Part 15 (1/2)
[5] Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing.
THE INSCRIBED ROCKS OF WINDERMERE.
Our boatman told us, that at a short distance on the eastern side of Windermere lake, were some inscriptions on the rocks, which were the greatest curiosities of the place. The guide-book having made no mention of them, we were the more anxious to see what they were, and were rowed ash.o.r.e accordingly, at a point not far from Lowood Inn. Here we found every smooth surface afforded by the rocks--every slab on the stratified formation--covered with inscriptions, engraved with much toil, in letters varying from six to twenty or twenty-four inches in height. On one large red stone of at least ten feet square, was engraved ”1833.
MONEY. LIBERTY. WEALTH. PEACE;”--a catalogue of blessings very much to be desired. On another stone was the simple date ”1688:” expressive enough of the engraver's political sentiments. And on another, in larger characters, ”A SLAVE LANDING ON THE BRITISH STRAND, BECOMES FREE.”
All the largest stones, and slabs, some of which were horizontal, others vertical, and the rest inclined at various angles, and the whole of them giving evidence that the place had formerly been a quarry, were covered with inscriptions of a like purport. The following are a few of the most striking. One immense surface of rock bore the following names, which are transcribed in the original order:--”SUN. BULWER. DRYDEN.
DAVY. BURNS. SCOTT. BURDETT. GARRICK. KEMBLE. GRAY. KEAN. MILTON. HENRY BROUGHAM. JAMES WATT. PROFESSOR WILSON. DR. JENNER.” To which were added the words in characters equally conspicuous, ”THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS.”
”MAGNA CHARTA.” This slab was a testimony, apparently, of the engraver's admiration of great intellect. One close alongside side of it was of a different style, and bore the date ”1836,” followed by the words, ”WILLIAM IV. PRESIDENT JACKSON. LOUIS PHILIPPE. BRITANNIA RULES THE WAVES.” Next to that again was a still larger surface of rock on which was indented, ”NATIONAL DEBT, 800,000,000. O SAVE MY COUNTRY, HEAVEN!
GEORGE III. AND WILLIAM PITT.” ”MONEY IS THE SINEW OF WAR.” ”FIELD MARSHAL WELLINGTON. HEROIC ADMIRAL NELSON. CAPTAIN COOK. ADMIRAL RODNEY.” One stone, at least eight feet square, bore but one word in letters a yard long, and that was significant enough--viz. ”STEAM.”
On inquiring of the boatman who it was that had expended so much labour, he pointed out another stone, on which were the words, ”John Longmire, Engraver,” and informed us that it was a person of that name, who had spent about six years of his prime in this work--labouring here alone, and in all weathers--and both by night and by day. He took great pleasure in the task; and was, as the boatman took pains to impress upon us, rather ”dull” at the time. This phrase, as he afterwards explained, implies, in this part of the country, that he was deranged; and I thought, when looking with renewed interest upon these mementos of his ingenuity and perseverance, misapplied though they were, that it was a happy circ.u.mstance that an afflicted creature could have found solace under calamity, in a manner so harmless. There was a method in the work, and a sense, too, in the poor man's ideas, which showed that his sympathies were in favour of the moral and intellectual advancement of mankind; and that, amid the last feeble glimmerings of his own reason, he could do honour to those whose intellect had benefited and adorned our age. I could learn no further particulars of him; our friend, the boatman, not being able to say whether he were dead or alive, or whether his ”dullness” had ever manifested itself in a more disorderly manner than in these inscriptions.
EDGAR, THE LORD OF ENNERDALE.
A TRADITION OF WOTOBANK, NEAR EGREMONT.
In the neighbourhood of Egremont, there is a romantic hill called Wotobank, with which a traditionary story is connected, and from which its name is said to have originated. The tale relates that ”a lord of Egremont, with his lady Edwina and servants, was hunting the wolf; during the chase, the lady was missing, and after a long and painful search, her body was found lying on this romantic acclivity, or bank, mangled by a wolf, which was in the very act of ravenously tearing it to pieces. The sorrow of the husband, in the first transports of his grief, was expressed by the words--”Wo to this bank!”--whence the hill obtained the name of ”Wotobank.” Mrs. Cowley has adopted this legend for the subject of her beautiful poem ”Edwina.” After ascending Skiddaw, and casting a glance around:--
”Here--across the tangley dells; There--on the misty distant fells,”
the poetess thus proceeds:--
--”But chiefly, Ennerdale, to thee I turn, And o'er thy healthful vales heart-rended mourn!
--For ah! those plains, those vales, those sheltering woods, Nourish'd by Ba.s.senthwaite's contiguous floods, Once witness'd such a sad and heavy deed As makes the aching memory recede.”
Then introducing the Lord of Ennerdale, she continues:--
”He, the sole heir of Atheling was known, Whose blood, stern Scotland! 'midst thy heaths has flown.
Not five and twenty summers o'er his head Had led their orbs, when he preferr'd to wed The sweet Edwina. Blooming were the charms Which her fond father gave to Henry's arms.
Long had he woo'd the charming, bashful maid, Who, yet to listen to Love's tales afraid, By many modest arts--(so Love ordains) Increas'd his pa.s.sion, though increas'd his pains.
At length the nuptial morn burst from the sky, Bidding prismatic light before her fly; Soft purple radiance streamed around her car, Absorbing all the beams of every star;-- Roses awaken'd as she pa.s.s'd along, And the high lark perform'd his soaring song, Whilst pinks, their fragrance shaking on the air, The proud carnation's glories seem'd to share; The breezes s.n.a.t.c.h'd their odours as they flew, And gave them in their turn pellucid dew, Which fed their colours to a higher tone, Till all the earth a vegetative rainbow shone.
Beneath her husband's roof the matchless fair Graced each delight, and each domestic care.
Her plastic needle bade fresh flow'rets grow; And, hung in rich festoons, around her glow; In cooling grots her sh.e.l.lwork seized the eye, With skill arrang'd, to show each melting dye; Her taste the garden everywhere sustain'd, In each parterre her vivid fancy reign'd.
Submissive yews in solid walls she form'd, Or bade them rise a castle, yet unstorm'd; In love the eagle hover'd o'er its nest, Or seem'd a couchant lion sunk to rest.
Her husband's sports his lov'd Edwina shar'd, For her the hawking party was prepar'd; She roused the wolf--the foaming boar she chased, And Danger's self was in her presence graced.
Thus roll'd two years on flowery wheels along, Midst calm domestic bliss, and sport, and song.
O, Edgar! from pernicious Gallia's sh.o.r.e, Hadst thou, immoral youth! return'd no more, Such years tho' lengthen'd time had sweetly run, Down to the faintest beams of life's last sun.
But thou returnd'st! and thy voluptuous heart, Which from temptation never knew to start, Seized on Edwina as a lawful prize-- All dead to Honour's voice, and Conscience' secret cries.
Edgar to Ennerdale oft bent his way, His form was courtly, and his manners gay; To Henry he would speak of wars he'd seen, Of tournaments, and gaudes, 'midst peace serene.
When for Edwina's ear the tale was fram'd The beauties of bright Gallia's court were nam'd, Their lives, their loves, all past before her view, And many things were feign'd he never knew.
At length the prudent fair remark'd the style, And saw beneath his ease distorted guile;-- For virtue in his tales ne'er found a place, Nor maiden vigilance, nor matron grace, But wild and loose his glowing stories ran, And thus betray'd the black designing man.
As when, in eastern climes, 'midst hours of play, A sweet boy (wand'ring at the close of day, Along the margin of a gadding stream, Whilst Hope around him throws her fairy dream) Sudden beholds the panther's deadly eye, And turns, by impulse strong, his step to fly-- So turn'd Edwina, when she saw, reveal'd, The net th' ensnaring youth had hop'd conceal'd: Whenever he appear'd her air grew cold, And awed to mute despair this baron bold; He by degrees forbore to seek her gate, Who sat enshrin'd within, in Virtue's state.
But his wild wishes did not cease to rage, Nor did he strive their fever to a.s.suage-- For sinful love is ever dear to sin, Its victims self-correction ne'er begin; But, hurried on by h.e.l.l, pursue their road, Nor heed surrounding woes, nor tremble at their G.o.d!
The huntsman blew his horn, ere listless day Had from his shoulder thrown his robe of gray, Ere he had shaken from his s.h.i.+ning hair The rosy mists which irrigate the air.
Lord Henry heard--and from his pillow sprung, And bold responsive notes he cheerily sung; Then, ”Wake my love!” the happy husband cried, To her, who, sweetly slumbering at his side, Wish'd still, thus slumbering, to wear the morn, And almost chid the tyrant horn-- Yet quick she rose, and quick her busy maids, Folding her yellow locks in careless braids, Equipp'd her for the field--sweeping she flew, Like a slim arrow from the graceful yew.
Her jet-black steed more lively seem'd to bound, When the light burden on his back he found-- The jet-black steed her husband had bestow'd, When first, a huntress, at his side she rode; Long was his streaming main, his eye of fire, Proved his descent from no ign.o.ble sire; He sprung 'midst Araby's far distant plains, Whose sands the bleeding violet never stains.