, and in Brecon a sonnet of
his was put into our hands written by him that by no means
heightened our appreciation of his poetic porvers. The sub-
ject was Brecon Beacon, and we thought it anything butBRECON BEACON.
. 91
expressive, but now some of the words of it came to our
mind, and on that mountain top we recognised the truth and
power of his description. He says—
“ Oh ! glorious sea of mountains in a storm;”
which, down beside the Usk, we understood not, but there,
standing on the peat stack, and looking around, we felt was
grandly true. Several ridges of sandstone hills run away
from near this summit as from a centre, and here at the
centre terminate abruptly in a series of precipices arranged on
three sides of a grand amphitheatre down into which we
looked. Each long ridge looked like the back of a huge
wave, and the precipitous end was thrown up higher like the
crest of a billow, and the bare rocks, being of lighter colour
than the other parts of the ridge, looked not unlike the
manes of Heptune’s “ tireless white horses.” It looks as
though all nature were in a ferment ; as though winds came
from all quarters and heaped the mountains up as water, and
here the billows throw up their heads round a yawning
gulf. We stand on the edge of it, and look down. We
throw a stone down, or rather let it fall, and watch it go
bounding from ledge to ledge, the sound of it lost entirely,
for we are on a giddy height. Far below we saw that the
stone disturbed a living thing on one of the ledges. It was
a sheep, so we threw no more stones, for we wanted not to
injure aught that breathed.
We could for a long distance trace the road we had come
up the day before, and the route we had come to-day. We
could see that it would be nearer to reach Brecon by the side
of the hill up which we had not come, but there was a
haziness that prevented a clear view of distant objects. So92
BRECON BEACON.
we went again to that mountain spring, and drank of the
crystal wine, and then, as nearly as we could, descended in a
straight line towards Brecon, and ere long we were in green
lanes, where nutting was profitable. And so we came down
the twenty odd hundred feet from Brecon Beacon to Brecon
town.LLANGOLLEN.
A lovely morn in June, 1857. Arrived at Llangollen Road
Station (you can go by rail to Llangollen itself now), and
though we knew the road was pleasant, we rode in the ’bus
to the town, reserving our walk for the return journey.
Directly we could see the valley of the Dee, and the Waterloo
Tower in Sir Watkin’s domains stood out to view. Then the
two engineering triumphs, the viaduct of the railway, one
hundred and fifty feet high and fifteen hundred feet long, and
the aqueduct of the Pont-y-Cysylltau, nearly one hundred
and thirty feet high, carrying the waters of the Ellesmere
canal across the valley. When we got a little higher up the
valley, looking down, railway and canal both in sight, the river
far below, its murmurings lost to the ear, the almost inter-
minable woods of Wynnstay beyond,—the sight is so charming
that neither the higgledy-piggledy arrangement of Cefn
Mawr, on the brow opposite, nor the blackness of the iron-
works, nor the smoke of the limekilns nearer, could make us
think that this was ought but lovely.
We rode on. A short hour brought us to Llangollen. It
was our first visit. Long years before, in our veriest child-
hood, we read in a book well known to our grandfathers
(“ The Picture of Human Life”) a story called the Wild Rose
of Llangollen, and ofttimes had heard of the loveliness of
this valley. But now, above and below the old, old bridge
on which we stood, rolled the ancient yellow river,
u Deva’s wizard stream.”94
LLANGOLLEN.
We passed out of the town ; we were really in the Vale of
Llangollen. The wood-covered slopes were all around us.
Oak, ash, and beech were flourishing. That is the road to
the Abbey. This is the way to Crow Castle, high up yonder
on its lone hill; and there, a great white fact fronting the
sun, the Eglyseg rocks.
We take the way to the castle, and ere we have proceeded
far a gate flies open at our approach, and two barefooted
urchins cry out “a’p'ny.” A little distance farther is
another opened gate, and the same cry. We could not but
moralise upon the begging propensities of all who live where
sight-seers are frequent.
We continue to ascend the conical hill crested by the
ruins of Castle Dinas Bran, for so in Welsh is it called. It
is a toilsome ascent, but not such as would be imagined from
reading Dugdale. How the donkeys ascend we cannot tell,
but our ponies did very well. The area of the hill top is
not large, and would seem to have been occupied entirely by
the castle when at its greatest extent. The hill is an abut-
ment from the ridge of the Eglyseg rocks, which here form
the southern boundary of the vale. But as there is a con-
siderable depression between this summit and the ridge, the
castle stood alone, and might well have been considered
impregnable in the days before gunpowder. The ruins have
nothing remarkable about them but the hardness of the
cement, which, composed of pebbles, sand, and lime, seems
more durable than the stone it binds. We have seen like it,
in the small portion that is left of Oswestry Castle, and again
at Piel Castle in Furness, only in the latter there is an
admixture of shells. The ruins are visible from the rail-LLANGOLLEN.
95
way, five miles away, and a portion of them present to that
view the appearance of a headless horse.
Who built this castle is not known, but when the feeble
Henry III ruled in England, and his son Edward the greatest
of his line, an oppressive lord ruled in Crow Castle. They
called him Griffydd ap Madoc Maelor. Then Wales was
struggling for freedom, the dominant Plantagenets seeking to
embrace it in their increasing realms, and Griffydd basely
sided with the English against his country. Edward always
appreciated services of this kind, so he secretly made away
with the sons of Griffydd, and gave their estate to John, Earl
Warrenne.
The view from the castle is very fine. We have the vale
above and below. Downwards we see the aqueduct and the
viaduct, and the woods of Wynnstay. Up the valley, trees,
and trees, and trees, and the river winding deeply among
them, and high above them, mountain and moorland for far
away.
Descending the hill, we turn to the right. Before we reach
the town, we pass to the slate works and the dam where the
Dee feeds the canal. We turn again to the right into a
valley—bleak, bare, and broad. Some distance from us we
see some trees and a building. Can that be the Abbey %
Yes, it must be, see the pointed end. We felt disappointed.
We thought too much fuss had been made about it. There
was nothing at all imposing. Higher up the valley we see
a pillar, the pillar of Eliseg, from which the valley gets its
name. This is Yalle Crueis, the Valley of the Cross.
We turn across the mead and stand under the ash trees so
famous in drawing copies and prints. We knock at the96
LLANGOLLEN.
ponderous door. We are admitted within the walls. Our
foregone thoughts were hasty; we would have hushed them then
as though they had not been. We cry	Oh, artist,
painter, or poet, forgive; we judged before we saw. But
now we are within the glorious ruin. We stand in the Abbey
of Valle Crucis.
The Abbey was built by Cistercian monks, so called from
Cisteux, (Latin Cistertium), in Burgundy, about the year
1200. These said Cistercians wTere at that time very busy
colonising. They chose retired spots for their foundations,
far away from other habitations, and so this lone valley in
Wales was selected for one of their finest abbeys. These
same Cistercians built Fountains, and Tintern, and Jerveaux,
and lived at Byland and Roche, and Build was.	They soon
became a powerful order, though only established in 1098,
and introduced into England thirty years later, for they had
the powerful patronage of St. Bernard. But their glory is all
departed now. Three hundred years ago Thomas Cromwell
“mauled” them terribly, as he did all other orders of monks,
and now, like most other abbeys of England, Valle Crucis is
only roofless ruin. The rubbish is carried out. Where was the
old church floor, is smooth green-sward, and the effigy of the
armed knight is broken, and we are told this, that, and the
other by a female cicerone. We listened, but asked few
questions, as we preferred to muse on the ruin present—the
glory past. We were thankful to the lady that she took us
out to the east, where lies a sheet of water. There was
nothing remarkable about it, but when we had passed it the
lady said, “ Turn round and look in the water." We turned
and looked. Below the grassy margin, deep down in the clearLLANGOLLEN.
97
pool, was an image of the form above, the fine unglazed oriel
of the abbey. We have seen many views of the abbey
published, but this we have never seen ; still the memory of
it is fresh with us—a golden memory of the passed away.
Back again in the town. We have some refreshment. Now
for the walk to Cefn. Reader, did you ever walk from
Gathurst to Appley Bridge on the Leeds and Liverpool canal,
or on the Peak Forest canal from Hyde to Marple 1 If so,
you may form some idea of this walk. But to know this
properly you must see it. The canal, of undefiled Dee water,
like a slow, solemn companion to the stream brawling scores
of feet lower down the valley, glides along under tall, gloomy
firs and tasselled larch. Willows hang down their streamers ;
ashes and birch trees add their charms. Glimpses of distant
mountains and distant woods, pleasant sunshine, pleasant
company. We are in the Yale of Llangollen. We have
seen- “Jenny Jones.”
We pass on. We are approaching Cefn. There are coal
boats here. We see the darker hue of the sky about the
ironworks. We have come through the smoke of the lime-
kilns blown hitherwards ; we have turned the bend of the
canal ; we are standing on the towing path of the Pont-
y-Cysylltau aqueduct. From the level of the canal to level
of the river is 127 feet, and only an iron rail to prevent our
fall. Here are nineteen arches, each having a span of forty-
five feet. Walk on ; look down. What a giddy height !
Look east. There is the viaduct. What a splendid sight !
Not far away, but far enough for a heavy railway train to
seem to move through the air.
When our beloved sovereign wras the Princess Victoria98
LLANGOLLEN.
she visited this place, being a guest at Wynnstay, and close
to where we are standing now a breach was made in the
channel of the canal, so that there was exhibited for her
benefit a waterfall of nearly 130 feet. That is not the
highest in England, but it could be seen to better advantage
than most falls in the kingdom.
Since that June holiday eight years ago, we have many a
time walked over the aqueduct of the Ellesmere canal at
Cefn, and over the not less beautiful though less extensive
one over the Ceiriog, at Chirk. (We have crossed that when
Ariel has gone past us on a bat’s back, and the white owl gone
for company.) We have walked at early dawn over the
massive arches of the Dee viaduct, swallows and swifts
twittering and whistling far below. We have driven and
walked over yond light iron bridge at Cefn Bychan; we have
seen the Dee rolling fiercely after rain out of Llyn Tegid,
and sweeping in broader, heavier flood past Corwen. We
have crossed it by all the three bridges at Chester we have
seen the river and the vale in storm and shine ; but we do not
forget our first visit to Llangollen, or the pleasant time we
spent that evening with pleasant friends in a pleasant parlour
at Cefn Mawr.
CONGLOMERATE.
“ What is the nature of the adhesive part of this non-
calcareous sandstone ?” Such was the question put by the
Cromarty stonemason to Professor Pillans. And what is the
kind of thought that has induced the writer of this volume
to string together the sketches it contains, to make a whole of
them—or are they sufficiently homogeneous to he considered
as a whole 1 Such will perhaps he a question put by many
a reader of this volume, and in a few pages we will say some-
thing in answer. In a valley of Montgomeryshire watered
by a tributary of the Yyrniew, is an ancient corporate toAvn
named Llanfyllin. It seems an out-of-the-way place, and so
it really was half-a-dozen years ago, being then innocent of
railways and gas. Not many drearier sights, sweet reader, in
this world than a small Welsh town on a wet Saturday night,
without gas. However do they exist ? How did everybody
exist fifty years ago ? Impossible. No wonder they were
called the dark ages.
There are some historic associations connected with this
town of Llanfyllin. One of the unfortunate and mis-
guided Stuarts was here. Llewellyn ap Griffydd chartered
the town, and the Romans made one of their great roads
along the valley ; but the glory of Llanfyllin is the
hills around it. Many of these hills have we ascended, and
many of the valleys have we explored. Some of the eminences
are famous for their tremendous names. Here is one.
Moelyfronllwydd. Unless you have a Welsh friend beside you,100
CON GLOMERATE.
brother Englishman, do not attempt to pronounce that word,
and if you have, you must exonerate us from blame if your
jaws come to grief. You are fairly warned.
Another is Allt-y-gader, which, in form, as seen from
lower down the valley, is something like the back of an
animal cross-bred between a Bactrian camel and a whale.
The rock of which this hill is composed is one of the
Silurians known as the Wenlock shale, which in places is of
sufficient hardness and thickness as to be worth quarrying,
and on the west side of this hill is a quarry where we have
sought and found fossils. In that same quarry there is or
was a thin stratum differing entirely from the other rocks. It
extended a few yards, and was only a few inches thick. A
deposit of quartz pebbles, rounded and polished like those of
our modern streams. These were fastened into a matrix of
dark brown ironstone, similar to that which, in many parts of
this region, is intercalated frequently in the Silurian limestones,
and is highly fossiliferous, only that here it was very hard. It
has often, since we looked upon it in the side of Allt-y-gader,
afforded ground for speculation, and now a small portion of
it that we chipped off and carried away gives us a text where-
with to close our volume, which is small and like unto it, apiece
of conglomerate.
We have in the foregoing pages stated some historical facts,
given some topographical information, and here and there a
very little geology; we have recorded many pleasant experiences
gathered out of doors, and may be there are some thoughts
worth the telling. They all form a conglomerate, but there
is an adhesive principle among the parts besides the juxta-
position caused by typography or the external force of the
binder’s press. The contents of this volume are bound to-
gether in our mind by links of pleasure ; yea, our
peripatetic experiences are a chain of delight, and if we have
brought in the poets it is because they are linked by their art
and names to the places we have seen. A happy Christmas
to you, sweet reader.
CLARKE AND CO., PRINTERS, MARKET PLACE, WIGAN.

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