Tales and Legends of the English Lakes Part 13

In making an ascent of Helvellyn, some tourists are bold enough to traverse the giddy and dangerous heights of Striding Edge: "but this road," says the Bard of the Lakes, "ought not to be taken by any one with weak nerves, as the top in many places scarcely affords room to plant the foot, and is beset with awful precipices on either side." The path on one part of the pa.s.s is certainly not more than two yards broad, and a tremendous precipice descending on each side makes it truly appalling and perilous.

Mr. Baines, who, with a companion, ascended Helvellyn by this pa.s.s some years ago, thus describes it:--"The ridge we were upon--Striding Edge--was the shorter but more rugged path; and, in spite of the warnings of our boatman, we chose it, being incited by curiosity, and perhaps quite as much by the motive which actuates most men in fighting duels--a fear lest our courage should be called in question if we declined the danger. We therefore addressed ourselves to the pa.s.sage of Striding Edge; but if we had seen the most dangerous part before we came to it, we should have been content to take the safer though more cowardly branch of the alternative offered to us. As we ascended, the hill became more steep and rugged, till at length the ridge presented nothing but rocks, the narrow edges of which lay upwards in the direction of the sky. Their sides became steeper and steeper, and it was with difficulty that we crept along paths not wider than a goat-track, to avoid clambering among the crags which formed the very ridge of the hill. At length it became impossible to find footing on the side, and we betook ourselves of necessity to the ridge itself. We now came in view of the most formidable part of Striding Edge, and found that it rather deserved to be compared to a narrow wall, several hundred feet in height, connecting the hill which we had been ascending with the head of the mountain, than to the steep roof of a house. It appeared to us to be absolutely precipitous on each side, and the top of the rocky wall was not more than from one to two yards wide, whilst in some places we could not see, before we came to it, as much ground as would serve to plant a foot upon--the rocks presenting their sharp and rugged edges upwards, like slates or tiles standing on end. If we had had a guide, all this would have been much less terrific, because he would have led the way, and shown us where to place every footstep. The possibility that we might, after all, have taken a wrong direction, or that in some part of the pa.s.s we should find ourselves in a situation where we could neither advance nor retreat, gave us considerable alarm. Neither of us, however, expressed our fears at the time; and I felt myself bound to keep up both my own spirits and George's, as the blame would have been chiefly mine if any accident had happened. I therefore talked loudly and confidently as we scrambled along, keeping all my eyes about me, and giving him such instructions as his want of experience in climbing rendered necessary.

He said little or nothing, and never ventured to cast a look either at the tarn which lay several hundred feet below us on one side, or to the equally awful depth on the other; but, fixing his eyes on the ridge itself as if he were fascinated, he crept on after me as cautiously and yet as fast as he could. In this way we crossed the long and dangerous pa.s.s of Striding Edge, till we came to the last ascent of the mountain."

A melancholy interest attaches to this spot, from the fate of a young man who perished in its locality some years ago. It was here that Charles Gough, of Manchester, a frequent visitor to the Lakes, met with an accident which caused his death. This unfortunate "young lover of nature," confiding in his knowledge of the country, attempted to cross Helvellyn from Patterdale to Wythburn by the pa.s.s of Striding Edge just described. He set out late one afternoon early in the spring of 1805, without any guide, and attended by no companion but his faithful dog.

Darkness, it is supposed, came on before his expectation, and a fall of snow having partially concealed the path, rendered it still more dangerous. He wandered from the track, and his body was found in one of those deep recesses where human foot rarely treads. It could never be ascertained whether he was killed by falling from the rocks, or he perished from hunger. Let us hope that death came with friendly care to shorten sufferings that might have been yet more awful.

Three months elapsed before his remains were discovered; when the faithful dog, which was his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles amidst the wilds of c.u.mberland and Westmorland, was discovered still watching over the lifeless remains of his master. This striking and affecting instance of canine faithfulness has been commemorated by Wordsworth in his beautiful poem ent.i.tled _Fidelity_.

A barking sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts, and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks: And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern; And instantly a dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions too are wild and shy; With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry.

Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow, or on height: Nor shout, nor whistle, strikes the ear; What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps till June December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below!

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land, From trace of human foot or hand.

There, sometimes doth the leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crag repeats the raven's croak, In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud-- And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams, and the sounding blast That, if it could, would hurry past; But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts awhile The shepherd stood: then makes his way Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones, As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human figure on the ground; The appall'd discoverer, with a sigh Looks round to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fall'n, that place of fear!

At length upon the shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recall'd the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remember'd too the very day, On which the traveller pa.s.s'd this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell!

A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well.

The dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This dog had been, through three months' s.p.a.ce, A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain, that since that day, When this ill-fated traveller died, The dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourish'd here through such long time, He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great, Above all human estimate.

The melancholy circ.u.mstances connected with the death of Charles Gough have also been beautifully depicted by the powerful pen of Sir Walter Scott, who has paid a pleasing tribute to the "pilgrim of nature" in some highly pathetic stanzas, which, by the by, are rendered additionally interesting from the following anecdote connected with them:--"Our two charming poets, Walter Scott and Campbell, walking together" (says Ryan, in his _Poetry and the Poets_), "and speaking of this incident, each agreed, in the spirit of amicable rivals.h.i.+p, to make it the subject of a poem. Scott, on his way home, composed the following exquisite lines, which he sent the next day to Campbell, who returned them with this reply:--'I confess myself vanquished: if I were to live a thousand years, I could never write anything equal to this, on the same subject;' and he never attempted it."

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still--save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And, starting around me, the echoes replied.

On the right, Striding Edge round the Red Tarn was bending, And Catchedecam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in front was impending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer died.

Dark green was that spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay: Not yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The much-loved remains of his master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber-- When the wind waved his garments how oft didst thou start-- How many long days and long nights didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?-- And ah! was it meet that no requiem read o'er him; No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him; And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him, Unhonoured the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With escutcheons of silver the coffin is s.h.i.+elded, And the pages stand mute by the canopied pall; Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming, In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, wildered, he drops from some rock high in stature, And draws his last breath by the side of his dam: And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With but one faithful friend to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecam.

Charles Gough is said to have been a young gentleman of talent, and of an amiable disposition. His remains peacefully repose in the chapel-yard at Patterdale.

THE REGATTA;

OR, THE LOVERS OF DERWENt.w.a.tER.

An annual regatta takes place on Derwent.w.a.ter, when the several sports of racing, rowing, and wrestling, are maintained with great spirit.

The following is an excellent description of one of these occasions in former times:--"At eight o'clock in the morning a vast concourse of ladies and gentlemen appeared on the side of Derwent Lake, where a number of marquees, extending about 400 yards, were erected for their accommodation. At twelve, such of the company as were invited by Mr.

Pocklington pa.s.sed over in boats to the island which bears his name; and, on their landing, were saluted by a discharge of his artillery, consisting of five four pounders and one nine pounder. This might properly be called the opening of the regatta; for as soon as the echo of this discharge had ceased, a signal gun was fired, and five boats, which lay upon their oars (on that part of the lake which runs nearest the town of Keswick), instantly pushed off the sh.o.r.e and began the race.

A view from any of the attendant boats, of which there were several, presented a scene which beggars all description. The sides of the h.o.a.ry mountains were clad with spectators, and the gla.s.sy surface of the lake was variegated with numbers of pleasure barges, which, trimmed out in all the gayest colours, and glittering in the rays of the meridian sun, gave a new appearance to the celebrated beauties of this matchless vale.

The contending boats pa.s.sed Pocklington's Island, and rounding St.

Herbert's Isle and Rampsholme, edged down by the outside of Lord's Island, describing, in the race, almost a perfect circle, and, during the greatest part of it, in full view of the company.

"About three o'clock preparations were made for a sham attack on Pocklington's Island. The fleet, consisting of several barges, armed with small cannon and muskets, retired out of view, behind Friar Crag, to prepare for action; previous to which a flag of truce was sent to the governor, with a summons to surrender on honourable terms. A defiance was returned; soon after which the fleet was seen advancing with great spirit before the batteries, and instantly forming a curved line, a terrible cannonading began on both sides, accompanied with a dreadful discharge of musketry. This continued for some time, and being echoed from hill to hill in an amazing variety of sounds, filled the ear with whatever could produce astonishment and awe. All nature seemed to be in an uproar; which impressed, on the awakened imagination, the most lively ideas of "the war of elements" and "crush of worlds." After a severe conflict, the enemies were driven from the attack in great disorder. A _feu-de-joie_ was then fired in the port, and oft repeated by the responsive echoes. The fleet, after a little delay, formed again; and practising a variety of beautiful manoeuvres, renewed the attack. Uproar again sprung up, and the deep-toned echoes of the mountains again joined in solemn chorus; which was heard at the distance of ten leagues to leeward, through the easterly opening of that vast amphitheatre, as far as Appleby.

"The garrison at last capitulated; and the entertainment of the water being finished, towards the evening the company rowed to Keswick, to which place, from the water's edge, a range of lamps was fixed, very happily disposed, and a number of fire-works played off. An a.s.sembly room, which was built for the purpose, next received the ladies and gentlemen, and a dance concluded this annual festivity.

"Whilst we sat to regale, the barge put off from sh.o.r.e, to a station where the finest echoes were to be obtained from the surrounding mountains. The vessel was provided with six bra.s.s cannon, mounted on swivels; on discharging one of these pieces the report was echoed from the opposite rocks, where, by reverberation, it seemed to roll from cliff to cliff, and return through every cave and valley, till the decreasing tumult died away upon the ear.

"The instant it ceased the sound of every distant waterfall was heard; but for an instant only; for the momentary stillness was interrupted by the returning echo on the hills behind; where the report was repeated like a peal of thunder bursting over our heads, continuing for several seconds, flying from haunt to haunt, till once more the sound gradually declined. Again the voice of waterfalls possessed the interval, till to the right the more distant thunders arose upon some other mountains, and seemed to take its way up every winding dale and creek; sometimes behind, on this side, or on that, in wondrous speed running its dreadful course; when the echo reached the mountains within the line and channel of the breeze, it was heard at once on the right and left at the extremities of the lake. In this manner was the report of every discharge re-echoed seven times distinctly."

The following descriptive poem appeared on the occasion of a regatta at Keswick:--

"Scarcely had day's bright G.o.d begun his course, And chas'd the misty vapours from the lake, When, ardent all for pleasure, forth there sprung A bright a.s.semblage of firm, active youths, And virgins blus.h.i.+ng like the op'ning bud.

Nay, some there were who sought the sportive scene Whom frozen age had bow'd with iron hand; Drawn by the force of curiosity, Or by the workings of parental care, To watch and guard their blooming daughter's steps.

The neigh'bouring rustics, too, with ma.s.sy limbs, Inur'd to toil, inur'd to fun and rain; Each led his fav'rite damsel to the sight, And talk'd of love, or laugh'd with hearty roar.

"And now the vessels all in order range, To try the fortune of the wat'ry race.

The rowers sit; their eyes with ardour glow, Attentive watching the appointed sign.

And now the gun, the signal for the course.

Rends with its iron voice th' o'ervaulting sky, And distant rocks, redoubling, echo back The horrid note. Instantly they start, And, adverse looking, try their utmost skill.

Big swells each bulky muscle, strain'd with toil; O'er their knit brows the drops of labour pour, Whilst on their faces anxious fear and hope Alternate sit depicted. Now they come Almost within the grasp of victory: Then, then what rapture fires the victor's mind, When with his toil-strained arm he shakes the flag, And shouts, applauding, echo all around.

"Now o'er the azure lake the horrid din Of mimic war resounds; the echoing cliffs Reverberate, in doubled thunder, back The awful sounds: fierce peal succeeds to peal, In savage dire confusion. Had the rocks, Which awful frown above this limpid plain, Been shaken from their venerable seats, Rift by the bolts of Jove, and scattered round, No sound more loud, more awful, could be heard!

The hero, who, inur'd to b.l.o.o.d.y war, Has stood by Elliot, or by Rodney's side, Whilst million-winged deaths were whistling round, Now feels his heart beat high; strong throbs each pulse, His kindling eyes flash fire: upright he stands, As when on some dread, memorable day He saw the Frenchmen strike, or Spaniards burn.

His tender spouse, the dear, the soft reward Of all his toils, astonish'd with the din, Clings to his side, half-pleased and half-afraid; When softer echoes roll the distant roar, She smiles; but when the air-affrighting guns With iron clamours shake th' impending rocks, She trembling presses hard her husband's hand, And weeps to think the perils he has 'scap'd.

"But hark! 'tis silent! see, the fleet retires!

The mellow horns now pour victorious sounds, Whilst every rock returns the softened strain.

O! now for Shakspeare, or for Milton's muse, To paint this mingled tide of harmony!

Each cliff, each rock, each mountain, wood, and dale, Return a varied note; it floats in air; It mixes, meets, returns; 'tis soft, 'tis loud: As if th' unnumber'd spirits of the rock Held their aerial concerts 'midst the hills; And to his golden harp each join'd his voice, To welcome to their bower the 'Fairy Queen.'

"Thus joyous and delightful pa.s.s'd the day, Yet not unruffled was this tide of joy: The fair, the innocent Amelia was The pride and flower of all the virgin throng!

Her long Damoetas loved, she too loved him, But looks alone revealed the mutual flame, For virgin modesty had bound their thoughts In chains, as yet unbroken. On this day, Whilst she in rapture viewed th' enchanting scene (Urged by the motion of the limpid wave), Her vessel rolling, headlong plunged her in The blue profound! She sank, then rose again; Then sank, to rise no more! Damoetas, near, Beheld her fall: of life regardless then, He leaped into the flood; with nervous arm He cut the crystal deep, and plunging down, Seized, and brought her up again to life.

"Restored now, she op'd her radiant eyes, And looking grat.i.tude ineffable, 'Is it then you, Damoetas? you whom long My virgin heart hath own'd!' She could no more: The rosy hue again forsook her cheek, The light her eyes, and pallid death awhile Seemed to return and re-demand his prey.

What then, Damoetas, were the dire alarms That rent thy manly bosom? Love, despair, Grief, and astonishment, exert at once The utmost of their force to tear thy soul!

But see, the rose again resumes its seat Upon her cheek! again her op'ning eye Beams softened l.u.s.tre! Kneeling by her side Damoetas press'd her hand; in falt'ring words Propos'd his am'rous suit. Her parents near, Relieved now from the heart-corroding fear, First poured in tender words their grateful hearts, Then to Damoetas gave the willing hand Of their beloved Amelia. Instant joy Flushed lively in his cheek, and fired his heart With all the rapt'rous bliss of mutual love.

He tried in vain to speak, for words, alas!

Could ill express tumultuous joys like his; He stammer'd, blush'd, and thanked them in thought.