SECTION XVI.

HAVING refreſhed ourſelves, and our horſes, after a fatiguing morning, we proceeded along the vale of Buter⯑mer; and following the courſe of the river, as far as the inequalities of the ground would admit, we ſoon came to another lake, ſtill more beautiful, than that we had left above. The two lakes bear a great reſemblance to each other. Both are oblong: both wind [2] round promontories; and both are ſurrounded by mountains. But the lower lake is near a mile longer, than the upper; the lines it forms are much eaſier; and tho it has leſs wood on it's banks, the loſs is compenſated by a richer diſplay of rocky ſcenery. The forms of theſe rocks are in general, beautiful; moſt of them being broken into grand ſquare ſurfaces. This ſpecies, as we have already obſerved^*, are in a greater ſtyle, than the cragg, which is ſhattered into more diminu⯑tive parts.

With this rocky ſcenery much hilly ground is intermixed. Patches of meadow alſo, here and there, on the banks of the lake, improve the variety. Nothing is wanting but a little more wood, to make this lake, and the vale in which it lies, a very inchanting ſcene; or rather a ſucceſſion of inchanting ſcenes: for the hills and riſing grounds, into which it every where ſwells, acting in due ſubordina⯑tion to the grand mountains, which inviron the whole vale, break and ſeparate the area of it into ſmaller parts. Many of theſe form [3] themſelves into little vallies, and other re⯑ceſſes, which are very pictureſque.

Not far from the lake the mountain of Graſmer appears riſing above all the moun⯑tains in it's neighbourhood. A lake of this name we had already ſeen in our road between Ambleſide, and Keſwick; but there is no connection between the lake, and the moun⯑tain.

This mountain forms rather a vaſt ridge, than a pointed ſummit: and is connected with two or three other mountains of inferior dignity: itſelf is ſaid to be equal to Skiddaw; which is the common gage of altitude through the whole country; and therefore may be ſuppoſed the higheſt. No mountain aſpires to be higher than Skiddaw: ſome boaſt an equal height: but two or three only have real pretenſions.

Graſmer, and the mountains in it's neigh⯑bourhood, form the eaſtern boundary of the vale, which we now traverſed; a vale at leaſt five miles in length, and one third of that ſpace in breadth. Our road carried us near [4] the village of Brackenthwait, which lies at the bottom of Graſmer.

Here we had an account of an inundation occaſioned by the burſting of a water-ſpout. The particulars, which are well authenticated, are curious. But it will be neceſſary firſt to exhibit the geography of the mountain.

In that part, where Graſmer is connected with the other high lands in it's neighbour⯑hood, three little ſtreams take their origin; of which the Liſſa is the leaſt inconſiderable. The courſe of this ſtream down the moun⯑tain is very ſteep, and about a mile in length. It's bed, which is a deep gully, and the ſides of the mountain all around, are profuſely ſpread with looſe ſtones, and gravel. On leaving the mountain, the Liſſa divides the vale, through which we now paſſed; and, after a courſe of four or five miles, joins the Cocker.

On the 9th of September 1760, about mid⯑night, the water-ſpout fell upon Graſmer, nearly, as was conjectured, where the three little ſtreams, juſt mentioned, iſſue from their fountains.

[5]At firſt it ſwept the whole ſide of the moun⯑tain, and charging itſelf with all the rubbiſh it found there, made it's way into the vale, following chiefly the direction of the Liſſa. At the foot of the mountain it was received by a piece of arable ground; on which it's violence firſt broke. Here it tore away trees, ſoil, and gravel; and laid all bare, many feet in depth, to the naked rock. Over the next ten acres it ſeems to have made an immenſe roll; covering them with ſo vaſt a bed of ſtones; that no human art can ever again reſtore the ſoil

When we ſaw the place, tho twelve years after the event, many marks remained, ſtill flagrant, of this ſcene of ruin. We ſaw the natural bed of the Liſſa, a mere contracted rivulet; and on it's banks the veſtiges of a ſtony channel, ſpreading far and wide, almoſt enough to contain the waters of the Rhine, or the Danube. It was computed from the flood-marks, that in many parts the ſtream muſt have been five or ſix yards deep; and near a hundred broad; and if it's great velo⯑city be added to this weight of water, it's moment will be found equal to almoſt any effect.

[6]On the banks of this ſtony channel, we ſaw a few ſcattered houſes, a part of the village of Brackenthwait, which had a won⯑derful eſcape. They ſtood at the bottom of Graſmer, rather on a riſing ground; and the current, taking it's firſt direction towards them, would have undermined them in a few moments, (for the ſoil was inſtantly laid bare) had not a projection of native rock, the in⯑terior ſtratum, on which the houſes had un⯑knowingly been founded, reſiſted the current, and given it a new direction. Unleſs this had intervened, it is probable, theſe houſes, and all the inhabitants of them (ſo inſtan⯑taneous was the ruin) had been ſwept away together.

In paſſing farther along the vale, we ſaw other marks of the fury of the inundation; where, bridges had been thrown down, houſes carried off, and woods rooted up. But it's effects upon a ſtone-cauſeway were thought the moſt ſurprizing. This fabric was of great thickneſs; and ſupported, on each ſide, by an enormous bank of earth. The memory of man could trace it, unaltered in any particular, near a hundred years: but by the ſoundneſs and firmneſs of it's parts and texture, it ſeemed [7] as if it had ſtood for ages. It was almoſt a doubt, whether it were a work of nature, or of art. This maſſy mole the deluge not only carried off; but, as if it turned it into ſport, made it's very foundations the channel of it's own ſtream.

Having done all this miſchief, not only here, but in many other parts, the Liſſa threw all it's waters into the Cocker, where an end was put to it's devaſtation: for tho the Cocker was unable to contain ſo immenſe an increaſe; yet as it flows through a more level country, the deluge ſpread far and wide, and waſted it's ſtrength in one vaſt, ſtagnant inundation.

Having paſſed through the vale of Buter⯑mer, we entered another beautiful ſcene, the vale of Lorton.

This vale, like all the paſt, preſents us with a ſcene intirely new. No lakes, no rocks are here, to blend the ideas of dignity, and grandeur with that of beauty. All is ſimplicity, and repoſe. Nature, in this ſcene, lays totally aſide her majeſtic frown, and wears only a lovely ſmile.

[8]The vale of Lorton is of the extended kind, running a conſiderable way between mountains, which range at about a mile's diſtance. They are near enough to ſcreen it from the ſtorm; and yet not ſo impending as to exclude the ſun. Their ſides, tho not ſmooth, are not much diverſified. A few knolls and hollows juſt give a little variety to the broad lights and ſhades, which over⯑ſpread them.

This vale, which enjoys a rich ſoil, is in general a rural, cultivated ſcene; tho in many parts the ground is beautifully broken, and abrupt. A bright ſtream, which might almoſt take the name of a river, pours along a rocky channel; and ſparkles down number⯑leſs little caſcades. It's banks are adorned with wood; and varied with different objects; a bridge; a mill; a hamlet; a glade over-hung with wood; or ſome little ſweet receſs; or natural viſta, through which the eye ranges, between irregular trees, along the windings of the ſtream.

Except the mountains, nothing in all this ſcenery is great; but every part is filled with thoſe ſweet engaging paſſages of nature, which [9] tend to ſooth the mind, and inſtill tranquil⯑lity.

Scenes of this kind, (however pleaſing) in which few objects occur, either of grandeur or peculiarity, in a ſingular manner elude the powers of verbal deſcription. They al⯑moſt elude the power of colours. The ſoft and elegant form of beauty is hard to hit: while the ſtrong, harſh feature is a mark, which every pencil can ſtrike.

But tho a peculiar difficulty attends the verbal deſcription of theſe mild, and quiet haunts of nature; yet undoubtedly all her ſcenery is ill-attempted in language.

Mountains, rocks, broken ground, water, and wood, are the ſimple materials, which ſhe employs in all her beautiful pictures: but the variety and harmony, with which ſhe employs them, are infinite. In deſcription theſe words ſtand only for general ideas: on her charts each is detailed into a thouſand [10] varied forms. Words may give the great outlines of a ſcene. They can meaſure the dimenſions of a lake. They can hang it's ſides with wood. They can rear a caſtle on ſome projecting rock: or place an iſland near this, or the other ſhore. But their range extends no farther. They cannot mark the characteriſtic diſtinctions of each ſcene —the touches of nature—her living tints—her endleſs varieties, both in form and colour. —In a word, all her elegant peculiarities are beyond their reach. Language is equally unable to convey theſe to the eye; as the eye is to convey the various diviſions of ſound to the ear.

The pencil, it is true, offers a more per⯑fect mode of deſcription. It ſpeaks a language more intelligible; and deſcribes the ſcene in ſtronger, and more varied terms. The ſhapes, and hues of objects it delineates, and marks, with more exactneſs. It gives the lake the louring ſhade of tempeſt; or the glowing bluſh of ſun-ſet. It ſpreads a warmer, or a colder tint on the tufts of the foreſt. It adds form to the caſtle; and tips it's ſhattered battlements with light.—But all this, all that words can expreſs, or even the pencil deſcribe, [11] are groſs, inſipid ſubſtitutes of the living ſcene^*. We may be pleaſed with the de⯑ſcription, and the picture: but the ſoul can feel neither, unleſs the force of our own imagination aid the poet's, or the painter's art; exalt the idea; and picture things unſeen.

Hence it perhaps follows, that the perfec⯑tion of the art of painting is not ſo much attained by an endeavour to form an exact reſemblance of nature in a nice repreſentation of all her minute parts, which we conſider as almoſt impracticable, ending generally in flat⯑neſs, and inſipidity; as by aiming to give thoſe bold, thoſe ſtrong characteriſtic touches, which excite the imagination; and lead it to form half the picture, itſelf. Painting is the art of deceiving; and it's great perfection lies in the exerciſe of this art.

Hence it is that genius, and knowledge are as requiſite in ſurveying a picture, as in [12] painting one. The cold, untutored eye, (tho it may enjoy the real ſcene, (be it hiſtory,^* landſcape, or what it will) is unmoved at the fineſt repreſentation. It does not ſee an exact reſemblance of what it ſees abroad; and having no internal pencil, if I may ſo ſpeak, to work within; it is utterly unable to ad⯑miniſter a picture to itſelf. Whereas the learned eye^†, verſed equally in nature, and [13] art, eaſily compares the picture with it's archetype: and when it finds the characteriſtic touches of nature, the imagination immediately takes fire; and glows with a thouſand beau⯑tiful ideas, ſuggeſted only by the canvas. When the canvas therefore is ſo artificially wrought, as to ſuggeſt theſe ideas in the ſtrongeſt manner, the picture is then moſt perfect. This is generally beſt done by little [14] labour, and great knowledge. It is know⯑ledge only, which inſpires that free, that fear⯑leſs, and determined pencil, ſo expreſſive in a ſkilful hand. As to the minutiae of nature, the pictureſque eye will generally ſuggeſt them better itſelf; and yet give the artiſt, as he deſerves, the credit of the whole.

We ſometimes indeed ſee pictures highly finiſhed, and yet full of ſpirit. They will bear a nice examination at hand, and yet loſe nothing of their diſtant effect. But ſuch pic⯑tures are ſo exceedingly rare, that I ſhould think, few painters would in prudence at⯑tempt a laboured manner. Indeed, as pictures are not deſigned to be ſeen through a microſ⯑cope, but at a proper diſtance, it is labour thrown away^*.

Hence it is that even a rough ſketch, by the hand of a maſter, will often ſtrike the imagination beyond the moſt finiſhed work. [15] I have ſeen the learned eye paſs unmoved along rows of pictures by the cold, and in⯑animate pencil of ſuch a maſter as Carlo Marat; and ſtart aſtoniſhed, when it came to a ſketch of Rubens. In one caſe the painter endea⯑vouring in vain to adminiſter every thing by giving the full roundneſs, and ſmoothneſs to every part, inſtead of the bold, characteriſtic touches of nature, had done too much: in the other, tho the work was left unfiniſhed, yet many of the bold characteriſtic touches being thrown in, enough was done to excite the imagination of the ſpectator, which could eaſily ſupply the reſt.

A very ingenious writer ^* indeed gives an⯑other reaſon for our being better pleaſed with a ſketch, than with a finiſhed piece. The imagination, ſays he, is entertained with the promiſe of ſomething more; and does not ac⯑quieſce in the preſent object of the ſenſe. But this obſervation, I think, is ſcarce founded on truth. It is true the imagination does not ac⯑quieſce in the preſent object of the ſenſe: but, I ſhould ſuppoſe, not becauſe it is entertained [16] with a promiſe of ſomething more; but becauſe it has the power, of creating ſomething more itſelf. If a promiſe of ſomething more, were the cauſe of this pleaſure, it ſhould ſeem, that a ſketch, in it's rudeſt form, would be more pleaſing, than when it is more advanced: for the imagination muſt have ſtill higher enter⯑tainment in proportion to the largeneſs of the promiſe. But this is not the caſe. The ſketch, in it's naked chalk-lines, affects us little in compariſon. The inſtrument muſt be tuned higher, to excite vibrations in the imagination.

Again, on the ſame ſuppoſition, one would imagine, that the rude beginning, or rough plan of a houſe, would pleaſe us more than the compleat pile; for the imagination is enter⯑tained with the promiſe of ſomething more. But, I believe, no one was ever ſo well pleaſed with an unfiniſhed ſhell, amidſt all it's rubbiſh of ſcaffolding, paper-windows, and other de⯑formities; as with a ſtructure compleat in all it's members, and ſet off with all it's proper decorations.—But on the ſuppoſition I have ventured to ſuggeſt, we ſee why the ſketch may pleaſe beyond the picture; tho the unfiniſhed fabric diſappoints. An elegant houſe is a [17] compleat object. The imagination can riſe no higher. It receives full ſatisfaction. But a picture is not an object itſelf; but only the repreſentation of an object. We may eaſily therefore conceive, that it may fall below it's archetype; and alſo below the imagination of the ſpectator, whoſe fancy may be more pictureſque, than the hand of the artiſt, who compoſed the picture. In this caſe, a ſketch may afford the ſpectator more pleaſure, as it gives his imagination freer ſcope; and ſuffers it to compleat the artiſt's imperfect draught from the fund of it's own richer, and more perfect ideas.

The variety of ſcenes, which nature ex⯑hibits; and their infinite combinations, and peculiarities, to which neither language, nor colours, unaided by imagination, can, in any degree, do juſtice; gave occaſion to theſe remarks, which have carried me perhaps too far into digreſſion.

We had to regret, that we ſaw the vale of Lorton only in half it's beauty. It was at too late an hour; and the evening beſides was dark. The morning had been cloudy; [18] in ſome part of it rather tempeſtuous; and we thought ourſelves then very happy in the diſpoſition of the weather: for as we had before ſeen the mountains in a clear atmoſ⯑phere; it was a deſirable variety to ſee the grand effects they produced in a ſtorm. A mountain is an object of grandeur; and it's dig⯑nity receives new force by mixing with the clouds; and arraying itſelf in the majeſty of darkneſs. Here the idea of infinity ^* pro⯑duces ſtrongly the ſublime. But the chearful ſcenes of ſuch a vale as this, pretend not to dignity: they are mere ſcenes of tranquillity. The early bluſh of dawn, the noon-tide ſhade, or evening-glow, are the circumſtances, in which they moſt rejoice: a ſtorm, in any ſhape, will injure them. Here therefore we might have diſpenſed with more light, and ſunſhine. Or at the cloſe of day we might have wiſhed for a quiet, tranquil hour, when the glimmering ſurfaces of things are ſome⯑times perhaps more pleaſing—at all times certainly more ſoothing, than images of the brighteſt hue:

The evening, which grew more tempeſtu⯑ous, began to cloſe upon us, as we left the more beautiful parts of the vale of Lorton. We were ſtill about ſix miles from Keſwick; and had before us a very wild country, which probably would have afforded no great amuſe⯑ment even in full day: but amid the obſcurity, which now overſpread the landſcape, the ima⯑gination was left at large; and painted many images, which perhaps did not really exiſt, upon the dead colouring of nature. Every great and pleaſing form, whether clear, or obſcure, which we had ſeen during the day, now played, in ſtrong imagery before the fancy: as when the grand chorus ceaſes, ideal muſic vibrates in the ear.

In one part, a view pleaſed us much; tho perhaps, in ſtronger light, it might have eſcaped notice. The road made a ſudden dip into a little, winding valley; which being too abrupt for a carriage, was eaſed by a [20] bridge: and the form of the arch appeared to be what we commonly find in Roman aquaducts. The winding road; the woody valley, and broken ground below; the moun⯑tain beyond; the form of the bridge, which gave a claſſic air to the ſcene; and the ob⯑ſcurity, which melted the whole into one harmonious maſs; made all together a very pleaſing view.

But it ſoon grew too dark even for the imagination to roam. It was now ten o'clock: and tho in this northern climate, the twilight of a clear ſummer-evening affords even at that late hour, a bright effulgence; yet now all was dark.

We could juſt diſcern, through the dim⯑neſs of the night, the ſhadowy forms of the mountains, ſometimes blotting out half the [21] ſky, on one ſide; and ſometimes winding round, as a gloomy barrier on the other.

Often too the road would appear to dive into ſome dark abyſs, a cataract roaring at the bottom: while the mountain-torrents on every ſide ruſhed down the hills in notes of various cadence, as their quantities of water, the declivities of their fall, their diſtances, or the intermiſſion of the blaſt, brought the ſound fuller, or fainter to the ear; which organ became now more alert, as the imagi⯑nation depended rather on it, than on the eye for information.

Theſe various notes of water-muſic, an⯑ſwering each other from hill to hill, were a kind of tranſlation of that paſſage in the pſalms, in which one deep is repreſented calling another becauſe of the noiſe of the water-pipes.

Among other images of the night, a lake (for the lake of Baſſenthwait was now in view) appeared through the uncertainty of the gloom, like ſomething of ambiguous tex⯑ture, ſpreading a lengthened gleam of wan, dead light under the dark ſhade of the in⯑cumbent mountains: but whether this light [22] was owing to vapours ariſing from the valley; or whether it was water—and if water, whe⯑ther it was an arm of the ſea, a lake, or a river—to the uninformed traveller would ap⯑pear matter of great uncertainty. Whatever it was, it would ſeem ſufficient to alarm his apprehenſions; and to raiſe in his fancy, (now in queſt of dangers,) the idea of ſomething, that might ſtop his farther progreſs.

A good turnpike-road, on which we en⯑tered near the village of Lorton, and a know⯑ledge of the country, ſet at naught all ſuch ideas with us: but it may eaſily be conceived, that a traveller, wandering in the midſt of a ſtormy night, in a mountainous country, un⯑known, and unbeaten by human footſteps, might feel palpitations of a very uneaſy kind.

We have in Oſſian ſome beautiful images, which accompany a night-ſtorm in ſuch a country as this. I ſhall ſubjoin, with a few alterations, an extract from them; as it will illuſtrate the ſubject before us. It is con⯑tained in a note on Croma; in which ſeveral bards are introduced entertaining their patron with their reſpective deſcriptions of the night.

[23]The ſtorm gathers on the tops of the moun⯑tains; and ſpreads it's black mantle before the moon. It comes forward in the majeſty of darkneſs, moving upon the wings of the blaſt. It ſweeps along the vale, and nothing can withſtand it's force. The lightning from the rifted cloud flaſhes before it: the thunder rolls among the mountains in its rear.

All nature is reſtleſs, and uneaſy.

The ſtag lies wakeful on the mountain-moſs: the hind cloſe by his ſide. She hears the ſtorm roaring through the branches of the trees. She ſtarts—and lies down again.

The heath-cock lifts his head at intervals; and returns it under his wing.

The owl leaves her unfiniſhed dirge; and ſits ruffled in her feathers in a cleft of the blaſted oak.

The famiſhed fox ſhrinks from the ſtorm, and ſeeks the ſhelter of his den.

The hunter alarmed, leaps from his pallet in the lonely hut. He raiſes his decaying fire. His wet dogs ſmoke around him. He half-opens his cabin-door, and looks out: but he inſtantly retreats from the terrors of the night.

[24]For now the whole ſtorm deſcends. The mountain-torrents join their impetuous ſtreams. The growing river ſwells.

The benighted traveller pauſes as he en⯑ters the gloomy dell. The glaring ſky diſ⯑covers the terrors of the ſcene. With a face of wild deſpair he looks round. He recol⯑lects neither the rock above, nor the preci⯑pice below. Still he urges his bewildered way. His ſteed trembles at the frequent flaſh. The thunder burſts over his head—The tor⯑rents roar aloud.—He attempts the rapid ford.—Heard you that ſcream?—It was the ſhriek of death.

How tumultuous is the boſom of the lake! The waves laſh it's rocky ſides. The boat is brimful in the cove. The oars are daſhed againſt the ſhore.

What melancholy ſhade is that ſitting un⯑der the tree on the lonely beach?—I juſt diſcern it faintly ſhadowed out by the pale beam of the moon, paſſing through a thin-robed cloud.—It is a female form.—Her eyes are fixed upon the lake. Her diſche⯑velled hair floats looſe around her arm, which ſupports her penſive head.—Ah! mourn⯑ful [25] maid! doſt thou ſtill expect thy lover over the lake?—Thou ſaweſt his diſtant boat, at the cloſe of day, dancing upon the feathery waves.—Thy breaſt throbs with ſuſpence: but thou knoweſt not yet, that he lies a corpſe upon the ſhore.

SECT. XVII.

AFTER a wet, and ſtormy night we re⯑joiced to ſee the morning ariſe with all the ſigns of a calm and ſplendid day. We wiſhed for the opportunity of ſurveying Ulleſ⯑water in ſerene, bright weather. This was the next ſcene we propoſed to viſit; and with which we intended to cloſe our views of this pictureſque country.

From Keſwick we mounted a hill, on the great turnpike road to Penrith. At the ſum⯑mit we left our horſes; and went to examine a Druid temple, in a field on the right. The diameter of this circle is thirty-two paces; which, as nearly as could be judged from ſo inaccurate a mode of menſuration, is the diameter of Stonehenge; which I once mea⯑ſured [28] in the ſame way. But the ſtructures are very different; tho the diameters may be nearly equal. The ſtones here are diminutive in compariſon with thoſe on Saliſbury-Plain. If Stonehenge were a cathedral in it's day; this circle was little more than a country church.

Theſe ſtructures, I ſuppoſe, are by far the moſt ancient veſtiges of architecture (if we may call them architecture) which we have in England. Their rude workmanſhip hands down the great barbarity of the times of the Druids: and furniſhes ſtrong proof of the ſavage nature of the religion of theſe heathen prieſts. Within theſe magical circles we may conceive any incantations to have been per⯑formed; and any rites of ſuperſtition to have been celebrated. It is hiſtory, as well as poetry, when Oſſian mentions the circles of ſtones, where our anceſtors, in their nocturnal orgies, invoked the ſpirits which rode upon the winds—the awful forms of their deceaſed forefathers; through which, he ſublimely tells us, the ſtars dimly twinkled.

[29]As ſingular a part as the Druids make in the ancient hiſtory, not only of Britain, but of other countries, I know not, that I ever ſaw any of their tranſactions introduced as the ſubject of a capital picture. That they can furniſh a fund of excellent imagery for poetry we know: and I ſee not why the ſcenes of Caractacus might not be as well ſuited to pictureſque, as dramatic repreſentation.—And yet there is a difference. The drama depends at leaſt as much on ſentiment, as on repre⯑ſentation. Whereas the picture depends in⯑tirely on the latter. The beautiful ſentiments of the poet are loſt; and the ſpectator muſt make out the dialogue, as he is able, from the energetic looks of the figures.—Hence therefore it follows, that the ſame ſubjects are not equally calculated to ſhine in poetry, and in painting.

Thoſe ſubjects, no doubt, are beſt adapted to the pencil, which tell themſelves by action. In general, however, all animated ſtories, which admit either of ſtrong action, or paſſion, are judiciouſly choſen. Unanimated ſubjects have little chance of producing an effect; parti⯑cularly [30] love-ſtories; which, of all others, I could wiſh to exclude from canvas. The language of love is ſo difficult to tranſlate, that I know not that I ever ſaw a repreſen⯑tation of lovers, who were not ſtrongly marked with the character of ſimpletons.

But beſides ſuch ſubjects, as admit of ſtrong action, or paſſion, there are others of a more inanimate caſt, which, through the peculi⯑arity of the characters, of which they conſiſt, can never be miſtaken. Such is the ſettle⯑ment of Penſylvania, painted by Mr. Weſt. From the mixture of Engliſh, and Indian characters, and a variety of appoſite appen⯑dages, the ſtory is not only well told; but, as every pictureſque ſtory ſhould be told, it is obvious at ſight.

Among ſubjects of this kind, are thoſe, which occaſioned this digreſſion—druidical ſubjects. I know few of the leſs animated kind, which would admit more pictureſque embelliſhment, than a Druid-ſacrifice. The peculiar character, and ſavage features of theſe barbarous prieſts—their white, flowing veſt⯑ments—the branch of miſleto, which they hold—the circular ſtones (if they could be brought into compoſition)—the ſpreading oak [31] —the altar beneath it—and the milk-white ſteer—might all together form a good pic⯑ture.

I have often admired an etching by Teipolo, which I have always conceived to be a repre⯑ſentation of this ſubject^*. He does not in⯑deed introduce all the circumſtances of a Druid-ſacrifice, which I have here enume⯑rated: but the characters are ſuch, as exactly ſuit the ſubject; and the whole ſeems to be an excellent illuſtration of it.

After we left the temple of the Druids, we met with little which engaged our attention, till we came to the vale of St. John. This ſcene appeared from the ſtand, where we viewed it, to be a circular area, of about ſix, or ſeven miles in circumference. It is ſur⯑rounded intirely by mountains; and is watered by a ſmall river, called the Grata.

The vale of St. John is eſteemed one of the moſt celebrated ſcenes of beauty in the country: but [32] it did not anſwer our expectation. The ground, conſiſting of patches of fenced meadow, adorn⯑ed with farm-houſes, and clumps of trees, was beautifully tumbled about in many parts: but the whole was rather rich, than pictu⯑reſque: and on this account, I ſuppoſe, it hath obtained it's celebrity. It's circular form, every where within the ſcope of the eye, wanted that variety, which the winding vale affords; where one part is continually rece⯑ding from another in all the pleaſing grada⯑tions of perſpective^*.

The kind of ſcenery here, is much the ſame, as in the vale of Lorton: both are compoſed of rural objects; but theſe objects are differently preſented. In the vale of Lor⯑ton, the houſes, and hamlets, ſeated on a wandering ſtream, are confined to the ſame level; and appear of courſe, one after another, as ſo many little ſeparate ſcenes. Here they are ſcattered about the inequalities of the ground, through the area of a vale, circular at leaſt in appearance; and offer the eye too much at once—a confuſion, rather than a ſuc⯑ceſſion, [33] of ſcenery. I ſpeak however only of the general appearance of the vale: it contains undoubtedly many beautiful ſcenes, if we had had time to explore them.

The plan, or ground-plot, of the vale of Tempe was ſomewhat ſimilar to this of St. John. Nature ſeems in both to have wrought on the ſame model; excepting only that the furniture of that very celebrated ſcene of an⯑tiquity was more pictureſque.

The vale of Tempe, like this, was circular, and incompaſſed with mountains. But it's area was compoſed of level lawns, (at leaſt, we ſuppoſe, not riſing uniformly before the eye,) interſperſed with wood; which in many parts was thick, and cloſe; and muſt every where have intercepted ſome portion of the mountain-line, and broken the regularity of a circular ſhape.

The mountains too in Tempe were of a more beautiful ſtructure; abrupt, hung with rock, and finely adorned with wood.—At the head of the vale was a grand, rocky chaſm, ſhaded with a profuſion of woody ſcenery; through which the whole weight of [34] the river Peneus forced it's way, with a tre⯑mendous ſound; and having been daſhed into foam and vapours by the fall, reunited it's ſtrength at the bottom, and poured through the vale in a wild, impetuous torrent, roaring over rocks and ſhelves, till it found an exit, through the folding of the mountains on the oppoſite ſide.

Elian indeed tells us, that the ſtream was ſmooth: but as Ovid's deſcription is more pictureſque, the reader will give me leave to conſider his authority as more deciſive. His view of Tempe is very noble: but as he meant principally to deſcribe the palace of a river god, which lay among the caverns, and re⯑ceſſes of the rocky chaſm at the entrance of the vale, his ſubject naturally led him to dwell chiefly on the caſcade, which was undoubtedly the greateſt ornament of the place.

[35]A vale thus circumſtanced is ſo pleaſing, that other poets have ſeized the idea in their deſcriptions. I could multiply quotations: but I ſhall ſelect two, in which the ſame ſubject is treated in a different manner. In one the natural grandeur of the ſcene is ſoft⯑ened by little circumſtances of chearfulneſs: in the other, it ſtrikes in the full majeſty of the ſublime. The former is more the vale of St. John: the latter approaches nearer the idea of the Theſſalian vale.

The vale of St. John was, ſome years ago, the ſcene of one of thoſe terrible inun⯑dations, which waſted lately the vale of Brack⯑enthwait. I ſhall relate the circumſtances of it, as they were given to me on the ſpot: but as we had them not perhaps on the beſt au⯑thority, they may, in ſome particulars, be overcharged.

It was on the 22d of Auguſt 1749, that this diſaſter happened. That day, which had been preceded by weather uncommonly cloſe and ſultry; ſet in with a gloomy aſpect. The blackneſs gathered, more, and more, from every quarter. The air was hot beyond ſuf⯑ferance. The whole atmoſphere, and every thing around was in a ſtate of perfect ſtag⯑nation. Not a leaf was in motion.

In the mean time, the inhabitants of the vale heard a ſtrange noiſe in various parts around them: but whether it was in the air, or whether it aroſe from the mountains, they could not aſcertain. It was like the hollow [37] murmur of a riſing wind, among the tops of trees. This noiſe (which in a ſmaller degree is not an uncommon prelude to a ſtorm) continued without intermiſſion about two hours; when a tempeſt of wind, and rain, and thunder, and lightning ſucceeded; which was violent, beyond any thing, remembered in former times; and laſted, without pauſe, near three hours.

During this ſtorm the cataract fell upon the mountain, on the north of the vale; or as ſome people thought, tho I ſhould ſup⯑poſe without any probability, burſt from the bowels of it. The ſide of that mountain is a continued precipice, through the ſpace of a mile. This whole tract, we were told, was covered, in an inſtant, with one conti⯑nuous caſcade of roaring torrent (an appearance, which muſt have equalled the fall of Niagara) ſweeping all before it from the top of the mountain to the bottom. There, like that other inundation, it followed the channel of the brooks it met with; and ſhewed ſimilar effects of it's fury.

One of theſe effects was aſtoniſhing. The fragments of rock, and deluges of ſtone, and ſand, which were ſwept from the mountain [38] by the torrent, choked one of the ſtreams, which received it at the bottom. The water, thus pent up, and receiving continually vaſt acceſſion of ſtrength, after rolling ſullenly about that part of the vale in frightful whirl⯑pools, at length forced a new channel through a ſolid rock, which we were informed, it disjointed in ſome fractured crevice, and made a chaſm at leaſt ten feet wide. Many of the fragments were carried to a great diſtance; and ſome of them were ſo large, that a dozen horſes could ſcarce move them. We were ſorry afterwards, that we had not ſeen this remarkable chaſm: but we had not time to go in queſt of it.

From the vale of St. John we aſcended a ſteep hill, called Branthwait-cragg; where being obliged to leave the great road in our way to Ulleſwater, and inveſtigate a pathleſs deſert over the mountains, which invironed us; we put ourſelves under the conduct of a guide.

Theſe mountains were covered with a pro⯑fuſion of huge ſtones, and detached rocks; among which we found many old people, [39] and children, from the neighbouring villages, gathering a ſpecies of white lychen, that grows upon the craggs; and which we heard had been found very uſeful in dying a mur⯑ray-colour.

Among the difficulties of our rout over theſe mountains, the bogs and moraſſes we met with, were the moſt troubleſome. We were often obliged to diſmount; and in ſome parts the ſurface could hardly bear a man. Where ruſhes grew, our guide informed us, the ground was firmeſt. We endeavoured therefore, as much as poſſible, to make the little tuſſocks of theſe plants the baſis of our footſteps. But as we could not convey this intelligence to our horſes, they often plunged very deep.

In ſeveral parts of our ride, we had a view of that grand cluſter of mountains, which forms a circle in the heart of Cumberland; and makes a back ground to the central views from almoſt every part of the extremities of that county. Theſe mountains unite on the ſouth with thoſe of Weſtmoreland. The ſide next us was compoſed of Skiddaw—Threlkate-fell, [40] a part of which is called Saddle-back— and Griſedale-fell. As we rode nearer the northern limit of this chain, Skiddaw, which is by much the higheſt mountain, appeared, in perſpective, the leaſt. Behind theſe moun⯑tains ariſe, in order, Moſedale-fell—Carric— and Caudbeck—the tops of which we ſome⯑times ſaw, from the higher grounds, peering, in their blue attire, over the concave parts of the browner mountains, which ſtood nearer the eye.

Between us, and this circular chain, which occupied the whole horizon on the left, was ſpread a very extenſive vale; ſtretching from ſide to ſide hardly leſs than ſeven or eight miles; and in length winding out of ſight. It is a ſcene of little beauty, except what ariſes from the gradation of diſtance: but it ſuggeſts an idea of greatneſs; which ſpace, and grand boundaries, however unadorned, will always ſuggeſt.

This idea hath ſometimes miſled the taſtleſs improver of little ſcenes. He has heard, that ſpace gives beauty; but not knowing how to accommodate the rule to circumſtances, he []

[41] often ſhews all that is to be ſeen; when, in fact, he ſhould have hid half of it, as a deformity. Mere ſpace gives the idea of grandeur, rather than of beauty. Such an idea the ocean preſents. But a little ſcene cannot preſent it. Grandeur therefore is not attained by attempting it; while beauty is often loſt.

Along this vale ran the great road we had juſt left; which was no little ornament to it. The mazy courſe of a river is a ſtill nobler object of the ſame kind: but a great road is no bad ſubſtitute; and is in ſome reſpects ſuperior. The river being on a level, and contained within banks, is generally too much hid, unleſs it be viewed from an ele⯑vated point: but the road following the ine⯑qualities of the ground, is eaſily traced by the eye, as it winds along the ſeveral eleva⯑tions and depreſſions it meets with; and has therefore more variety in it's courſe.

On the right, forming the other ſide of this extenſive vale, ariſe ſeveral very high [42] mountains; among which Hara-ſide, and White-pike are the moſt magnificent. At the bottom of theſe, verging towards the ſkirts of the vale, are other hills leſs formidable: but two of them, called the Mell-fells, are very remarkable; being ſhaped like earthen graves, in a country church-yard.

A little before we approached the Mell-fells, the path we purſued, led us under a towering rocky hill, which is known by the name of Wolf's-cragg, and is probably one of the monuments of this animal remaining in Britain. It is a fortreſs intirely adapted to a garriſon of wolves; from whence they might plunder the vale, which was ſpread before them; and make prey of every thing, as far as the eye could reach. Such a ſcene, in painting, would be highly characterized by ſuch appendages. It would have pleaſed Ridinger. If that pictureſque naturaliſt had been in queſt of a wolf-ſcene, he could not have found a better.

[43]When we had paſſed this range of moun⯑tains, we got more into a beaten path, lead⯑ing to the village of Matterdale, about a mile only from Ulleſwater; which was ſtill intirely excluded from our ſight by high grounds. Here we diſmiſſed our guide, and were directed into Gobray-park, which is the northern boundary of the lake.

This part of the country we found well inhabited; and the roads, at this ſeaſon, much frequented. It was about the time of a ſtatute-fair; when the young people of the country leave their old ſervices, and go to their new: and we were not a little en⯑tertained with the ſimplicity, and variety of the ſeveral groups and figures we met, both on horſeback, and on foot.

Theſe are the pictureſque inhabitants of a landſcape. The dreſſed-out figures, and gaudy carriages, along the great roads of the capital, afford them not. The pencil rejects with indignation the ſplendor of art. In grand ſcenes, even the peaſant cannot be admitted, [44] if he be employed in the low occupations of his profeſſion: the ſpade, the ſcythe, and the rake are all excluded.

Moral, and pictureſque ideas do not al⯑ways coincide. In a moral light, cultivation, in all it's parts, is pleaſing; the hedge, and the furrow; the waving corn field, and the ripened ſheaf. But all theſe, the pictureſque eye, in queſt of ſcenes of grandeur, and beauty, looks at with diſguſt. It ranges after nature, untamed by art, and burſting wildly into all it's irregular forms.

It is thus alſo in the introduction of figures. In a moral view, the induſtrious mechanic is a more pleaſing object, than the loitering peaſant. But in a pictureſque light, it is otherwiſe. The arts of induſtry are rejected; and even idleneſs, if I may ſo ſpeak, adds dignity to a character. Thus the lazy cow⯑herd reſting on his pole; or the peaſant lol⯑ling on a rock, may be allowed in the grandeſt ſcenes; while the laborious mechanic, with his impliments of labour, would be repulſed. [45] The fiſherman, it is true, may follow his calling upon the lake: but he is indebted for this privilege, not to his art; but to the pictureſque apparatus of it—his boat, and his nets, which qualify his art. They are the objects: he is but an appendage. Place him on the ſhore, as a ſingle figure, with his rod, and line; and his art would ruin him. In a chearful glade, along a purling brook, near ſome mill, or cottage, let him angle, if he pleaſe: in ſuch a ſcene the pictureſque eye takes no offence. But let him take care not to introduce the vulgarity of his employment in a ſcene of grandeur.

At the ſame time, we muſt obſerve, that figures, which thus take their importance merely from not mixing with low, mechanic arts, are at beſt only pictureſque appendages. They are of a negative nature, neither adding to the grandeur of the idea, nor taking from it. They merely and ſimply adorn a ſcene.

The characters, which are moſt ſuited to theſe ſcenes of grandeur, are ſuch as impreſs us with ſome idea of greatneſs, wildneſs, or ferocity; all which touch on the ſublime.

[46]Figures in long, folding draperies; gypſies; banditti; and ſoldiers,—not in modern regi⯑mentals; but as Virgil paints them, ‘—longis adnixi haſtis, et ſcuta tenentes;’ are all marked with one or other of theſe characters: and mixing with the magnificence, wildneſs, or horror of the place, they pro⯑perly coaleſce; and reflecting the ſame images, add a deeper tinge to the character of the ſcene.

For the truth of all theſe remarks I might appeal to the deciſive judgment of Salvator Roſa; who ſeems to have thoroughly ſtudied propriety in figures, eſpecially in ſcenes of grandeur. His works are a model on this head. We have a book of figures, particu⯑larly compoſed for ſcenery of this kind, and etched by himſelf. In this collection there is great variety, both in the characters, groups, and dreſſes: but I do not remember, either there, or in any other of his works, a low, mechanic character. All his figures are either of (what I have called) the negative kind; or marked with ſome trait of greatneſs, wild⯑neſs, or ferocity. Of this laſt ſpecies his [47] figures generally partook: his grand ſcenes being inhabited chiefly by banditti.

I met with a paſſage, not a little illuſtra⯑tive of theſe remarks on figures, in the tra⯑vels of Mr. Thickneſs through Spain.

"The worſt ſort of beggars, ſays he, in Spain are the troops of male, and female gypſies. They are of the genuine breed, and differ widely from all other gypſies; and I may ſay, from all other human beings. I often met troops of theſe people; and when an interview happens in roads very diſtant from towns, or dwellings, it is not very plea⯑ſing: for they aſk, as if they knew they were not to be refuſed; and I dare ſay often com⯑mit murders, when they can commit them by ſurprize. They are extremely ſwarthy, with hair as black as jet; and form very pic⯑tureſque groups under the ſhade of the rocks and trees of the Pyraenean mountains, where they ſpend their evenings: and live ſuitably to the climate; where bread, and water, and idleneſs, are preferable to better fare, and hard-labour."

SECT. XVIII.

ON deſcending the hill from Matterdale, before we came to the lake, we had a beautiful ſpecimen (as the naturaliſts ſpeak) of what in this country is called a gill. The road carried us along the edge of one of it's precipices: but the chaſm was ſo intirely filled with wood, that when we looked down, we could not ſee into it. Even the ſun-beams, unable to enter, reſted only on the tufted foliage of the trees, which grew from the ſides.—But though the eye was excluded, the ear was ſoothed by the harmony of an inviſible torrent; whoſe notes, ſounding along innu⯑merable broken falls, and ſoftened by aſcending through the trees, were very melodious.

A winding road brought us to the bottom; where the torrent tumbling out of the wood, received us. We had a ſhort view into the [50] deep receſſes of the ſcene, through the branches of the trees, which ſtretched over the ſtream; but we had not time, to penetrate the alluring ſhade.

Having paſſed over more high grounds, we came at length in view of the lake. The firſt catch of it was thus preſented.

A road occupied the neareſt part of the landſcape, winding around a broken cliff; which roſe conſiderably on the left. A portion of a diſtant mountain appeared on the right, with a ſmall part of the lake at it's foot. The fore-ground was well-diſpoſed; and the diſtant mountain, which fell into the lake, beautifully tinted. The compoſition, as far as it went, was very correct: but we yet ſaw only enough to excite our curioſity; and to give us, from the bearing of the land, a general idea of the lake.

Ulleſwater is the largeſt lake in this coun⯑try, except Windermere; being eight miles long; and about two broad in the wideſt part; tho, in general, it rarely exceeds a mile in []

[51] breadth. It points nearly north, and ſouth; as moſt of theſe lakes do; but being placed at an extremity of the barrier-mountains, it af⯑fords a greater variety than is exhibited by ſuch lakes, as are invironed by them. Theſe hav⯑ing few accompaniments, receive their character chiefly from the ſurrounding deſolation. Such a lake is Wyburn. Windermere, on the other hand, Keſwick, Butermer, and Ulleſ⯑water may all be called boundary-lakes. One end of each participates more of the rugged country; and the other of the cultivated: tho each end participates, in ſome degree, of both. A few traits of romantic ſcenery are added to the tameneſs of one end; and the native horror of the other is ſoftened by a few chearful appendages.

The form of Ulleſwater reſembles a Z; only there is no angular acuteneſs in it's line. It ſpreads every where in an eaſy curve; beau⯑tifully broken in ſome parts by promontories. —The middle reach contains in length near two thirds of the lake. The ſouthern ſide is mountainous; and becomes more ſo, as it verges towards the weſt. As the mountains approach the north, they glide (as we have ſeen is uſual in boundary-lakes) into meadows [52] and paſtures. The northern and weſtern ſides contain a great variety of woody and rocky ſcenes; but theſe alſo, as they approach the eaſt, become ſmooth and fertilized. At the ſouthern point, under impending mountains, lies the village of Patterdale.—With this ge⯑neral idea of Ulleſwater, let us return to the deſcent from Matterdale, where we caught the firſt view of it.

As we deſcended a little further, the whole ſcene of the lake opened before us; and ſuch a ſcene, as almoſt drew from us the apoſtrophe of the inraptured bard, ‘Viſions of glory, ſpare my aching ſight!’

Among all the viſions of this inchanting country, we had ſeen nothing ſo beautifully ſublime, ſo correctly pictureſque as this.— And yet I am averſe to make compariſons; eſpecially on ſeeing a country but once. Much depends on the circumſtances of light, and weather. I would wiſh therefore only to ſay, that I was more pleaſed with Ulleſwater, than with any lake I had ſeen; adding, at the ſame time, that we were fortunate in a concurrence [53] of incidents, that aided it's beauty. We had hitherto ſeen all the lakes we had viſited, under a rough, or cloudy ſky: and tho their dignity was certainly increaſed by that circumſtance; yet the beauty of a lake in ſplendid, ſerene weather, aided, at this time, by the powers of contraſt, made a wonderful impreſſion on the imagination.

"The effect of the ſublime, Mr. Burke in⯑forms us, is aſtoniſhment; and the effect of beauty, is pleaſure: but when the two ingre⯑dients mix, the effect, he ſays, is in a good meaſure deſtroyed in both. They conſtitute a ſpecies ſomething different both from the ſub⯑lime and beautiful, which I have before called fine: but this kind, I imagine, has not ſuch a power on the paſſions, either as vaſt bodies have, which are endowed with the correſpond⯑ent qualities of the ſublime; or as the qualities of beauty have, when united in a ſmall object. The affection produced by large bodies, adorned with the ſpoils of beauty, is a tention conti⯑nually [54] relieved; which approaches to the nature of mediocrity^*."

This refined reaſoning does not ſeem intirely grounded on experience.—I do not remember any ſcene in which beauty and ſublimity, ac⯑cording to my ideas, are more blended than in this: and tho Mr. Burke's ideas of beauty are perhaps more exceptionable, than his ideas of the ſublime; yet it happens, that moſt of the qualities, which he predicates of both, unite alſo in this ſcene. Their effect therefore, according to his argument, ſhould be deſtroyed. But the feelings of every lover of nature, on viewing theſe ſcenes, I dare be bold to ſay, would revolt from ſuch reaſoning.

The fore-ground of the grand view before us, is a part of Gobray-park, which belongs to the duke of Norfolk; rough, broken, and woody. Among the old oaks, which inriched it, herds of deer, and cattle grazed in groups. Beyond this is ſpread an extenſive reach of the lake, winding round a rocky promontory on the left; []

[55] which is the point of a mountain, called Mar⯑tindale-fell, or Place-fell; the ſouthern boun⯑dary of the lake. This promontory uniting with the mountain, lets it eaſily down into the water, as by a ſtep. An heſitation, if I may ſo call it, of this kind, eaſes greatly the heavineſs of a line. In a diſtance, it is of leſs conſequence: but in all the nearer grounds, it is neceſſary. I ſpeak chiefly however of thoſe ſcenes, in which beauty, and grandeur are combined. In thoſe of ſimple grandeur, and ſublimity, as in that of Penmanmaur, for inſtance, in north Wales, the heavy line, which is very remarkable in that ſcene, per⯑haps ſtrengthens the effect.

Martindale-fell is intirely unplanted: but it's line, and ſurface are both well varied. Num⯑berleſs breaks (little vallies, and knolls) give it a lightneſs, without injuring it's ſimplicity.

Such was the diſpoſition of the objects, on the left of the lake: on the right, two woody promontories, purſuing each other in perſpec⯑tive, made a beautiful contraſt with the ſmooth continuity of Martindale-fell.

In front, the diſtance was compoſed of mountains, falling gently into the lake; near [56] the edge of which lies the village of Patter⯑dale.

We took this view at a point, which had juſt ſo much elevation, as to give a variety to the lines of the lake. As we deſcended to the water, the view was ſtill grand, and beautiful, but had loſt ſome of it's more pictureſque beauties: it had loſt the fore-ground: it had loſt the ſweeping line round the mountain on the left: and it had loſt the receſs between the two woody promontories on the right. The whole margin of the lake was nearly reduced to one ſtraight line.—The beauty of a view, eſpecially in lake-ſcenery, we have be⯑fore obſerved^*, depends greatly on the nice poſition of it's point.

Having ſpent ſome time in examining this very inchanting ſcene, we ſkirted the lake towards Patterdale, on a tolerable road, which runs from one end of it to the other: on the ſouth it is continued to Ambleſide; on the north, to Penrith. I call it a tolerable road; but I mean only for horſes. It has not the [57] quartering and commodious width of a car⯑riage road.

As we leſt Gobray-park, we took our rout along the margin of the firſt of thoſe woody promontories on the right. We were carried by the ſide of the lake, through cloſe lanes, and thick groves: yet not ſo thick, but that we had every where, through the openings of the trees, and windings of the road, views in front, and on the right, into woody re⯑ceſſes; ſome of which were very pleaſing: and on the left, the lake, and all it's diſtant furniture, broke frequently upon us.

After ſkirting the firſt wooded promontory, which carried us about a mile, the road turned ſuddenly to the right, and led us round into the ſecond, riſing a conſiderable height above the water.—In this promontory, a new ſcene opened: the woods became intermixed with rock; and a great variety of very beautiful fore-grounds were produced. The rocks, through which the road was ſometimes cut, were chiefly on our right.—In this promon⯑tory [58] alſo, as well as in the other, we were amuſed with catches of the lake, and of Mar⯑tindale-fell, through the trees.

Scenes, like theſe, are adapted to every ſtate of the ſky. They were beautiful in the calm ſeaſon, in which we ſaw them; and in which indeed we wiſhed to ſee them. But they would have received peculiar advantages alſo from a ſtorm. The objects are all in that great ſtyle, which is ſuited to the vio⯑lences of nature. The imagination would have riſen with the tempeſt, and given a double grandeur to every awful form.—The trees, in the mean time, which rear them⯑ſelves ſtage above ſtage, upon the moun⯑tain's brow, and ſpread down to the very road, would have made a noble inſtrument for the hollow blaſt to ſound, conſiſting of various notes: while the ſurges of the lake, reſounding among the caverns, and daſhing againſt the rocks, many fathoms below, would have aided the concert with new notes of ter⯑rific harmony.

The mind is not always indeed in uniſon with ſuch ſcenes, and circumſtances, as theſe. When it does not happen to be ſo, no effect can be produced. Sometimes indeed the ſcene may draw the mind into uniſon; if it be not under the impreſſion of any ſtrong paſſion of an oppoſite kind; but in a ſort of neutral ſtate. The effect however will always be ſtrongeſt, when the mind happens to be poſ⯑ſeſſed of ideas congenial to the ſcene—when, in a kindly mood of melancholy, it feels itſelf ſoothed by the objects around.

But beſides the muſic of winds and tem⯑peſts, the ecchoes, which are excited in dif⯑ferent parts of this lake, are ſtill more grand, and affecting. More or leſs they accompany all lakes, that are circumſcribed by lofty, and rocky ſcreens. We found them on Winder⯑mere; we found them on Derwentwater. But [60] every lake, being ſurrounded by rocks and mountains of a ſtructure peculiar to itſelf, forms a variety of inſtru [...] and, of courſe, a variety of ſounds. The ecchoes therefore of no two lakes are alike; unleſs they are mere monotoniſts.

We took notice of a very grand eccho on the weſtern ſhores of the great iſland in Win⯑dermere: but the moſt celebrated ecchoes are ſaid to be found on Ulleſwater; in ſome of which the ſound of a cannon is diſtinctly reverberated ſix, or ſeven times. It firſt rolls over the head in one vaſt peal.—Then ſub⯑ſiding a few ſeconds, it riſes again in a grand, interrupted burſt, perhaps on the right.— Another ſolemn pauſe enſues. Then the ſound ariſes again on the left.—Thus thrown from rock to rock, in a ſort of aerial perſpective, it is caught again perhaps by ſome nearer promontory; and returning full on the ear, ſurprizes you, after you thought all had been over, with as great a peal as at firſt.

But the grandeſt effect of this kind is pro⯑duced by a ſucceſſive diſcharge of cannon^*; [61] at the interval of a few ſeconds between each diſcharge. The effect of the firſt is not over, when the ecchoes of the ſecond, the third, or perhaps of the fourth, begin. Such a va⯑riety of awful ſounds, mixing, and commix⯑ing, and at the ſame moment heard from all ſides, have a wonderful effect on the mind; as if the very foundations of every rock on the lake were giving way; and the whole ſcene, from ſome ſtrange convulſion, were falling into general ruin.

Theſe ſounds, which are all of the terrific kind, are ſuited chiefly to ſcenes of grandeur during ſome moment of wildneſs, when the lake is under the agitation of a ſtorm. In a calm, ſtill evening, the gradations of an eccho, dying away in diſtant thunder, are certainly heard with moſt advantage. But that is a different idea. You attend then only to the ecchoes themſelves. When you take the ſcene into the combination; and attend to the effect of the whole together; no doubt ſuch ſounds, as are of the moſt violent kind, are beſt ſuited to moments of the greateſt uproar.

But there is another ſpecies of ecchoes, which are as well adapted to the lake in all it's ſtillneſs, and tranquillity, as the others [62] are to it's wildneſs, and confuſion: and which recommend themſelves chiefly to thoſe feel⯑ings, which depend on the gentler move⯑ments of the mind. Inſtead of cannon, let a few French-horns, and clarionets be intro⯑duced. Softer muſic than ſuch loud wind-inſtruments, would ſcarce have power to vi⯑brate. The effect is now wonderfully changed. The ſound of a cannon is heard in burſts. It is the muſic only of thunder. But the continuation of muſical ſounds forms a continua⯑tion of muſical ecchoes; which reverberating around the lake, are exquiſitely melodious in their ſeveral gradations; and form a thouſand ſymphonies, playing together from every part. The variety of notes is inconceivable. The ear is not equal to their innumerable combi⯑nations. It liſtens to a ſymphony dying away at a diſtance; when other melodious ſounds ariſe cloſe at hand. Theſe have ſcarce attracted the attention; when a different mode of harmony ariſes from another quarter. In ſhort, every rock is vocal, and the whole lake is transformed into a kind of magical ſcene; in which every promontory ſeems peopled by aerial beings, anſwering each other in celeſtial muſic.

We had now almoſt ſkirted the two woody promontories in our rout to Patterdale. The concluſion is the grandeſt part of the whole ſcenery. It is a bold projection of rock finely marked, and adorned with hanging woods; under the beetling ſummit of which the road makes a ſudden turn. This is the point of the ſecond promontory; and, I be⯑lieve, is known by the name of Stibray-cragg.

The trees which compoſe the whole ſce⯑nery through both theſe promontories, are in general, oak.

From hence through lanes of the ſame kind, though leſs ſuperbly decorated, we came to the village of Patterdale; ſituated on riſing grounds, among two or three little [64] rivers, or branches of a river, which feed the lake. It lies in a cove of mountains, open in front to the ſouthern reach of the lake; beyond which appear the high and woody lands of Gobray-park. The ſituation is magnificent.

Among the cottages of this village, there is a houſe, belonging to a perſon of ſome⯑what better condition; whoſe little eſtate, which he occupies himſelf, lies in the neigh⯑bourhood. As his property, inconſiderable as it is, is better than that of any of his neighbours, it has gained him the title of King of Patterdale, in which his family name is loſt. His anceſtors have long enjoyed the title before him. We had the honour of ſeeing this prince, as he took the diverſion of fiſhing on the lake; and I could not help thinking, that if I were inclined to envy the ſituation of any potentate in Europe, it would be that of the king of Patterdale. The pride of Windſor and Verſailles would ſhrink in a compariſon with the magnificence of his do⯑minions.

[65]The great ſimplicity of this country, and that rigid temperance, and economy, which neceſſity injoins to all it's inhabitants, may be exemplified by the following little hiſtory.

A clergyman, of the name of Mattiſon, was miniſter of this place ſixty years; and died lately at the age of ninety. During the early part of his life, his benefice brought him in only twelve pounds a year. It was afterwards increaſed, (I ſuppoſe by the queen's bounty,) to eighteen; which it never ex⯑ceeded. On this income he married—brought up four children—lived comfortably among his neighbours—educated a ſon, I believe, at college—and left upwards of 1000£. be⯑hind him.

With that ſingular ſimplicity, and inatten⯑tion to forms which characterize a country like this; he himſelf read the burial-ſervice over his mother; he married his father to a ſecond wife; and afterwards buried him alſo. He publiſhed his own banns of mar⯑riage in the church, with a woman, whom he had formerly chriſtened; and himſelf mar⯑ried all his four children.

[66]From this ſpecimen, the manners of the country may eaſily be conceived. At a diſ⯑tance from the refinements of the age, they are at a diſtance alſo from it's vices. Many ſage writers, and Monteſquieu ^* in particular, have ſuppoſed theſe rough ſcenes of nature to have a great effect on the human mind: and have found virtues in mountainous coun⯑tries, which were not the growth of tamer regions. Many opinions perhaps have paſſed current among mankind, which have leſs foundation in truth. Monteſquieu is in queſt chiefly of political virtue—liberty—bravery— and the arts of bold defence: but, I believe, private virtue is equally befriended by theſe rough ſcenes. It is ſome happineſs indeed to theſe people, that they have no great roads among them; and that their ſimple villages, on the ſides of lakes, and mountains, are in no line of communication with any of the buſy haunts of men. Ignorance is ſometimes called the mother of vice. I apprehend it to be as often the nurſe of innocence.

[67]Much have thoſe travellers to anſwer for, whoſe caſual intercourſe with this innocent, and ſimple people tends to corrupt them; diſſeminating among them ideas of extrava⯑gance, and diſſipation—giving them a taſte for pleaſures, and gratifications, of which they had no ideas—inſpiring them with diſ⯑content at home—and tainting their rough, induſtrious manners with idleneſs, and a thirſt after diſhoneſt means.

If travellers would frequent this country with a view to examine it's grandeur, and beauty—or to explore it's varied, and curious regions with the eye of philoſophy—or, if that could be hoped, to adore the great Crea⯑tor in theſe his ſublimer works—if, in their paſſage through it, they could be content with ſuch fare as the country produces; or, at leaſt reconcile themſelves to it by manly exerciſe, and fatigue (for there is a time, when the ſtomach, and the plaineſt food will be found in perfect harmony)—if they could thus, inſtead of corrupting the manners of an innocent people; learn to amend their own, [68] by ſeeing in how narrow a compaſs the wants of human life may be compreſſed—a journey through theſe wild ſcenes might be attended perhaps with more improvement, than a jour⯑ney to Rome, or Paris. Where manners are poliſhed into vicious refinement, ſimplifying is the beſt mode of improving; and the ex⯑ample of innocence is a more inſtructive leſſon, than any that can be taught by artiſts, and literati.

But theſe ſcenes are too often the reſort of gay company, who are under no impreſſions of this kind—who have no ideas, but of ex⯑tending the ſphere of their amuſements—or, of varying a life of diſſipation. The grandeur of the country is not taken into the queſ⯑tion: or, at leaſt it is no otherwiſe conſidered, than as affording ſome new mode of plea⯑ſurable enjoyment. Thus even the diverſions of Newmarket are introduced—diverſions, one would imagine, more foreign to the na⯑ture of this country, than any other. A number of horſes are carried into the middle of a lake in a flat boat. A plug is drawn from the bottom: the boat ſinks, and the horſes are left floating on the ſurface. In dif⯑ferent [69] directions they make to land; and the horſe, which ſooneſt arrives, ſecures the prize.

SECT. XIX.

HAVING ſpent two hours at Patterdale, in refreſhing our horſes, and in ſurvey⯑ing the beauty of it's ſituation; we left it with regret, and ſet out for Penrith.

We had now the whole length of the lake to ſkirt; part of which we had already tra⯑verſed in our rout from Gobray-park: but we felt no reluctance at taking a ſecond view of it.

As we traverſed the two woody promon⯑tories, which we had paſſed in the morning, we had a grand exhibition of the middle reach of the lake; which, I have obſerved, is by far the longeſt. Martindale-fell, ſhooting into the water, which before adorned the left [72] of the landſcape, now took it's ſtation on the right. The left was compoſed of the high woody grounds about Gobray-park.—In the center, the hills gently declining, formed a boundary at the bottom of the lake; ſtretching far to the eaſt.—As a fore-ground, we had the woods, and rocks of the two promontories, through which we paſſed.

Such were the outlines, and compoſition of the view before us; but it's colouring was ſtill more exquiſite.

The ſun was now deſcending low, and caſt the broad ſhades of evening athwart the land⯑ſcape: while his beams, gleaming with yellow luſtre through the vallies, ſpread over the inlightened ſummits of the mountains, a thou⯑ſand lovely tints—in ſober harmony, where ſome deep receſs was faintly ſhadowed—in ſplendid hue, where jutting knolls, or pro⯑montories received the fuller radiance of the diverging ray. The air was ſtill: the lake, one vaſt expanſe of cryſtal mirror. The mountain-ſhadows, which ſometimes give the water a deep, black hue (in many circumſtan⯑ces, extremely pictureſque;) were ſoftened here [73] into a mild, blue tint, which ſwept over half the ſurface. The other half received the fair impreſſion of every radiant form, that glowed around. The inverted landſcape was touched in fainter colours, than the real one. Yet it it was more than laid in. It was almoſt finiſhed. The laſt touches alone were want⯑ing.

What an admirable ſtudy for the pallet is ſuch a ſcene as this! infinitely beyond the camera's contracted bounds. Here you ſee nature in her full dimenſions. You are let into the very myſtery—into every artifice, of her pencil. In the reflected picture, you ſee the ground ſhe lays in—the great effects pre⯑ſerved—and that veil of expreſſive obſcurity thrown over all, in which what is done, is done ſo exquiſitely, that if you wiſh the finiſh⯑ing touches, you wiſh them only by the ſame inimitable hand that gave the ſketch. Turn from the ſhadow to the reality, and you have them. There the obſcurity is detailed. The picture, and the ſketch reflect mutual graces on each other.

I dwell the longer on this ſcene, becauſe during five days, which we ſpent in this ro⯑mantic country, where we took a view of ſo [74] many lakes, this was the only moment, in which we were ſo fortunate, as to ſee the water in a pure, reflecting ſtate. Partial ex⯑hibitions of this kind we had often met with: but here we were preſented with a ſcene of the utmoſt magnificence.

Having examined this very lovely landſcape, ſo perfect both in compoſition, and in colour⯑ing, we proceeded in our rout along the lake.

We now re-entered Gobray-park; which afforded us, for near three miles, a great va⯑riety of beautiful ſcenes on the left, compoſed of rocky, and broken-ground, foreſt-trees, copſe-wood, and wooded-hills: while the lake, and mountains, whoſe ſummits were now glowing with the full ſplendor of an evening ſun, were a continued fund of varied entertainment on the right. The eye was both amuſed, and relieved by ſurveying the two different modes of ſcenery in ſucceſſion: the broad ſhades, and bright diverſified tints, of the diſtant mountains, on one ſide; and the beautiful forms, and objects of the fore-ground, on the other.

[75]One part of the fore-ground was marked with ſingular wildneſs. It was a kind of rocky paſs near the margin of the lake; known, I believe, by the name of Yew-cragg. If Caeſar had ſeen it, it would have ſtruck him in a military light; and he would have deſcribed it as a defile, "anguſtum, & dif⯑ficile, inter montem, & lacum; quo vix ſinguli carri ducerentur. Mons altiſſimus impendebat; ut facile perpauci tranſitum pro⯑hibere poſſent^*."

But our imaginations were more amuſed with pictureſque, than military ideas. It ſtruck us therefore merely as an object of beauty.—It's features were theſe.

At a little diſtance from the lake, the broken ſide of a mountain falls abruptly to the ground in two noble tiers of rock; both which are ſhattered in every direction. This rocky ſcene was ornamented in the richeſt manner with wood. The road ſkirted the lake; and between it and the rocks, all was rough, broken-ground, intangled with brakes, and impaſſible. Among the rocks aroſe a grove of foreſt-trees [76] of various height, according to the inequality of the ground. Here and there, a few ſcat⯑tered oaks, the fathers of the foreſt, reared their peeled, and withered trunks acroſs the glade; and ſet off the vivid green of the more luxuriant trees. The deer ſtarting from the brakes, as the feet of our horſes approached, added new wildneſs to the native character of the view; while the ſcreams of a hernery (the wildeſt notes in nature) allowed the ear to participate in the ſcene.

The illumination of this grand maſs of rock was as intereſting, as the compoſition of it. It was overſpread, when we ſaw it, with a deep evening-ſhadow, with many a darker tint in the cloſer receſſes. A mild ray, juſt tinged with the bluſh of a ſetting ſun, tipped the ſummits of the trees:

Were a man diſpoſed to turn hermit, I know not where he could fix his abode more agree⯑ably than here. The projecting rocks would [77] afford a ſheltered ſituation for his cell; which would open to a ſcene every way fitted for meditation. He might wander along the bot⯑tom of a mountain; and by the ſide of a lake, almoſt unfrequented, except by the foot of curioſity, or of ſome haſty ſhepherd, ſeeking for the ſtragglers of his flock. Here he might enjoy the contemplation of nature in all her ſimplicity and grandeur. This ſingle ſcene, the mere invirons of his cell, under all the varieties of light, and ſhade—ſun-ſhine, and ſtorm—morning, and evening, would itſelf afford an inexhauſted fund of entertainment: while the ample tome expanded daily before his eye, would baniſh the littleneſs of life; and naturally impreſs his mind with great ideas.

From this wild ſcene we ſoon entered ano⯑ther of a different caſt. It was a circular plain, about half a mile in diameter; ſur⯑rounded by mountains, with an opening to the lake. The plain was ſmooth, but varied: the mountains, rather low, but rugged.

[78]A valley, like this, conſidered as a whole, has little pictureſque beauty. But a pictu⯑reſque eye will find it's objects even here. It will inveſtigate the hills, and pick out ſuch portions, as are moſt pleaſing. Theſe it will form into back-grounds, and inrich the fore-ground (which can only be a plain) with cattle, trees, or other objects.—Even ſuch ſimple ſcenes, by the aid of judicious lights, may form pictures.

We had the ſame kind of ſcene, ſoon after, repeated,—a circular valley, ſurrounded with mountains, tho varied in many particulars from the other. Both however were equally unadorned; and as both were capable, by a few well-choſen accompaniments, of being formed into good pictures; ſo likewiſe both were capable of being made delightful ſcenes in nature, by a little judicious planting; tho we muſt ſtill have wiſhed this planting to have had the growth of a century.

[79]It is remarkable, that we find ſcarce any diſpoſition of ground, that belongs to a moun⯑tainous country, of which Virgil has not taken notice. The ſcenes we now examined, he exactly deſcribes: only he has given his hills the ornament of wood, which he knew was their moſt pictureſque dreſs.

Not far from theſe circular plains appears Gobray-hall; once the capital of theſe do⯑mains; but now a neglected manſion. If ſituation can recommend a place, this ſeems to enjoy one in great perfection. It ſtands on high ground, with higher ſtill behind it. We did not ride up to the houſe; but it ſeemed to command a noble view of the lake, and of the ſcenery around it.

Nearly at the point where Ulleſwater makes it's laſt curve, ſtands the village of Water-Mullock; [80] ſituated rather within the land. Through this place the road carried us to the laſt reach of the lake; which is the leaſt beautiful part. Here the hills grow ſmooth, and lumpiſh; and the country, at every ſtep, loſes ſome of the wild ſtrokes of nature; and degenerates, if I may ſo ſpeak, into cultiva⯑tion.

At the end of the lake ſtands Dunmallet, a remarkable hill, which overlooks the laſt reach; but is itſelf rather a diſguſting object. Shaped with conic exactneſs; planted uni⯑formly with Scotch firs; and cut as uniformly into walks verging to a center, it becomes a vile termination of a noble ſcene.—Once probably it was more intereſting; when the Roman eagle was planted, as it formerly was, upon it's ſummit—when it's bold, rough ſides were in uniſon with the objects around—and a noble caſtle frowned, from it's precipices over the lake. This fortreſs, whoſe ram⯑parts may yet eaſily be traced, muſt once have been of conſiderable importance, as it commanded all the avenues of the country.

[81]We had now finiſhed our view of Ulleſ⯑water, which contains a wonderful variety of grand, and pictureſque ſcenes, compreſſed within a very narrow compaſs.—In one part, not far from Water-Mullock, the road carried us to the higher grounds, from whence we had a view of the whole lake, and all it's vaſt accompaniments together—a troubled ſea of mountains; a broken ſcene—amuſing, but not pictureſque.

In our evening's ride, we had ſkirted only one ſide of the lake; and wiſhed our time would have allowed us to ſkirt the other alſo. It is probable the ſouthern coaſt might have afforded very noble diſtant views of the woods, and rocks of Gobray-park, and the adjacent lofty grounds.

We could have wiſhed alſo to have navi⯑gated the lake: for though views from the water, are in general leſs beautiful, than the ſame views from the land, as they want the [82] advantage of a fore-ground, and alſo bring the horizon too low^*; yet it is probable the grand reaches of this lake, and the woody promontories, round which the water winds, would have diſplayed many beautiful paſſages from a boat.

One view from the water, we heard much commended, that of the laſt reach of the lake, towards the conic hill of Dunmallet. The ſides of the lake—it's gliding away into the river Eamot, which carries it off—Pooly-bridge, which is thrown over that river, at the bottom of the lake—and the country beyond—were all much extolled: but we could not conceive, that any views, at this end of the lake, could be comparable to what we had ſeen near the ſhores of Patterdale: eſpecially any views, in which the regular form of Dunmallet made ſo conſiderable a part.

It would have added alſo to our amuſement, to have taken a view of the lake by moon⯑light. [83] For tho it is very difficult in painting to manage ſo feeble an effuſion of light in ſuch a manner, as, at the ſame time, to illumine objects, and produce an effect; yet the reality, in ſuch ſcenes as theſe, is attended often with a wonderful ſolemnity and grandeur. That ſhadowy form of great objects, which is ſometimes traced out by a ſilver thread, and ſometimes by a kind of bright obſcurity on a darker ground, almoſt oppreſſes the imagination with ſublime ideas. Great effects alſo we ſometimes ſee of light and ſhade, tho only faintly marked. In the abſence of colour, the clair-obſcur is more ſtriking;

I cannot leave the ſcenes of Ulleſwater, without taking notice of an uncommon fiſh, which frequents it's waters; and which is equally the object of the naturaliſt, and of the epicure. It is of the trout-ſpecies; beau⯑tifully clad in ſcales of ſilver; firm, and finely [84] flavoured; and of ſuch dimenſions, that it has ſometimes been known to weigh between thirty, and forty pounds.

Having now paſt the limits of the lake, we traverſed a very pleaſant country in our road to Penrith, keeping the Eamot com⯑monly within view on our right; and leaving on the left, the ruins of Dacre-caſtle, the ancient ſeat of the noble family of that name.

No part of Cumberland is more inhabited by the genteeler families of the county, than this. Within the circumference of a few miles ſtand many of their houſes; ſome of which have formerly been caſtles: but the road carried us in view only of two or three of them.

Before we arrived at Penrith, one of theſe fortreſſes, which is known by the name of Penrith-caſtle, preſented us with a very noble ruin; and under the moſt intereſting circum⯑ſtances. The ſun, which, through the length []

[85] of a ſummer-day, had befriended us with all his morning, noon, and evening powers; preparing now, with farewell ſweet, to take his leave, gave us yet one more beautiful exhibition.

A grand broken arch preſented itſelf firſt in deep ſhadow. Through the aperture ap⯑peared a part of the internal ſtructure, thrown into perſpective to great advantage; and illu⯑mined by the departing ray. Other fragments of the ſhattered towers, and battlements were juſt touched with the ſplendid tint: but the body of light reſted on thoſe parts, which were ſeen through the ſhadowed arch.

In the offskip, beyond the caſtle, aroſe a hill, in ſhadow likewiſe; on the top of which ſtood a lonely beacon. The windows anſwer⯑ing each other, we could juſt diſcern the glowing horizon through them—a circum⯑ſtance, which however trivial in deſcription, has a beautiful effect in landſcape.

This beacon is a monument of thoſe tumul⯑tuous times, which preceded the union; and the only monument of the kind now remain⯑ing in theſe parts; though ſuch beacons were formerly ſtationed over the whole country; [86] and could ſpread intelligence, in a few ſeconds, from one end of it to the other.

At this later day theſe caſtles and poſts of alarm, adorning the country, they once defended, raiſe pleaſing reflections on a com⯑pariſon of preſent times with paſt—thoſe tur⯑bulent times, when no man could ſleep in ſafety unleſs ſecured by a fortreſs. In war he feared the invaſion of an open enemy: and in peace a miſchief ſtill more formidable, the ravages of banditti; with whom the country was always at that time infeſted. Theſe wretches were compoſed of the outlaws from both nations; and inhabiting the faſtneſſes of the bogs, and mountains, uſed to ſally out, and plunder in all directions.

Penrith is a neat town, ſituated not un⯑pleaſantly, under mountains; and in the neigh⯑bourhood of lakes.

In the church-yard we ſaw an ancient mo⯑nument, which has occaſioned much ſpecu⯑lation among antiquarians. It conſiſts of two rough pillars, with four ſemicircular ſtones, fixed in the ground between them. Dr. Todd, an antiquarian of the laſt age, found out four [87] wild-boars, and other ingenious devices, on the different parts of this monument. We examined it with attention: but could not find even the moſt diſtant reſemblance of any form in nature. The whole ſurface ſeemed to be nothing more than a piece of rough chiſſel work.—In the church, which is a handſome, plain ſtructure, is placed a ſtone, recording the ravages of the plague among the ſeveral towns of this neighbourhood, in the year 1598.

As we leave Penrith, which is within twenty miles of Carliſle, we enter that vaſt waſte, called Inglewood-foreſt, through which we rode at leaſt nine miles; in all which ſpace there is ſcarce a tree to be ſeen: and yet were it well planted, as it once probably was, many parts of it might be admired: for the ground makes bold and noble ſwells; the back ſcenery is compoſed of a grand ſweep of mountains; and on the left, are diſ⯑tant views into a cultivated country.

The mountains, which adorn theſe ſcenes, are the ſame we ſaw, as we left Keſwick; only the more northern part of that circular [88] chain is now turned towards us. In this view, the ridge of Saddle-back aſſumes that ſhape, from which it derives it's appellation.

That part of Inglewood-foreſt, which lies neareſt the town, is known by the name of Penrith-fell, conſiſting of rough, and hilly grounds. One of the higheſt hills is occu⯑pied by the beacon, of which we had a diſ⯑tant view, as we examined the ruins of Pen⯑rith-caſtle.

On this ſpot, in the year 1715, the Cum⯑berland militia aſſembled to oppoſe the re⯑bels in their march to the ſouth. But a mi⯑litia without diſcipline, is never formidable. The whole body fled, as the van of the re⯑bels appeared marching round an oppoſite hill.

Nicolſon, biſhop of Carliſle, a ſtrenuous man, who had been very inſtrumental in bringing them together, and now attended their march; was ſo chagrined, and mortified at their behaviour, that in a fit of obſtinate vexation, he would not quit the field. The [89] enemy was coming on apace. His ſervants rode up to the coach for orders. The biſhop ſat mute with indignation. All thoughts of himſelf were loſt in the public diſgrace. His coachman however, whoſe feelings were leſs delicate, thinking the management of affairs, in this interruption of government, now de⯑volved upon him, laſhed his horſes, and car⯑ried his maſter off the field.

On the verge of the foreſt, at a place called Plumpton, a large Roman ſtation (or ſtative camp) runs a quarter of a mile, on the right. You trace the ground broken variouſly, where tents, kitchens, and earthen tables probably ſtood, not unlike the veſtiges of a modern encampment. On the left appear the lines of a fort of conſiderable dimenſions, about one hundred and fifty yards ſquare, which was once the citadel of this military colony. The ramparts, and ditches may eaſily be traced on every ſide.

The great road indeed, which we travelled, is intirely Roman; and is laid almoſt by a line over the foreſt. You ſeldom ſee a winding road of Roman conſtruction. Their ſurvey⯑ors, [90] and pioneers had no idea of the line of beauty; nor ſtood in reverence of any inclo⯑ſures; but always took the ſhorteſt cut; making the Appian way the model of all their provincial roads.

At Ragmire, about a mile farther, where the road croſſes a bog, large wooden frame⯑works, yet uninjured by time, were lately dug up; which the Romans had laid, as a foundation for their cauſey, over that un⯑ſtable ſurface.

On leaving Inglewood-foreſt, the road en⯑ters an encloſed country, in which is little variety, and ſcarce an intereſting object, till we arrive at Carliſle.

The approach to that city, from the riſing ground, near the little village of Hereby, is grand. The town, which terminates a viſta of a mile in length, takes a very compact form; in which no part is ſeen, but what makes a handſome appearance. The ſquare, and maſſy tower of the caſtle riſes on the right: in the middle, the cathedral riſes ſtill [91] higher; and contiguous to it, on the left, appear the round towers of the citadel; which was built by Henry VIII, in the form of all his caſtles on the Hampſhire, and Kentiſh coaſts.

The beauty however of this approach is ſoon loſt. As we deſcend the hill from Hereby, the town ſinks into the inſignificance of it's invirons.

The entrance is ſtill beautiful; the road winding to the gate round the towers of the citadel.

SECT. XX.

FEW towns offer a fairer field to an anti⯑quary, than Carliſle. It's origin, and hiſtory, are remote, curious and obſcure. It was unqueſtionably a place of conſequence in Roman times. Severus's wall juſt includes it in the Britiſh pale. The veſtiges of that barrier run within half a mile of it's gates; and it probably figured firſt under the charac⯑ter of a fortreſs, on that celebrated rampart.

In after ages it had it's ſhare ſucceſſively in the hiſtory of Saxons, Danes, and Scots; and during the revolutions of theſe ſeveral nations, was the ſcene of every viciſſitude of war. It hath been frequently beſieged, pil⯑laged, burnt, and rebuilt. Once it lay buried in it's ruins for the ſpace of two centuries. Rufus brought it again into exiſtence. The preſent town is founded on the veſtiges of [94] former towns; which in many parts have raiſed the ground within, nearly to the height of the walls. The foundations of a houſe are rarely dug without diſturbing the ruins of ſome other houſe. It has been the reſidence; and it has been the priſon of kings. An old aſh⯑tree is ſtill ſhewn, near the gate of the caſtle; which is ſaid to have been planted by the unfortunate Mary of Scotland, who ſpent a part of her captivity in this fortreſs; whither ſhe was ſoon brought, after her landing at Workington. Many princes alſo have ſhed their royal favours on this ancient town; and made it's fortifications their care.

Now all it's military honours are diſgraced. Northern commotions are no longer dreaded. It's gates ſtand always open; and it's walls, the object of no farther attention, are falling faſt into ruin. The firing of a morning and an evening gun from the caſtle, which was the laſt garriſon-form that remained, hath been diſcontinued theſe ſix years, to the great regret of the country around, whoſe hours of labour it regulated.

[95]But I mean not to enter into the hiſtory of Carliſle: it concerns me only as an object of beauty. Within it's walls indeed it contains little that deſerves notice. The caſtle is heavy in all it's parts, as theſe fabrics commonly are. It is too perfect to afford much pleaſure to the pictureſque eye; except as a remote object, ſoftened by diſtance. Hereafter, when it's ſhattered towers, and buttreſſes, give a light⯑neſs to it's parts, it may adorn ſome future landſcape.

The cathedral deſerves ſtill leſs attention. It is a heavy, Saxon pile; and there is nothing about it, that is beautiful; except the eaſt-window, which is a rich, and very elegant piece of Gothic ramification.

The fratry, as it is called, or chapter-houſe, in the abbey, is the only building that de⯑ſerves notice. On one ſide, where it has formerly been connected with the cloyſters, it has little beauty: but on the other, next the deanery, it's proportions and ornaments are elegant. It ſeems to be of that ſtyle of archi⯑tecture, which prevailed rather before the two later Henries.

[96]But though Carliſle furniſhes little amuſe⯑ment within it's walls; yet it adds great beauty, as a diſtant object, to the country around. Few towns enjoy a better ſituation. It ſtands on a riſing ground, in the midſt of meadows, watered by two conſiderable rivers; which flowing on different ſides of the city, unite a little below it; and form the whole ground-plot, on which it ſtands, into a kind of peninſula. Beyond the meadows, the ground riſes, in almoſt all parts, at different diſtances.

The meadows around it, eſpecially along the banks of the river Eden, want only a little more wood to make them very beautiful. In high floods, which happen two or three times in the courſe of a winter, they exhibit a very grand ſcene. The town appears ſtand⯑ing out, like a promontory in the midſt of a vaſt lake.

The ſhort ſiege which Carliſle ſuſtained in the rebellion of the year 1745, together with ſome awkward circumſtances that attended it, threw [97] a general odium upon the town; and many be⯑lieved, among whom was the late duke of Cum⯑berland, that it was very ill-affected to the go⯑vernment. No ſuſpicion was ever more unjuſt. I dare take upon me to ſay, there were ſcarce half a dozen people in the whole place, who wiſhed well to the rebellion.

The following anecdote, known but to few; and totally unknown, till many years after the event, will throw ſome light on it's haſty ſurrender; which brought it into ſuch diſ⯑grace.

When the rebels came before it, it was garriſoned only by two companies of invalids; and two raw, undiſciplined regiments of mi⯑litia. General Wade lay at Newcaſtle with a conſiderable force: and the governor of Carliſle informing him, how unprovided he was, begged a reinforcement. The ſingle hope of this relief, enabled the gentlemen of the country, who commanded the militia, to keep their men under arms.

In the mean time the rebels were known to be as ill-prepared for an attack, as the town was for a defence. They had now lain a week before it; and found it was impracticable, for [98] want of artillery, to make any attempt. They feared alſo an interruption from general Wade: and beſides, were unwilling to delay any longer their march towards London. Under theſe difficulties, they had come to a reſolution to abandon their deſign.

At this critical time the governor of Carliſle received a letter from general Wade, informing him, he was ſo circumſtanced, that he could not poſſibly ſend the reinforcement that had been deſired. This mortifying intelligence, tho not publickly known, was however communicated to the principal officers; and to ſome others; among whom was a buſy at⯑torney, whoſe name was H—s.

H—s was then addreſſing a young lady, the daughter of Mr. F—r, a gentleman of the country; and to aſſiſt his cauſe, and give himſelf conſequence with his intended father in law, he whiſpered to him, among his other political ſecrets, the diſappointment from ge⯑neral Wade.

The whiſper did not reſt here. F—r frequented a club in the neighbourhood; where obſerving (in the jollity of a chearful evening) that only friends were preſent, he gave his company the information, he had juſt received from H—s.

[99]There was in that company, one S—d, a gentleman of ſome fortune near Carliſle, who, tho a known papiſt, was however at that time, thought to be of very intire affection to the government. This man, poſſeſſed of ſuch a ſecret, and wiſhing for an opportunity to ſerve a cauſe, which he favoured in his heart, took horſe that very night, after he left the club-room, and rode directly to the rebel-camp; which he found under orders to break up the next morning. He was carried imme⯑diately to the Duke of Perth, and others of the rebel leaders, to whom he communicated his intelligence; and aſſured them, they might expect a mutiny in the town, if they conti⯑nued before it, one day longer. Counter orders were immediately iſſued; and the next day the Cumberland and Weſtmoreland militia, being under no diſcipline, began to mutiny, and diſ⯑perſe; and the town defended now only by two companies of invalids, was thought no longer tenable. The governor was tried by a court-martial; and acquitted: and nobody ſuppoſed that either the militia-officers, or their men, were impreſſed by any motive worſe than fear.

[100]In ſo variegated a country, as England, there are few parts, which do not afford many pleaſing, and pictureſque ſcenes. The moſt probable way of finding them, as I obſerved a little above, is to follow the courſe of the rivers. About their banks we ſhall generally find the richeſt ſcenery, which the country can produce. This rule we followed in the few excurſions which we had time to make from Carliſle: and firſt we took a view of the river Cauda.

Near the town this river is broken into ſo many ſtreams; and throws up, every where, ſo many barren beds of pebbles, that there is no great beauty in this part of it's courſe. But above, where higher banks confine it's impetu⯑oſity, it becomes more intereſting. The vales of Sebergham and Dalſton, we heard much commended. The former we did not viſit▪ the latter we followed with great pleaſure, along it's winding courſe, for many miles; and found ourſelves often in the midſt of very beau⯑tiful ſcenes; the river being ſhut up ſometimes [101] by cloſe, and lofty banks, and ſometimes flow⯑ing through meadows edged with wood.

Among other ſituations on the Cauda we were much pleaſed with that of Roſe-caſtle, the ſeat of the biſhop of Carliſle; which ſtands on a gentle riſe, in a wide part of the vale; the river winding round it, in a ſemi-circular form, at about half a mile's diſtance. The ground between the caſtle, and the river, con⯑ſiſts of beautiful meadows; and beyond the river, the lofty bank, which winds with it, is well-planted; and forms a ſweep of hanging wood. The caſtle compoſed of ſquare towers, tho no object on the ſpot, is a good orna⯑ment to the ſcene.

Between Roſe-caſtle and Wigton the coun⯑try abounds with the relicks of Roman in⯑campments. At a place, called Chalk-cliff (which, by the way, is a cliff of red ſtone) this legionary inſcription is engraved in the native rock.

[102]From the Cauda, our next excurſion was along the Eden. On the banks of this river, we were informed of many intereſting ſcenes. At Kirkoſwal, and Nunnery particularly, the country was repreſented as very engaging; but Corby-caſtle, about five miles from Carliſle, was the only place above the town, which we had time to viſit.

At Wetherall we ferried over the river; and landed under the caſtle, which ſtands on the edge of a lofty bank. This bank ſtretches at leaſt three miles along the courſe of the river, partly below, but chiefly above, the caſtle. I give it it's ancient title; tho it is now a mere modern houſe, without the leaſt veſtige of it's primeval dignity. Below the caſtle, the bank is rocky, and falls precipitately into the water: above, it makes a more gentle deſcent; and leaves an edging, which, in ſome parts, ſpreads into little winding meads, and where it is nar⯑roweſt, is broad enough for a handſome walk. The whole bank, both above, and below the caſtle, is covered with wood; large oak, and aſh; and in many places the ſcenery is rocky alſo. But the rocks are not of the grey kind, [103] ſtained with a variety of different tints—the ſaxa circumlita muſco; but incline rather to a ſandy red, which is not the moſt coaleſcing hue. They give however great ſpirit, and beauty to the ſcene.

The bank of the river, oppoſite to the caſtle, is likewiſe high; in many parts woody; in others affording an intermixture of wood, and lawn. Here ſtand the ruins of Wetherall-abbey; tho little more of it is left, than a ſquare tower, which is ſome ornament, tho no very pictureſque one, to the ſcene. Theſe ruins were once extenſive, and, I have heard, beau⯑tiful; but the dean and chapter of Carliſle, to whom the place belongs, ſome years ago car⯑ried off the ſtones, with more oeconomy than taſte, to build a prebendal houſe.

On this ſide of the river alſo, an object preſents itſelf, known by the name of Wetherall-ſafeguard, which is eſteemed a great curioſity. It conſiſts of three chambers cut in the ſolid rock, which being in this part, almoſt a pre⯑cipice, the acceſs to theſe chambers is very difficult. It is ſuppoſed to have been an ap⯑pendage of the abbey; where the monks, in times of diſorder, ſecreted their wealth. Some antiquarians ſuppoſe it to have been [104] inhabited by a religious devotee, and call it St. Conſtantine's cell. It is rather a curious place, than any great ornament to the ſcene.

To the natural advantages of the ſcenery about Corby-caſtle, the improvements of art have added little. The late proprietor, who had ſeen nothing himſelf; and imagined from the reſort of ſtrangers to ſee the beauty of his ſituation, that they admired his taſte, reſolved to make Corby one of the moſt ſumptuous places in Europe. With this view, he ſcooped his rocks into grottos—fabricated a caſcade, conſiſting of a lofty flight of regular ſtone ſteps —cut a ſtraight walk through his woods, along the banks of the river; at the end of which he reared a temple: and being reſolved to add every ornament, that expence could procure, he hired an artiſt of the country, at four-pence a day (for labour was then cheap) to make ſtatues. Numberleſs were the works of this genius. Diana, Neptune, Polyphemus, Nymphs and Satyrs in abundance, and a variety of other figures, became ſoon the ornaments of the woods; and met the eye of the ſpectator wherever he turned. A punſter, who was re⯑markable for making only one good pun in his life, made it here. Pointing to one of theſe [105] ſtrange figures, he called it a ſatyr upon the place.

But the taſte of the preſent age hath deſtroyed the pride of the laſt. The preſent proprietor hath done little; but what he hath done, is done well. The rocks indeed ſcooped into holes, can never be reſtored to their native ſimplicity, and grandeur. Their bold projec⯑tions are for ever effaced. Nor could a century reſtore thoſe trees which were rooted up to form the viſta. But the ſtatues, like the ancient ſculpture of the Egyptians, are now no more. The temple is going faſt into ruins; and the caſcade (ſo frivolous, if it had even been good in it's kind, on the banks of a great, and rapid river) is now overgrown with thic⯑kets. The old line of the walk could not eaſily be effaced: but a new one, beyond the temple, is carried on, which follows naturally the courſe of the river. And indeed this part of the walk admits more beauty, than any other; for the varieties of ground are greater; the bank, and edging of meadow, are more irregular; and the river more ſinuous.

[106]The path having conducted us along the river, through theſe pleaſing irregulariti [...] about two miles from the caſtle, climbs [...] higher grounds, and returns through [...] and beautiful ſheep walks, which lie on [...] ſides, and ſummit of the bank.

Through the whole of this walk, both at the top, and bottom, are many pleaſant views; but they are all of the more confined kind.

Many parts of this walk were wrought by the manual labour of the prieſt of the family, which is a popiſh branch of the Howards. He belongs to an order, which injoins it's members to work in the ground ſo many hours a day; laying them, with admirable wiſdom, under the wholeſome neceſſity of acquiring health and ſpirits. I am perſuaded, that if a ſtudious man were obliged to dig three or four hours a day, he would ſtudy the better, during the remaining part of it. We had been re⯑commended to the civilities of this eccleſiaſtic (the family being then in France,) and found him at work in the garden. He received us politely; and diſcovered the manners of a gen⯑tleman, under the garb of a day-labourer, without the leaſt apology for his dreſs, and occupation. There is ſomething very pleaſing [107] in the ſimplicity and manlineſs of not being aſhamed of the neceſſary functions of any ſtate, which we have made our option in life.—This eccleſiaſtic ſucceeded Father Walſh, who has lately engaged the attention of the public.— I have dwelt the longer on this ſcene, as it is the moſt admired one in Cumberland.

From Corby-caſtle to Warwick, which lies about two miles nearer Carliſle, on the banks of the ſame river, the road is beautiful. Many admire the ſituation of Warwick alſo. It ſeems to be a ſweet, retired ſcene; but we had not time to view it.

The antiquarian's eye is immediately caught here by the pariſh-church; the chancel of which, forming the ſegment of a circle, and being pierced with ſmall lancet-windows, ſhews at once, that it is of Norman origin. Tho every other mark were obliterated, he will tell you, that this is evidence ſufficient of it's an⯑tiquity.

[]

SECT. XXI.

HAVING ſeen as much of the river Eden, above Carliſle, as our time would al⯑low, we made our next excurſion towards it's mouth, where Brugh-marſh attracted our at⯑tention. In our way we had many pleaſing river views.

Brugh-marſh lies at the extremity of the Engliſh border; running up as far as Solway⯑frith, which, in this part, divides England from Scotland. It is a vaſt extended plain, flat as the ſurface of a quiet ocean. I do not remember that land, ever gave me before ſo vaſt an idea of ſpace. The idea of this kind, which ſuch ſcenes as Saliſbury-Plain ſuggeſts, is much leſs pure. The inequality of the ground there, ſets bounds to the idea. It is [110] the ocean in a ſtorm; in which the idea of extenſion is greatly broken, and intercepted by the turbulence of the waves. Brugh-marſh indeed gives us the idea of ſolid water, rather than of land, if we except only the colour:

Brugh-marſh is one of thoſe extended plains, (only more extenſive, than ſuch plains com⯑monly are) from which the ſea, in a courſe of ages, hath retired. It is difficult to com⯑pute it's limits. It ranges many leagues, in every direction, from a centre (for ſpace ſo diffuſe aſſumes of courſe a circular appearance) without a hedge, or even a buſh, to inter⯑cept it's bounds; till it ſoftens into the azure mountains of the horizon. Nothing indeed, but mountains, can circumſcribe ſuch a ſcene. All inferior boundaries of woods, and riſing grounds are loſt. On the Engliſh ſide it is bounded by that circular chain, in the heart of Cumberland, in which Skiddaw is pre⯑eminent. Nothing intermediate appears. On the Scotch ſide it's courſe is interrupted, through the ſpace of a few leagues, by Solway⯑frith; [111] which ſpreads, when the tide is at ebb, into a vaſt ſtretch of ſand. The plain however is ſtill preſerved: and having paſſed this ſandy obſtruction, it changes it's hue again into vivid green, and ſtretches far and wide into the Scotch border, till it's progreſs at length is ſtopped by the mountains of Galloway, and Niddſdale. This extenſion is as much as the eye can well comprehend. Had the plain been boundleſs, like an Arabian deſert, I know not whether it would not have loſt that idea of ſpace, which ſo vaſt a cir⯑cumſcription gives it.

The whole area of Brugh-marſh, (which from it's denomination we ſhould ſuppoſe to be ſwampy,) is every where perfectly firm; and the turf, ſoft, bright, and pure. Scarce a weed rears it's head. Nothing appears of ſtatelier growth, than a muſhroom, which ſpreads here in very luxuriant knots.

This vaſt plain is far from being a deſert waſte. Innumerable herds of cattle paſture at large in it's rich verdure, and range, as in a ſtate of nature.

[112]But tho the primary idea, which this ſcene preſents, ariſes purely from ſpace, and is therefore an idea rather grand than pictu⯑reſque; yet is it not totally incapable of pic⯑tureſque embelliſhment. It is true, it wants almoſt every ingredient of landſcape; on the fore-ground, it wants objects to preſerve the keeping; and in the offskip, that profuſion of little parts, which in a ſcene of cultivation gives richneſs to diſtance. In treating there⯑fore a ſubject of this kind on canvas, recourſe muſt be had to adventitious objects. Cattle come moſt naturally to hand; which being ſtationed, in various groups, at different diſ⯑tances, may ſerve both as a fore-ground to the landſcape, and as a gage to the perſpective.

Brugh-marſh is farther remarkable for having been the ſcene of one of the greateſt cataſ⯑trophes of the Engliſh hiſtory—the death of Edward the I. Here, after the third revolt of Scotland, that prince, drew together the moſt puiſſant army, which England had ever ſeen. The Scots from their borders, ſaw the whole plain whitened with tents: but they [113] knew not how nearly their deliverance ap⯑proached. The greateſt events generally arrive unlooked for. They ſaw a delay; and after⯑wards a confuſion in the mighty hoſt before them; but they heard not, till three days after, that the ſoul, and ſpirit of the enter⯑prize was gone; and that their great adver⯑ſary lay breathleſs in his camp.

Edward had been taken ill at Carliſle; where he had met his parliament. But nei⯑ther diſeaſe, nor age (for he was now near ſeventy) could repreſs his ardour. Tho he could not mount his horſe, he ordered him⯑ſelf to be carried in a litter to the camp; where the troops received him with accla⯑mations of joy. But it was ſhort-lived. The motion had irritated his diſorder into a vio⯑lent dyſentery; which immediately carried him off.

The Engliſh borderers long revered the memory of a prince, who had ſo often chaſtiſed an enemy, they hated: and in gratitude reared a pillar to his name; which ſtill teſtifies the ſpot, on which he died. It ſtands rather on [114] the edge of the marſh, and bears this ſimple inſcription.

MEMORIAE AETERNAE EDVARDI, REGIS ANGLIAE LONGÈ CLARISSIMI, QUI, IN BELLI APPARATU CONTRA SCOTOS OCCUPATUS, HIC IN CASTRIS OBIIT, 7 JULII A. D. 1307.

Among other places in the neighbourhood of Carliſle, we made an excurſion into Gills⯑land, with an intention chiefly to ſee Na⯑worth-caſtle, the vale and ruins of the Abbey of Lanercoſt; and the ruins of Scaleby-caſtle.

As we leave Carliſle, along the great mili⯑tary road to Newcaſtle, the view of the river Eden from Stanwix-bank, is very pleaſing. The curve it deſcribes; the beautiful mea⯑dows it winds through; and the mountains, which cloſe the ſcene, make all together a very amuſing combination of objects. Wood only is wanting.

[115]On croſſing the river Irthing, about ſeven miles from Carliſle, the country, which was before unpleaſing, becomes rich, and intereſt⯑ing. Here we enter the barony of Gillſland, an extenſive diſtrict, which conſiſts, in this part, of a great variety of hill, and dale. The hills are ſandy, bleak, and unpleaſant: but the vallies, which are commonly of the contracted kind, are beautiful. They are ge⯑nerally woody, and each of them watered by ſome little buſy ſtream.—From theſe vallies, or gills, (as the country-people call them,) with which the whole barony abounds, Camp⯑den ſuppoſes it to have taken the name of Gillſland.

On a delightful knoll, gently gliding into a ſinuous gill, ſurrounded with full-grown oak, and overlooking the vale of Lanercoſt, ſtands Naworth-caſtle. The houſe, which conſiſts of two large ſquare towers, united by a main body, is too regular to be beauti⯑ful, unleſs thrown into perſpective. It was formerly one of thoſe fortified places, in which [116] the nobility and gentry of the borders were obliged to live, in thoſe times of confuſion, which preceded the union. And indeed the whole internal contrivance of this caſtle ap⯑pears calculated either to keep an enemy out; or to elude his ſearch, if he ſhould happen to get in. The idea of a comfortable dwell⯑ing has been totally excluded. The ſtate-rooms are few, and ordinary: but the little apartments, and hiding holes, acceſſible only by dark paſſages, and blind ſtair-caſes, are innumerable. Many of the cloſe receſſes, which it contains, are probably at this time, unknown. Nothing indeed can mark in ſtronger colours the fears, and jealouſies, and caution of thoſe times, than the internal ſtruc⯑ture of one of theſe caſtles.

Naworth-caſtle was formerly the capital manſion of the barons of Gillſland; who, at ſo great a diſtance from court, and ſeated in a country, at that time, untamed by law, are ſaid to have exerciſed very extraordinary powers. The Lord William Howard, who is remembered by the name of bald Willy, is ſtill the object of invective for his acts of tyranny. His priſons are ſhewn; and the ſite of his gibbets; where, in the phraſe of [117] the country, he would head, and hang [...] out judge, or jury.—But it is probable, that his memory is injured. He acted under a ſtanding commiſſion of oyer, and terminer from Elizabeth; and was one of thoſe bold ſpirits, which are neceſſary to repreſs the vio⯑lence of lawleſs times. Many acts of power undoubtedly he committed: but his difficult ſituation compelled him. This part of the kingdom was moſt harraſſed by thoſe troops of miſchievous banditti; whom I have juſt had occaſion to mention. They were a nu⯑merous, and not an ill-regulated, body; act⯑ing under leaders, whom a ſpirit of enter⯑prize raiſed to power. Theſe miſcreants, in times even of profoundeſt peace, called for all the warineſs and activity of the chiefs of the country. Sometimes they would plunder in large bodies; and ſometimes in little pilfering bands. When they were taken in the fact; or, as it was called, by the bloody hand, they were put to inſtant death. In other caſes a jury was impannelled.

The active chief, who gave occaſion to this digreſſion, ſeems to have lived in as much terror himſelf, as he ſpread among others. He had contrived a ſort of citadel in his own [118] caſtle; a room, which is ſtill ſhewn, with an iron door, where he conſtantly ſlept, and where his armour lies ruſting to this day. From him the earls of Carliſle are deſcended; and have been, in ſucceſſion, the proprietors of Naworth-caſtle.

As we left this old fortreſs, and deſcended the hill towards the ruins of the abbey of Lanercoſt, which lie about two miles farther, the whole vale, in which they are ſeated, opened before us. It is eſteemed one of the ſweeteſt ſcenes in this country; and indeed we found it ſuch. It's area is about half a mile in breadth, and two or three miles in length, conſiſting of one ample ſweep. The ſides, which are gentle declivities, are covered thick with wood, in which larger depreda⯑tions have been lately made, than are con⯑ſiſtent with pictureſque beauty.—At the diſtant end of the vale, where the woods appear to unite, the river Irthing enters; which is con⯑ſiderable enough, tho divided into two channels, to be fully adequate to the ſcene.— The banks of the river, and indeed the whole area of the vale, are ſprinkled with clumps, [119] and ſingle trees; which have a good effect in breaking the lines, and regular continuity of the ſide-ſcreens; and in hiding, here and there, the courſe of the river; and eſpecially the bridges, which would otherwiſe be too bare and formal.

Near that extremity of the vale, which is oppoſite to Naworth-caſtle, lies the abbey. At a diſtance it forms a good object, riſing among the woods. As you approach, it be⯑gins to raiſe a diſappointment: and on the ſpot, it is but an unpleaſing ruin. The whole is a heavy, Saxon pile; compreſſed together without any of that airy lightneſs, which accompanies the Gothic. Scarce one detached fragment appears in any point of view. The tower is low, and without either form, or ornament; and one of the great ailes is mo⯑dernized into an awkward pariſh-church. The only beautiful part of the whole is the eaſt end. It is compoſed of four broken ailes; every wall of which conſiſts of two tiers of arches, affording, a very unuſual appearance; and at the ſame time a very amuſing confu⯑ſion, from the uncommon multiplication of ſo many arches, and pillars.—This part of the abbey ſeems to have been a ſeparate [120] chapel; or perhaps an oratory belonging to the noble family of Dacre, which had once poſſeſſions in theſe parts. Here lie the re⯑mains of ſeveral ancient chiefs of that houſe; whoſe ſepulchral honours are now almoſt in⯑tirely obliterated. Their blazoned arms, and Gothic tombs, many of which are ſumptuous, are ſo matted with briars, and thiſtles, that even the foot of curioſity is kept at a diſtance.

Except theſe remains of the abbey-church no other parts of this ancient monaſtery are now left; except an old gateway; and a ſquare building, patched into a farm-houſe, which has no beauty.

In returning to Carliſle we paſſed through the valley of Cambeck, which contains ſome pleaſing ſcenery; and a very conſiderable Roman ſtation, on a high bank at Caſtle-ſteeds.

Rivers often preſent us with very moral analogies; their characters greatly reſembling thoſe of men. The violent, the reſtleſs, the [...], the active, the ſluggiſh, the gentle, [...], and many other epithets, be⯑ [...] [...] to both. The little ſtream, []

[121] which divides the valley of Cambeck, ſug⯑geſted the analogy. It's whole courſe is marked with acts of violence. In every part you ſee heaps of barren ſand, and gravel, which in it's furious moods it has thrown up, ſome⯑times on one ſide, and ſometimes on another; deſtroying every where the little ſcenes of beauty, and plots of cultivation.

About three miles further ſtand the ruins of Scaleby-caſtle. This was another of thoſe fortified houſes, which are ſo frequent in this country.

It ſtands, as caſtles rarely do, on a flat; and yet, tho it's ſite be ill-adapted to any modes of defence, it has been a place of more than ordinary ſtrength. Rocks, knolls, and bold, projecting promontories, on which caſtles uſually ſtand, ſuggeſt various advan⯑tages of ſituation; and generally determine the kind of ſtructure. On a flat, the engi⯑neer was at liberty to chooſe his own. Every part was alike open to aſſault.

He firſt drew two circular motes round the ſpot he deſigned to fortify: the circumfe⯑rence of the outward circle was about a mile. [122] The earth, thrown out of theſe two motes, which were broad and deep, ſeems to have been heaped up at the centre, where there is a conſiderable riſe. On this was built the caſtle, which was entered by two draw-bridges; and defended by a high tower, and a very lofty wall.

At preſent, one of the motes only remains. The other is filled up; but may ſtill be traced. The caſtle is more perfect, than ſuch build⯑ings commonly are. The walls are very in⯑tire; and great part of the tower, which is ſquare, is ſtill left. It preſerved it's perfect form, till the civil wars of the laſt century; when the caſtle, in too much confidence of it's ſtrength, ſhut it's gates againſt Cromwell, then marching into Scotland; who made it a monument of his vengeance.

What ſhare of pictureſque genius Crom⯑well might have, I know not. Certain how⯑ever it is, that no man, ſince Henry the eighth, has contributed more to adorn this country with pictureſque ruins. The differ⯑ence between theſe two maſters lay chiefly in the ſtyle of ruins, in which they compoſed. Henry adorned his landſcapes with the ruins of abbeys; Cromwell, with thoſe of caſtles. [123] I have ſeen many pieces by this maſter, executed in a very grand ſtyle; but ſeldom a finer monument of his maſterly hand than this. He has rent the tower, and demoliſhed two of it's ſides; the edges of the other two he has ſhattered into broken lines. The chaſm diſcovers the whole plan of the internal ſtruc⯑ture—the veſtiges of the ſeveral ſtories—the inſertion of the arches, which ſupported them —the windows for ſpeculation; and the breaſt-work for aſſault.

The walls of this caſtle are uncommonly magnificent. They are not only of great height, but of great thickneſs; and defended by a large baſtion; which appears to be of more modern workmanſhip. The greateſt part of them is chambered within, and wrought into ſecret receſſes. A maſſy port⯑cullis gate leads to the ruins of what was once the habitable part of the caſtle, in which a large vaulted hall is the moſt re⯑markable apartment; and under it, are dark, and capacious dungeons.

The area within the mote, which conſiſts of ſeveral acres, was originally intended to ſupport the cattle, which ſhould be driven thither in times of alarm. When the houſe [124] was inhabited, (whoſe chearful and better days are ſtill remembered,) this area was the garden; and all around, on the outſide of the mote ſtood noble trees, irregularly planted, the growth of a century. Beneath the trees ran a walk round the caſtle; to which the ſituation naturally gave that pleaſing curve, which in modern days hath been ſo much the object of art. This walk might admit of great embelliſhment. On one hand, it com⯑mands the ruins of the caſtle in every point of view; on the other, a country, which, tho flat, is not unpleaſing; conſiſting of extenſive meadows, (which a little planting would turn into beautiful lawns,) bounded by lofty mountains.

This venerable pile has now undergone a ſecond ruin. The old oaks and elms, the ancient natives of the ſcene, are felled. Weeds, and ſpiry graſs have taken poſſeſſion of the courts, and obliterated the very plan of a garden: while the houſe itſelf, (whoſe hoſ⯑pitable roof deſerved a better fate,) is now a ſcene of deſolation. Two wretched families, the only inhabitants of the place, occupy the two ends of the vaulted hall; the fragment of a tattered curtain, reaching half was to [125] the top, being the ſimple boundary of their reſpective limits. All the reſt is waſte: no other part of the houſe is habitable. The chambers unwindowed, and almoſt unroofed, fluttering with rags of ancient tapeſtry, are the haunt of daws, and pigeons; which burſt out in clouds of duſt, when the doors are opened: while the floors, yielding to the tread, make curioſity dangerous. A few pictures, heir-looms of the wall, which have long deſerved oblivion, by I know not what fate, are the only appendages of this diſſolving pile, which have triumphed over the injuries of time.

Shakeſpear's caſtle of Macbeth could not be more the haunt of ſwallows and martins, than this. You ſee them every where about the ruins; either twittering on broken coins; threading ſome fractured arch; or purſuing each other, in ſcreaming circles, round the walls of the caſtle^*.

SECT. XXII.

OUR laſt expedition, in the neighbourhood of Carliſle, was to ſee the improvements of Mr. Graham of Netherby; and the ſcene of deſolation, occaſioned by the late overflowing of Solway-moſs.

Mr. Graham's improvements are not con⯑fined to a garden, or the ſpace of a mile or two around his houſe. The whole country is changed; and from a barren waſte, hath aſſumed the face—if not of beauty, at leaſt of fertility.

The domain of Netherby lies on the very ſkirts of the Engliſh border. The Romans conſidered it as a part of Caledonia; and ſhut it from the Britiſh pale. In after ages the diſtrict around it aſſumed the name of the [128] Debateable-land, and was the great rendez⯑vous of thoſe crews of outlawed banditti, who, under the denomination of Moſs-troopers, plun⯑dered the country. We have already had occaſion to mention them. In this neighbour⯑hood were the ſtrong holds of many of their chiefs; particularly of Johnny Armſtrong of famous memory; the moted ruins of whoſe caſtle are ſtill extant.

Among theſe people the arts of tillage were unknown. It was abſurd to be at the trouble of ſowing land themſelves, when they could ſo eaſily plunder the lands of others.

Tho the union of the two kingdoms put an end to theſe ravages on the borders; yet the manners of the inhabitants, in ſome reſpects, ſuffered little change. Their native lazineſs, and inattention to all the arts of huſbandry, remained. They occupied large tracts of ex⯑cellent land at eaſy rates: but having no idea of producing yearly crops from the ſame ſoil by culture; they ploughed their patches of ground alternately, leaving them to recover their fer⯑tility by fallows. An indolent and ſcanty maintenance was all they wiſhed; and this they obtained from a ſmall portion of their land, with a ſmall portion of their labour. Their [129] lords in the mean time, never lived on the ſpot; and knew little of the ſtate either of the country, or of it's inhabitants.

Mr. Graham immediately ſet himſelf to alter this ſtate of things. He built a noble manſion for himſelf; which makes a grand appearance, riſing on the ruins of a Roman ſtation. With⯑out the preſence of the lord, he knew it was in vain to expect reformation. He divided his lands into moderate farms; and built com⯑modious farm-houſes. As his lands improved, he raiſed his rents: and his tenants in proportion found it neceſſary to increaſe their labour. Thus he has doubled his own income, and intro⯑duced a ſpirit of induſtry into the country. Theſe indolent inhabitants of the borders begin now to work like other labourers; and notwithſtanding they pay higher rents, live more comfortably: for idleneſs can never be attended with the comforts of induſtry.

To bring about this great change, Mr. Graham thinks it neceſſary to rule his ſubjects with a rod of iron. While he makes them labourers, he keeps them ſlaves.—Perhaps indeed the rough manners of the people in [130] thoſe parts, could not eaſily be moulded by the hand of tenderneſs.

The feudal idea of vaſſalage, which has long diſappeared in all the internal parts of England, remains here in great force; and throws a large ſhare of power into the hands of the land⯑holder. Mr. Graham's eſtates, which are very extenſive, contain about ſix hundred tenants; all of whom, with their families, lie in a manner at his mercy for their ſubſiſtence. Their time and labour he commands, by their mode of tenure, whenever he pleaſes. Under the denomination of boon-days, he expects, at any time, their perſonal ſervice; and can, in a few hours, muſter the ſtrength of five or ſix hundred men and horſes.

Once he had occaſion to call them together on military ſervice. On a ſuppoſed injury, ^* which, about two years ago, he had done the [131] Scotch-borderers, by intercepting the ſalmon in the Eſk, a body of three hundred of theſe people marched down upon him with an in⯑tention to deſtroy his works. He had intelli⯑gence of their deſign, and iſſuing his precepts, muſtered, in a few hours, above four hundred men before his gates, armed as the exigence would allow: and if the Scotch, on finding ſuch ſuperiority, had not retreated, Mr. Gra⯑ham, who told us the ſtory himſelf, ſaid he believed, that all the ſpirit and animoſity of ancient times would have revived on this occaſion.

In a civil light he acts on as large a ſcale. His manor-courts are kept with great ſtrict⯑neſs; in which his attorney, with a jury, ſits regularly to try cauſes; and the tenants are injoined, at the hazard of being turned out of their farms, to bring into theſe courts every ſuit under the value of five pounds. Thus he prevents much ill-blood among them, by bring⯑ing their diſputes to a ſpeedy iſſue; and giving the quarrel no time to rankle. He ſaves them alſo much expence: for a ſuit, which in the [132] king's courts would at leaſt coſt five or ſix pounds; may in his, be carried through all it's forms for eight-pence.—At Patterdale we found a nominal king. Here we found almoſt a king in reality.

The works on the Eſk, which gave ſo much offence to the Scotch-borderers, deſerve more notice. They conſiſted of a maſſy head thrown acroſs the river, conſtructed, at a great ex⯑pence, of hewn ſtone. This mole was formed at right angles with the bank; but the floods of the enſuing winter ſwept it away. It was attempted a ſecond time on the ſame plan; but was a ſecond time deſtroyed. Mr. Brindley was then ſent for, whoſe works near Mancheſ⯑ter had given him ſo high a reputation. He changed the plan; and inſtead of carrying the mole in a direct line acroſs the river, formed it in a curve, arching againſt the ſtream: ſo that it reſiſts the current, as a bridge does the incumbent weight. This work has ſtood ſeveral very great floods, and ſeems ſufficiently [133] firm ^*. From the curvature of it's form the fall of the water appears alſo to more advantage. It now forms a ſemi-circular cove, which has a fine effect.

The chief end which this work had in view, was a fiſhery. At this place ſalmon-coops are placed; where all the fiſh, which enter the Eſk, are taken. But beſides this, and other purpoſes of utility, it adds great beauty to the neighbourhood. The Eſk, which was before in compariſon, a ſhallow ſtream, gliding unſeen beneath it's banks, is now a noble piece of water, raiſed to a level with them, and ſeen to great advantage from the houſe, and every part of the ground.

It was in this part of the country where that dreadful inundation, from the over-flowing of [134] Solway-moſs, deſtroyed lately ſo large a diſtrict. To ſee the effects of this, was the object of our next expedition.

Solway-moſs is a flat area, about ſeven miles in circumference. The ſubſtance of it is a groſs fluid, compoſed of mud, and the putrid fibres of heath, diluted by internal ſprings, which ariſe in every part. The ſur⯑face is a dry cruſt, covered with moſs, and ruſhes; offering a fair appearance over an unſound bottom—ſhaking under the leaſt preſ⯑ſure. Cattle by inſtinct know, and avoid it. Where ruſhes grow, the bottom is ſoundeſt. The adventrous paſſenger therefore, who ſome⯑times, in dry ſeaſons, traverſes this perilous waſte to ſave a few miles, picks his cautious way over the ruſhy tuſſocks, as they appear before him. If his foot ſlip, or if he venture to deſert this mark of ſecurity, it is poſſible he may never more be heard of.

At the battle of Solway, in the time of Henry VIII, Oliver Sinclair was imprudently ſet over the Scotch army, which had no con⯑fidence in him. A total rout enſued; when an unfortunate troop of horſe, driven by their fears, plunged into this moraſs, which in⯑ſtantly cloſed upon them. The tale, which [135] was traditional; was generally believed; but is now authenticated. A man and horſe in compleat armour were lately found by the peat-diggers, in the place, where it was always ſuppoſed the affair had happened; and are preſerved at the houſe of a Scotch baronet, if I miſtake not, of the name of Maxwell; as we were informed by a gentleman ^* of the borders, who aſſured us he had ſeen them himſelf. The ſkeleton of each was well pre⯑ſerved; and the different parts of the armour eaſily diſtinguiſhed.

Solway-moſs is bounded on the ſouth by a cultivated plain, which declines gently, through the ſpace of a mile, to the river Eſk. This plain is rather lower than the moſs itſelf, being ſeparated from it by a breaſtwork formed by digging peat, which makes an irregular, tho perpendicular, line of low, black boundary.

It was the burſting of the moſs through this peat breaſtwork, over the plain between it and the Eſk, which occaſioned that dreadful ruin, the effects of which we came hither to explore. —The more remarkable circumſtances, re⯑lating [136] to this calamitous event, as we had them on the beſt authority, were theſe.

On the 16th of November, 1771, in a dark tempeſtuous night, the inhabitants of the plain were alarmed with a dreadful craſh, which they could in no way account for. Many of them were then abroad in the fields, watching their cattle; leſt the Eſk, which was riſing violently in the ſtorm, ſhould carry them off. None of thoſe miſerable people could conceive the noiſe they heard to proceed from any cauſe, but the overflowing of the river in ſome ſhape, tho to them unaccountable. Such indeed, as lived nearer the ſource of the eruption, were ſenſible, that the noiſe came in a different direction; but were equally at a loſs for the cauſe.

In the mean time the enormous maſs of fluid ſubſtance, which had burſt from the moſs, moved ſlowly on, ſpreading itſelf more and more, as it got poſſeſſion of the plain. Some of the inhabitants, through the terror of the night, could plainly diſcover it advanc⯑ing, like a moving hill. This was in fact the caſe; for the guſh of mud carried before it, [137] through the firſt two or three hundred yards of it's courſe, a part of the breaſtwork; which, tho low, was yet ſeveral feet in perpendicular height. But it ſoon depoſited this ſolid maſs; and became a heavy fluid. One houſe after another, it ſpread round—filled—and cruſhed into ruin; juſt giving time to the terrified inhabitants to eſcape. Scarce any thing was ſaved; except their lives: nothing of their furniture: few of their cattle. Some people were even ſurprized in their beds, and had the additional diſtreſs of flying naked from the ruin.

The morning-light explained the cauſe of this amazing ſcene of terror; and ſhewed the calamity in it's full extent: and yet, among all the conjectures of that dreadful night, the miſchief which really happened, had never been ſuppoſed. Who could have imagined, that a breaſtwork, which had ſtood for ages, ſhould at length give way? or that thoſe ſub⯑terraneous floods, which had been bedded in darkneſs, ſince the memory of man, ſhould ever burſt from their black abode?

[138]This dreadful inundation, tho the firſt ſhock of it was the moſt tremendous, continued ſtill ſpreading for many weeks, till it covered the whole plain—an area of five hundred acres; and, like molten metal poured into a mould, filled all the hollows of it, lying in ſome parts thirty or forty feet deep, reducing the whole to one level ſurface. The overplus found it's way into the Eſk; where it's quantity was ſuch, as to annoy the fiſh; no ſalmon, during that ſeaſon, venturing into the river. We were aſſured alſo, that many lumps of earth, which had floated out at ſea, were taken up, ſome months after, at the iſle of Man.

As we deſcended from the higher grounds to take a nearer view of this ſcene of horror, it exhibited a very grand appearance. The whole plain was covered by a thick ſmoke, occaſioned by a ſmothering fire ſet to it in various parts, with a view to conſume it; and brought before us that ſimple, and ſublime idea of the ſmoke of a country going up like the ſmoke of a furnace.

[139]When we came to the plain on that ſide, which is next the Eſk, it had ſo forbidding an aſpect, as far as we could diſcover through the ſmoke, that we almoſt deſpaired of croſſing to the chaſm, as we had intended. On horſe⯑back it was impoſſible; and when we had alighted, we ſtood heſitating on the brink, whether it were prudent, even on foot, to attempt ſo dangerous a march.

While we remained in this ſituation, we obſerved ſeveral groups of peaſants working in the ruins: and beckoning to the neareſt, one of the group came forward. He was an el⯑derly man, ſtrengthening his ſteps with a long meaſuring wand. His features, and gait, tho hard and clowniſh, were marked with an air of vulgar conſequence. As he approached, one of our company, who knew him, accoſted him by the name of Wilſon; and we found he was the perſon who conducted the works which were ſet on foot to clear the ſoil of this melancholy incumbrance.

On informing him of our difficulties, and aſking, whether we might venture acroſs the plain; he bad us, like Caeſar, with an air of aſſurance, follow him, and fear nothing. From one tuſſock to another we followed, [140] ſometimes ſtepping—ſometimes leaping—and ſometimes heſitating, whether to go on, or to return. In very difficult places, our guide condeſcended to lay us a plank. In the midſt of our perplexity, one of our company, ſtray⯑ing a ſtep from the right path, fell in; but the mud being ſhallow in that part, he ſank only to the knees. Mr. Wilſon helped him out; but reprimanded his careleſſneſs. The reproof and the example having a good effect upon us all, we followed our guide, like pack-horſes in a ſtring, and at length compleated our undertaking.

When we got to the gulph, from whence all this miſchief had iſſued, the ſpectacle was hideous. The ſurface of the moſs itſelf had ſuffered little change. Near the chaſm it appeared indented, through a ſpace of ſeveral yards: but not in any degree, as one would have expected from ſo vaſt a diſcharge. The mouth of the chaſm was heaped round by monſtrous piles of ruin, formed by the broken breaſtwork, and ſhell of the moſs, on the firſt great burſt; and a black, moſſy tincture continued ſtill to iſſue from it. If this con⯑tinue to run, as it probably will, it may be a fortunate circumſtance; and ſave the country [141] from any farther miſchief, by draining this bloated maſs through a perpetual diſcharge.

As we ſtood on the higher ground, and got to windward of the ſmoke, we obtained a clear idea of the plain, and of the courſe of the irruption over it. Many fragments of a very large ſize, which had been carried away in the firſt full ſtream of the diſcharge, appeared thrown to a conſiderable diſtance. Theſe were what made that moving bulwark, which ſome of the inhabitants had ſeen in the night. Fragments of a ſmaller ſize, (and yet many of theſe conſiderable) appeared ſcattered over the plain, as the heavy torrent was able to carry them. The interſtices between the fragments, which had been filled with fluid moſs, were now baked by the heat of the ſun, and cruſted over like the great ſurface of the moſs itſelf. Here and there, along this ſurface, the broken rafters of a houſe, or the top of a blaſted tree were ſeen; and made an odd appearance, riſing as it were, out of the ground. But through the whole waſte, there was not the leaſt ſign left of any culture; tho this plain had once been the pride of the country. Lands, which [142] in the evening would have let for twenty ſhillings an acre, by the morning-light were not worth ſix-pence.

On this well cultivated plain twenty-eight families had their dwellings, and little farms; every one of which, except perhaps a few, who lived near the ſkirts of it, had the world totally to begin again.— Mr. Graham, agree⯑ably to the prudential maxims he has ever obſerved, affords them little aſſiſtance himſelf; and diſcourages the bounty of others. — He ſeems to wiſh his dominions ſhould thrive by induſtry alone; and would have his ſubjects depend on this great virtue for the ſupply of every want, and the reparation of every loſs. If the maxim, in ſo full an extent, be good; it requires at leaſt, a great hardineſs of reſolu⯑tion to carry it into practice.

Whether the immenſe work of clearing this plain can ever totally be effected, is a doubt with many. It is attempted however with great ſpirit, through the united force of the two powerful elements of fire and water.

[143]All the ſkirts, and other parts of it which are drier than the reſt, are reduced by fire; which occaſioned the great ſmoke from the plain, as we deſcended into it; and which, at that diſtance, appeared to ariſe from the whole area.

But this method is not found very effectual; as it reaches only a little below the ſurface. Much more is expected from the application of water; which is the part our guide Mr. Wilſon has undertaken.—How well qualified he is for the undertaking, and in what manner he propoſes to accompliſh it, may be conceived from the following ſtory.

Mr. Graham's houſe ſtands on an eminence, with higher grounds above it. A little on one ſide of the front, ſtood a knoll, which made a diſagreeable appearance before his windows.— Being deſirous therefore of removing it, he ſent to Newcaſtle for a perſon accuſtomed to works of this kind. The undertaker came, ſurveyed the ground, and eſtimated the expence at thir⯑teen hundred pounds.

While the affair was in agitation, Mr. Gra⯑ham heard, that Wilſon had ſaid, the earth [144] might be removed at a much eaſier rate. He was examined on the ſubject; and his anſwers appeared ſo rational, that he was ſet to work. He had already ſurveyed the higher grounds, where he firſt collected all the ſprings he found, into two large reſervoirs; from which he cut a precipitate channel, pointed at an abrupt corner of the knoll. He cut alſo a channel of communication between his two reſervoirs. Theſe being both filled, he opened his ſluices, and let out ſuch a continued torrent of water, (the upper pool feeding the lower) that he very ſoon carried away the corner of the knoll, againſt which he had pointed his artillery. He then charged again, and levelled againſt another part with equal ſucceſs. In ſhort, by a few efforts of this kind, he carried away the whole hill; and told Mr. Graham, with an air of triumph, that, if he pleaſed, he would carry away his houſe next. The work was compleated in a few days; and Mr. Gra⯑ham himſelf informed us, that the whole expence did not amount to twenty pounds.

This man, with ſo much genius about him, lives in the loweſt ſtile of life; and works for the loweſt wages. When we regretted, that he was paid ſo inadequately to his worth, we [145] were aſſured, as his appearance indeed teſtified, that he had no higher idea of happineſs, than to get drunk after his day's labour: and that better wages would only deſtroy him ſooner.

I have ſince heard, that one hundred and fifty acres of the plain are now cleared by the ingenuity of this man; and that there is reaſon to believe, he will in time clear a conſiderable part of it. From the reſervoirs formed by a little ſtream at the higheſt part of the over⯑flowed ground, he cut channels in various directions to the Eſk: and when the water was let off, he placed numbers of men by the ſide of the ſtream, who rolled into it large maſſes of moſſy earth, which were hardened by the ſun.

SECT. XXIII.

HAVING ſeen ſuch parts of the country on the borders of England, as were moſt curious; we ſet out on our return. But, inſtead of taking the Keſwick-road, we propoſed to vary our rout, by the mountains of Brugh^*.

At Penrith the road divides. We turned to the left, towards Appelby; and ſoon fell into a rich, and beautiful vale, in which the river Lowther, gliding under lofty woody banks, bore us company a conſiderable way.

When we croſſed that river, the ſituation of Brougham-caſtle, one of the ſeats of the [148] celebrated counteſs of Pembroke, attracted our notice. It had not eſcaped the notice of the Romans; who fixed here a ſtation to com⯑mand the country. It appears as great, at this time, in a pictureſque light, as it did formerly in a military one. But we had not time to ride up to it; contenting ourſelves with viewing it only as the ornament of a ſecond diſtance.

At Clifton the road opens again into a wild ſcene. Here we examined the ſpot, where, in the year 1745, the rebels entering an in⯑cloſed country, made a ſtand; and lined the hedges to retard the duke of Cumberland's purſuit. Sir Joſeph York, in his road from Ireland, had been there, we found, a few days before. He had accompanied the duke in his expedition againſt the rebels; and ſtopped a little at Clifton to review the ſcene. He left the people, we were informed, much pleaſed with his remembering a gallant action, which had been achieved, about that time, by a heroine of the country, who had carried a letter acroſs the fire of the rebels, when no other meſſenger could be obtained.

[149]From Clifton, we turned a little aſide to ſee Lowther-hall, the ſeat of lord Londſdale. It is only a temporary houſe, the old manſion having been burnt in the time of the late lord. But materials are now collecting for a grand ſtructure. It is ſituated in an exten⯑ſive park, which contains a great variety of beautiful ſcenery.

From Lowther-hall, we purſued our rout to Appelby, keeping on our left that vaſt tract of barren country, called Wingfield-foreſt.

The ſituation of Appelby-caſtle, which be⯑longs to the earl of Thanet, is magnificent. It ſtands on a rocky eminence, falling preci⯑pitately into the river Eden; which half in⯑circles it. The banks of the river, and the ſides of the precipice, are finely hung with wood. The caſtle is ſtill in good repair; and is a noble pile. But, in a pictureſque light, it loſes half it's beauty, from it's being broken into two parts. A ſmaller break from a grand pile removes heavineſs; and is a ſource [150] of beauty. We have ſeen the principle ex⯑emplified in mountains, and other objects^*. But here the whole is divided into two parts, of ſuch equal dimenſions, that each aſpires to pre-eminence. Each therefore becomes a ſeparate whole: and both together diſtract the eye. The detached part ſhould always obſerve a due inferiority.

We had not time to take a view from the caſtle; which muſt command a very beautiful diſtance, over the woody vale of Eden, and the mountains, which ariſe beyond it.

Appelby-caſtle was the Apallaba of the Romans; and preſerves it's origin clearer in it's etymology, than the generality of Roman ſtations.

This caſtle was formerly the favourite man⯑ſion of Ann, counteſs of Pembroke, Dorſet, and Montgomery. As this very extraordinary lady is ſtill the object of great veneration in theſe parts; as her hiſtory is curious, and leſs known than it ought to be; and as it is ſo [151] intimately connected with all this country; the reader will excuſe the following digreſſion.

She was the daughter of George Clifford, earl of Cumberland; one of the heroes of the gallant age of Elizabeth. This noble perſon diſtinguiſhed himſelf chiefly by his naval ex⯑peditions; on which he was ſuffered, in thoſe frugal times, to expend a great portion of his patrimony. In return for his patriotiſm, he was appointed by his royal miſtreſs, her champion in all tilts and tournaments; where the grace, and dignity of his behaviour, and his ſkill and addreſs in arms, were equally admired. The rich armour he wore, on theſe occaſions, is ſtill ſhewn in this caſtle.

Lady Ann Clifford was only ten years of age, when her father died. But her educa⯑tion was conducted by two excellent women— her mother, a daughter of the earl of Bedford— and afterwards by her aunt the counteſs of Warwick.

In her early youth ſhe married lord Buck⯑hurſt, earl of Dorſet; with whom during a few years ſhe lived very happily. But he ſoon leaving her a widow; ſhe married, ſix years after, Philip earl of Pembroke, and Montgomery.

[152]This nobleman, through the favour of James I, as a reward for his great ſkill in the arts of hunting, and hawking, poſſeſſed a prodigious eſtate; not leſs, at that time, than eighteen thouſand pounds a year. His manner of living was ſumptuous beyond ex⯑ample; and his apparatus for field-ſports magnificent beyond belief. His dog-kennels were ſuperb; and his ſtables vied with pa⯑laces. But his falconry was his chief pride; which he had furniſhed, at a wonderful ex⯑pence, with birds of game; and proper per⯑ſons to manage, train, and exerciſe them.

Here ends the hiſtory of Philip earl of Pembroke—unleſs we add, that in private life, he was vicious, ignorant, and unlettered in a ſurprizing degree; and that his public character was ſtained with ingratitude, and tergiverſation, by the noble hiſtorian of thoſe unfortunate times.

With this worthleſs man his unhappy lady lived near twenty years. During the latter part of his life indeed he became ſo diſſolute, that ſhe was obliged to leave him.

[153]About the time of his death ſhe found her⯑ſelf poſſeſſed of a very ample fortune. For, it ſeems, her immediate ſucceſſion to the large eſtates of her anceſtors in the north, had been diſputed by an uncle, who inherited the title: and an award had been given againſt her by James I, to which indeed ſhe would never ſubmit. The uncle, and his ſon however both dying, the great eſtates of the Cliffords, tho conſiderably impaired by her father's generoſity, came to her without any farther moleſtation. She had beſides two great jointures. That which ſhe re⯑ceived from her firſt huſband, was between three, and four thouſand, a year; and that from the earl of Pembroke was nearly equal to it.

On the event of the earl of Pembroke's death, ſhe immediately laid out the whole plan of her future life; determining to retire into the north; and ſpend it on her own eſtate.

[154]In ancient times the earls of Cumberland poſſeſſed five noble caſtles in the three coun⯑ties of Yorkſhire, Weſtmoreland, and Cum⯑berland—Skipton—Pendragon—Appelby— Brougham—and Brugh. The tower of Bar⯑don alſo was another fortified ſeat, where they ſometimes reſided. But all theſe caſtles had ſuffered in the late civil wars; and were reduced, more or leſs, to a ſtate of great decay.

The counteſs of Pembroke however deter⯑mined, on her coming into the north, to repair and furniſh them all. This great work ſhe compleated during the years 1657, and 1658; and placed over the gate of each caſtle the following inſcription:

THIS CASTLE WAS REPAIRED BY THE LADY ANN CLIFFORD, COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE, &c. IN THE YEAR — AFTER THE MAIN PART OF IT HAD LAIN RUINOUS EVER SINCE 1648, WHEN IT WAS DEMOLISHED, ALMOST TO THE GROUND BY THE PARLIA⯑MENT THEN SITTING AT WESTMINSTER, BE⯑CAUSE IT HAD BEEN A GARRISON IN THE CIVIL WARS. IS. LVIII. 12. LAUS DEO!

[155]Oliver Cromwell was, at this time, at the head of affairs; whoſe hypocriſy and villany the counteſs of Pembroke deteſted: and as ſhe had too much ſpirit to conceal her ſen⯑timents, it is probable, the protector was enough informed, how little ſhe eſteemed him. Her friends therefore, knowing the jealouſy of his temper, adviſed her not to be ſo profuſe in building; as they were well aſſured that as ſoon as ſhe had built her caſtles, he would order them to be deſtroyed. But ſhe anſwered with great ſpirit, "Let him deſtroy them if he will: but he ſhall ſurely find, that as often as he deſtroys them, I will rebuild them, while he leaves me a ſhilling in my pocket."

She ſhewed her contempt for Cromwell, and her own high ſpirit, on another occaſion. Her uncle had left her affairs ſo involved, that ſhe found herſelf under a neceſſity of re⯑covering ſome of her rights by a tedious law⯑ſuit. The affair being repreſented to Crom⯑well by the oppoſite party, he offered his mediation. But ſhe anſwered loftily, ſhe would never accept it, while there was any [156] law to be found in England. "What! ſaid ſhe, does he imagine, that I, who refuſed to ſubmit to king James, will ſubmit to him?"

But, notwithſtanding her ſpirit, neither her caſtles, nor her eſtates were injured. Some aſcribed this lenity to Cromwell's re⯑verence of her virtue; which is very im⯑probable: others, to her numerous friends, with whom the protector wiſhed to keep fair; which, it is moſt likely, was the truth.

Her diſlike to Cromwell was not founded on party; but on principle. She had the ſame diſlike to Charles, when ſhe became acquainted with the ſpirit of his government. On being preſſed by her friends, ſometime after the reſtoration, to go to court; "By no means, ſaid ſhe; unleſs I may be allowed to wear blinkers^*."

Beſides her caſtles, ſhe found likewiſe in ruins, almoſt all the churches, belonging [157] to the ſeveral villages on her eſtates. The ſpire of one had been beaten down: another had been turned into a magazine: a third into a hoſpital. Seven of them were in this ruinous condition: each of which ſhe either built from the ground, or repaired; furniſh⯑ing them all with decent pews; that her tenants, in every part of her eſtates, might have churches in their neighbourhood.

Her ſeveral buildings, and repairs, at her firſt coming into the north, did not coſt her leſs, than forty thouſand pounds.

At each of her caſtles ſhe reſided a part of every year; regularly moving from one to the other; thus over-looking the whole of her vaſt eſtates; and bleſſing the country, wherever ſhe went. For ſhe was every where the common patroneſs of all, who were diſ⯑treſſed. Her heart was as large, as her abi⯑lity: and miſery of every kind, that could get it's ſtory fairly repreſented to her, was ſure of relief.

[158]Nor was ſhe content with occaſional acts of charity; but made many of her charitable intentions permanent by endowments. The greateſt of theſe works were two hoſpitals, which ſhe founded.

One little pleaſing monument of this kind ſtands by the ſide of the road, between Pen⯑rith and Appelby. It is a monument indeed rather of her filial piety, than of her charity. On this ſpot, in her early youth, ſhe had parted with her beloved mother; whom ſhe never afterwards ſaw. She always remem⯑bered this parting-ſcene with the tendereſt feelings: and, when ſhe came into Weſt⯑moreland, among her other buildings, ſhe raiſed a pillar to record it; with a ſtone-table at it's baſe. The pillar, which is ſtill known in the country by the name of Counteſs-pillar, is decorated with her arms; a ſun⯑dial, for the benefit or travellers; and the following inſcription.

Her very houſe-hold was a noble charity. Her ſervants were generally the children of her tenants; and were ſure of a proviſion, if they behaved well. Her women-ſervants had always little portions given them, to begin the world with, if they married to pleaſe her.

[160]The calamities of the times alſo, during Cromwell's government, particularly the diſ⯑treſſed ſituation of ſeveral ejected miniſters of the church, furniſhed her with ample op⯑portunities of exerting her generoſity. Among others, ſhe was particularly kind to King, afterwards biſhop of Chicheſter; and Duppa, and Morley, both afterwards biſhops of Win⯑cheſter. To each of theſe ſhe allowed 40£. a year; and when, in their diſtreſſes abroad, they informed her, that a ſum of money would be of more ſervice to them, than the annuities ſhe was pleaſed to give them; ſhe remitted a thouſand pounds to be divided among them.

She was a lady of uncommon prudence in the management of her affairs. Biſhop Rain⯑bow ſums up her character on this head, in two words, by calling her a perfect miſtreſs of forecaſt, and aftercaſt.

For the numberleſs acts of bounty, that flowed from her ſhe depended on two things— [161] her exactneſs in keeping accounts; and her great economy.

With regard to the former, in whatever caſtle ſhe reſided, an office was kept, in which all her receipts, and diſburſements were en⯑tered with commercial punctuality. Of her private charities, ſhe kept an account herſelf: but was ſo exact, that, at any time by com⯑paring it with her public accounts, ſhe had, at once, a compleat view of the ſituation of her affairs.

Her economy was equal to her exactneſs. Nothing was ſpent in vanity. Nothing was trifled away. All her family-expences were under the article of neceſſaries: and the very form of regularity, in which they conſtantly ran, made one year a check upon another.

The ſpirit, which ſhe ſhewed in defend⯑ing her rights, may perhaps be mentioned alſo among her plans of economy. It was a ſpirit not often exerted; but when it was raiſed, it always carried her vigorouſly to the end of the queſtion; and, no doubt, ſecured her from many contentions, which might otherwiſe have diſturbed her, in the midſt of ſo complex a property; and in thoſe dubious [162] days, when legal rights were ſo much un⯑hinged. I have mentioned her ſpirit, in one ſuit, with regard to an affair of conſequence. We have an account of another of leſs impor⯑tance.

It was a cuſtom, on all her eſtates, for each tenant to pay, beſides his rent, an an⯑nual boon-hen, as it was called. This had ever been acknowledged a juſt claim; and is, I believe, to this day, paid on many of the great eſtates in the north; being gene⯑rally conſidered as a ſteward's perquiſite.

It happened, that a rich clothier from Ha⯑lifax, one Murgatroyd, having taken a tene⯑ment near Skipton, was called upon by the ſteward of the caſtle for his boon-hen. On his refuſal to pay it, the counteſs ordered a ſuit to be commenced againſt him. He was obſtinate; and ſhe determined; ſo it was car⯑ried into length. At laſt ſhe recovered her hen; but at the expence of 200£.—It is ſaid, that after the affair was decided, ſhe invited Mr. Murgatroyd to dinner; and draw⯑ing the hen to her, which was ſerved up as the firſt diſh, "Come, ſaid ſhe, Mr. Mur⯑gatroyd, let us now be good friends: Since [163] you allow the hen to be dreſſed at my table, we'll divide it between us."

She had a mind improved, and cultivated in many parts of learning. Dr. Donn, in his humourous manner, uſed to ſay, ſhe knew how to converſe of every thing; from predeſti⯑nation to ſlea-ſilk ^*. But hiſtory ſeems to have been her chief amuſement; to the ſtudy of which ſhe was probably firſt led, by examin⯑ing the hiſtory of her own anceſtors. This indeed comprehended, in a great degree, the hiſtory of England from the times of the conqueſt: for there were few ſcenes of public life, in which her progenitors, the Veteriponts and the Cliffords, an active race of men, were not deeply engaged.

She ſeems to have entertained a deſign of collecting materials for a hiſtory of theſe two potent northern families. At a great expence ſhe employed learned men to make collections, for this purpoſe, from the records in the tower; the rolls; and other depoſitaries of [164] public papers; which being all fairly tran⯑ſcribed, filled three large volumes. This work, which contains a great variety of ori⯑ginal characters, exerting themſelves on very important occaſions, is ſtill among the family-records at Appelby-caſtle.

While ſhe was thus careful to preſerve the honour of her anceſtors; ſhe inſtituted a very ſevere hiſtorical reſtraint, if I may ſo call it, on herſelf. In a large folio volume, which made a part of her equipage, when ſhe tra⯑velled from one caſtle to another, ſhe ordered an entry to be made, under her own inſpection, of the tranſactions of every day. To what particulars this journal extended, I have not learned. But if it was kept, as it probably was, by a confidential ſecretary, it might have included very minute particulars. What an intereſting collection of valuable anecdotes might be furniſhed from the incidents of ſuch a life! What a ſatyr would it be on the vanity, the diſſipation, and frivolous employ⯑ments of the generality of the great! This work, I am informed, is ſtill extant; and in the hands of the earl of Thanet.

[165]But the moſt conſpicuous part of the cha⯑racter of this illuſtrious lady, was her piety, and great attachment to religion. No doubt the amiable inſtructors of her youth had given her diſpoſition, which was naturally ſerious, a proper direction: but perhaps the beſt ſchool, in which ſhe had learned to think juſtly, was, that ſchool of affliction, the houſe of her ſecond huſband, the earl of Pembroke; whoſe diſſi⯑pated, abandoned life taught her, more than any thing elſe, the vanity of all earthly things, unleſs uſed for the purpoſes they were given.

Few divines were better verſed in ſcripture, than ſhe was. She could quote it pertinently on all occaſions; and never failed to read a portion of it every day; or have it read to her, in the latter part of her life.

The new teſtament was her principal ſtudy. Next to it ſhe was particularly fond of the pſalms of David; and had thoſe appointed for the day, read regularly to her.

She had been bred up in the church of England from her youth; and tho ſhe could not, in the fanatical times of the uſurpation, attend any public ſervice; yet in the worſt [166] of thoſe times ſhe never failed to hear the church-ſervice in her own private chapels, which ſhe had been careful to fit up in all her caſtles. Many menaces of ſequeſtrations ſhe received from the ruling powers, if ſhe perſiſted in that practice. But ſhe ſhewed the ſame ſpirit on this occaſion, which ſhe had before ſhewn on many others. She con⯑tinued her practice; and left them to do as they pleaſed. No attempts however were made againſt her.

She had no idea of pomp, and grandeur. With regard to herſelf, her mode of living was rather parſimonious. Amidſt all the ob⯑jects of her generoſity, herſelf was the only perſon forgotten. In her diet ſhe was even abſtemious; and would ſometimes pleaſantly boaſt, that ſhe had ſcarce ever taſted wine, or phyſick; during her whole life. Of the elegance of dreſs ſhe had never been fond; but in her latter life ſhe laid it intirely aſide; wearing nothing, for many years, but a cloſe habit of plain, black ſerge; which occaſioned many pleaſant miſtakes between her, and her attendants.

Her retinue was merely for uſe, not parade. Beſides her common domeſticks, ſhe had al⯑ways [167] two ladies of education, who lived with her. Many hours ſhe ſpent alone: at other times, they read to her, and were her com⯑panions.

Her chief expence, as far as concerned her⯑ſelf, was in books. Her library was ſtored with all the beſt writers in the Engliſh lan⯑guage. She knew no other.

Such was the life of this excellent lady; equally ſuited to any ſtation, in which God had pleaſed to place her. It was a life of no more indulgence, than the moſt abridged circumſtances would have allowed. Her abi⯑lity in doing good, was that only, in which ſhe exceeded others.

She lived twenty-ſix years, after the death of her ſecond huſband: Providence lengthen⯑ing out her life, as a bleſſing to the country, beyond her eightieth year. The 23d of March 1675 was the day of her diſſolution—one of the moſt melancholy days the northern coun⯑ties ever experienced.

In her ended the noble family of the Clif⯑fords. Her daughter Margaret, by the earl of Dorſet (her ſole ſurviving heireſs) marry⯑ing [168] the earl of Thanet, carried the Clifford eſtates into the Tufton family^*.

SECT. XXIV.

FROM Appelby-caſtle we ſoon approach the barrier-mountains: but we approach them, in the uſual order of nature, by regular progreſs. The ground is firſt high, before it becomes mountainous; and tillage appears in ſcanty plots, before cultivation ceaſes.

A little to the north of Brugh, the ground on the left, makes a ſingular appearance. A hill, on which a fair is annually held, forms an exact, ſemi-circular convex. Scarce a knoll, or buſh break the regularity of the line. Be⯑yond this, but without any intervening ground, riſes a range of diſtant mountains. Theſe wore a light purple hue, when we ſaw them— the circular hill, a deep green. Perhaps no diſpoſition of ground was ever more totally [170] unpictureſque: and yet even this (ſuch is the force of contraſt) if it be only biſected, and in a ſmall degree adorned, is not wholly diſ⯑agreeable.

At the commencement of the mountains ſtand the town, and caſtle of Brugh, not unpleaſantly ſeated. The caſtle which con⯑ſiſts, like that at Appelby, of two parts, ſeems to have been a very ſtrong place. Since the time of it's laſt noble inhabitant, the counteſs of Pembroke, it has been falling faſt into ruin; but we found it no eaſy matter, even yet, to ſcale the out-works of it's earthen mounds: ſo ſtrong a fortreſs hath it once been.—Some parts of it, eſpecially a ſhattered round tower, are very pictureſque.

We had not the opportunity of ſeeing this caſtle in ſo advantageous a light, as had fa⯑voured us, when we ſaw the caſtle of Penrith. We ſaw them both in the evening; but here we had no bright beam of ſun-ſet to illumine the ruins. And yet the effect was grand. The caſtle and landſcape around, were in deep ſhadow; under the influence of a retiring ſtorm, which had hung a ſettled gloom on all [171] the upper regions of the ſky. The ſun was inviſible; but had fired the whole weſtern horizon with a deep red. We viewed the caſtle from the eaſt; and had therefore the ruddy part of the hemiſphere as a back-ground to the grey tints, and ſtrong ſhadows of the towers, and battlements, which intervened. Theſe, with the deep ſolemnity of the gloom, were a ſuffi⯑cient balance to the glowing red of the horizon, which would otherwiſe have been too glaring. But the whole was in perfect harmony; and had a fine effect.—Indeed nature's colouring is rarely without harmony. If the lights be glowing, the ſhades are proportionably deep: on the contrary, if the lights decay, the ſha⯑dows decay with them; and as light is alſo the ſource of colour, the landſcape wears always one uniform hue. Either the ſober colouring prevails, or one vivid tint ſupports another. In compoſition, ^* we have found, that nature may be improved; but in the beauty, and proportion of her tints, in the harmony [172] of her colouring, ſhe is an undeviating model of perfection.

The ſquare tower, which made the grand part of the caſtle, conveyed, as we looked into it, a very horrid idea. Moſt of theſe old ſtructures have ſuffered great external dilapi⯑dations. But here the ſhell was intire; and all the internal parts were gone—the roof, the ſtories, and even the vault over the dun⯑geon. The whole was a mere excavation. I know not, that I was ever ſtruck with a more horrid idea of the kind. The eye, confined within the walls of a vaſt tower, open to the ſky above, which loured with unuſual black⯑neſs, looked down with hideous contraſt, deep into a dungeon below.

The whole road, over the mountains of Stainmore, from Brugh-caſtle to Bowes-caſtle, which is about thirteen miles, is the moſt unpleaſant that can be conceived; and the more ſo, as it reminded us of the ſublime ſcenes, which we had paſſed, in another part of this chain, between Ambleſide and Keſwick. [173] In the mountains of Stainmore, the parts are neither ſufficiently ample to be grand; nor rich and varied, to be beautiful. We did not even find what we have elſewhere called a mere ſcene of mountains ^*. In ſuch a ſcene, the parts are beautiful, tho there is no whole; but here, in a pictureſque view, there is neither whole nor parts.

Nothing remains of Bowes-caſtle, but one heavy, ſquare tower, much defaced, and ruin⯑ed; tho the ſtone-work appears to have been excellent. This fortreſs ſeems originally to have been intended as a defence at the ſouthern end of the mountains; as Brugh-caſtle was at the northern.

From the poſition of theſe caſtles, it ſeems probable, that formerly the road over the mountains of Stainmore was the only road into Cumberland, that was paſſable, and of courſe neceſſary to be defended. The Keſwick moun⯑tains, [174] till lately, were imp [...]rvious; and the mountains of Shap are much fuller of defiles and dangerous paſſes, than thoſe of Stainmore, which are the moſt level, and the moſt pene⯑trable part of this vaſt chain.

As we leave the mountains, a very rich and extenſive view opens before us into Yorkſhire. We had not ſeen ſuch a view for many days. For tho in Cumberland, we had many very extenſive proſpects, yet they extended chiefly over barren country.

At Grata we found much devaſtation from the late high floods. The bridge was beaten down; and large fragments of it carried away, through the violence of the ſtream, many hundred yards. With theſe, and huge ſtones torn from the adjoining cliffs, the bed of the river was choaked. Nothing could have a more ruinous appearance. A broken bridge impreſſes one of the ſtrongeſt emblems of deſolation, from the idea of cutting off all intercourſe among men.

[175]Here Sir Thomas Robinſon has a houſe,^* ſituated in a pleaſant park; one ſide of which is bounded by the river.

The road from Grata-bridge leads through a rich country, but open, and unpleaſing; unleſs in diſtance.

The middle of Gatherly-moor commands a moſt extenſive view in every direction. Hambledon-hills bound the proſpect in front. On the right ſtretches an extent of country towards Richmond. A diſtance ſtill more remote opens, on the left, into the biſhopric of Durham; and behind riſe the mountains of Weſtmoreland, as a back-ground to all the wild ſcenes we had left.

Few places afford a ſituation, where a painter may ſee, at once, ſo many modes of diſtance: [176] or where he may better compare, at one glance, their ſeveral beauties and imperfections.

The wild, unwooded waſte, when thrown into diſtance, hath neither variety, nor rich⯑neſs. It is one uniform, dark, and dreary ſpread: unleſs it be happily inlightened; or conſiſt of hilly ground broken into large parts.

The intermixture of tracts of woodland, adds a pleaſing variety to diſtance; and is adapted to receive the ſweeteſt effects of light.

But the cultivated country forms the moſt amuſing diſtance.^* Meadows, corn-fields, hedge-rows, ſpires, towns, and villages, tho loſt as ſingle objects, are all melted together into the richeſt maſs of variegated ſurface; over which the eye ranges with delight; and following the flitting gleams of ſun-ſhine, catches a thouſand dubious objects, as they ariſe; and creates as many more, which do not really exiſt. But ſuch a country will not bear a nearer approach; eſpecially if it be over-built, which is the caſe of moſt of the rich diſtances about London: the parts aſſume too much conſequence, and the whole becomes a ſcene of confuſion.

[177]When the death of Elizabeth called James to the crown of England, he took this road from Scotland; and on Gatherly-moor, we are told, he ſtopped to take a view around him; with which he is ſaid to have been greatly delighted. The ſpot, where this royal ſurvey was taken, is ſtill ſhewn—the ſummit of a Roman ſtation.—It is not likely, that pictureſque thoughts engaged his princely attention at that time. It is rather probable, that he began here to meaſure the length of his new ſceptre—for here his wiſtful eyes were bleſſed with the firſt fair proſpect of the pro⯑miſed land.

From Gatherly-moor we entered Leeming⯑lane; grieved to leave ſo much fine country on both ſides unſeen. Within a few miles the Tees pouring through a rocky channel, forms ſome of the moſt romantic ſcenery in England; and boaſts, at Winſton-bridge, a more magnificent ſingle arch, than perhaps any Engliſh river can produce.—Within a few miles, in another direction, lie the beautiful, [178] and varied grounds about Richmond; which among other noble ſcenes, exhibit the magni⯑ficent ruins of a caſtle, on the ſummit of a lofty rock, over-hanging the Swale.—All theſe beautiful ſcenes we were obliged to leave behind, and enter Leeming-lane, which ex⯑tends near thirty miles, in a ſtraight line, ſhut up between hedges; being a part of a great Roman cauſey. And yet the whole is ſo well planted, that we found it leſs diſguſting, than we expected. The ſmalleſt turn, where the wood hung looſely over the lane, eſpecially when there was any variety in the ground, broke the lines, and deſtroyed much of the diſagreeable regularity of the road.

We left the lane however abruptly, and went to Norton Conyers, near Rippon, the ſeat of Sir Bellingham Graham; from whence we propoſed to viſit the neighbouring ſcenes of Studley, and Hackfall.

SECT. XXV.

THE moſt improved part of the gardens at Studley, and what is chiefly ſhewn to ſtrangers, is a valley, nearly circular, ſur⯑rounded by high woody grounds, which ſlope gently into it in various directions. The cir⯑cumference of the higher grounds includes about one hundred and fifty acres; the area, at the bottom, conſiſts of eight. The higher parts preſent many openings into the country. The lower, of courſe, are more confined; but might afford many pleaſing woody ſcenes, and ſolitary retreats. A conſiderable ſtream runs through the valley: and on the banks of this ſtream, in another valley, contiguous to the circular one, ſtand the ruins of Fountain's abbey; the grandeſt, and moſt beautiful, except perhaps thoſe of Glaſtonbury, which the kingdom can produce.

[180]The idea, which ſuch a ſcene naturally ſuggeſts, is that of retirement—the habitation of chearful ſolitude. Every object points it out; all tending to ſooth and amuſe; but not to rouſe and tranſport; like the great ſcenes of nature.

Sometimes indeed the recluſe may be more enamoured of the great ſcenes of nature, and wiſh to fix his abode, where his eye may be continually preſented with ſublime ideas. But, in general, we obſerve (from the whole hiſtory of monaſtic life) that he wiſhes rather to ſequeſter himſelf in ſome tranquil ſcene: and this in particular was choſen as a quiet receſs, conſecrated to retirement.

Solitude therefore being the reigning idea of the ſcene, every accompaniment ſhould tend to impreſs it. The ruins of the abbey, which is the great object of the place, certainly do. The river and the paths ſhould wind careleſly through the lawns and woods, with little decoration. Buildings ſhould be ſparingly introduced. Thoſe which appear, ſhould be as ſimple as poſſible—the mere retreats of ſolitude. The ſcene allows no more; and the [181] neighbourhood of ſo noble a ruin renders every other decoration, in the way of building, either trivial, or offenſive.

Inſtead of theſe ideas, which the ſcenes of Studley naturally ſuggeſt, the whole is a vain oſtentation of expence; a mere Timon's villa; decorated by a taſte debauched in it's concep⯑tions, and puerile in it's execution. Not only the reigning idea of the place is forgotten; but all the great maſter-ſtrokes of nature, in every ſhape are effaced. Every part is touched and retouched with the inſipid ſedulity of a Dutch maſter: ‘—Labor improbus omnia vincit.’

What a lovely ſcene might a perſon of pure taſte have made at Studley, with one tenth part of the expence, which hath been laid out in deforming it.

Such might have been the ſcenes of Studley: but ſuch is the whimſical channel of human operations, that we ſometimes ſee the pencil of Reubens employed on a country wake; and that of Teniers diſgracing the nuptials of an emperor.

On the whole, it is hard to ſay, whether nature has done more to embelliſh the ſcenes of Studley; or art to deform them. Much indeed is below criticiſm. But even, where the rules of more genuine taſte have been adopted, they are for the moſt part unhappily miſapplied. In the point of opening views, for inſtance, few of the openings here are ſimple, and natural. The artifice is apparent. The marks of the ſheers, and hatchet, are conſpicuous in them all. Whereas half the beauty of a thing conſiſts in the eaſineſs of it's introduction. Bring in your ſtory awk⯑wardly; and it offends. It is thus in a view. The eye roving at large in queſt of objects, cannot bear preſcription. Every thing forced [183] upon it, diſguſts; and when it is apparent, that the view is contrived; the effect is loſt.

The valley, in which Fountain's abbey ſtands, is not of larger dimenſions, than the other, we have juſt deſcribed: but inſtead of the circular form, it winds (in a more beautiful proportion) into length. It's ſides are com⯑poſed of woody hills ſloping down in varied declivities; and uniting with the trees at the bottom, which adorn the river.

At one end of this valley ſtand the ruins of the abbey, which formerly overſpread a large ſpace of ground. Beſides the grand remains of ruin, there appeared in various parts, among the trees and buſhes, detached fragments, which were once the appendages of this great houſe. One of theſe, which was much ad⯑mired, ſeemed evidently to have been a court of juſtice.

Such was the general idea of this beautiful valley, and of the ruins which adorned it, before they fell into the hands of the preſent proprietor. Long had he wiſhed to draw them [184] within the circle of his improvements: but ſome difficulties of law withſtood. At length they were removed; and the time came (which every lover of pictureſque beauty muſt lament) when the legal poſſeſſion of this beautiful ſcene was yielded to him; and his buſy hands were let looſe upon it. He found it indeed ſome⯑what ruder, than even pictureſque beauty required; and a little might have been well done. But his improvements have had no bounds. He has pared away all the bold roughneſs, and freedom of the ſcene, and given every part a trim poliſh.

A few fragments lying ſcattered around the body of a ruin are proper, and pictureſque. They are proper, becauſe they account for what is defaced: and they are pictureſque, becauſe they unite the principal pile with the ground; on which union the beauty of com⯑poſition, in a good meaſure, depends.^* But here they were thought rough and unſightly; and fell a ſacrifice to neatneſs. Even the court of juſtice was not ſpared; tho a [185] fragment, probably as beautiful, as it was curious.

In the room of theſe detached fragments, which were the proper, and pictureſque em⯑belliſhments of the ſcene, a gaudy temple is erected, and other trumpery wholly foreign to it.—It is a difficult matter, at the ſight of ſuch monſtrous abſurdities, to keep reſent⯑ment within decent bounds. I hope I have not exceeded.

But not only the ſcenery is defaced, and the outworks of the ruin violently torn away; the main body of the ruin itſelf, is, at this very time, under the alarming hand of decoration.

The remains of this pile are very magnifi⯑cent. Almoſt the intire ſkeleton of the abbey-church is left, which is a beautiful piece of Gothic architecture. The tower ſeems wholly to have eſcaped the injuries of time. It's mouldering lines only are ſoftened. Near the church ſtand a double row of cloyſters; which are ſingularly curious from the pointed arches, which do the office of columns, in ſupporting the roof. At the end of theſe cloyſters ſtand the abbot's apartments; which open into a court, called the Monk's-garden. On one [186] ſide of this court is the hall, a noble room; which communicates, in the ſpirit of hoſpi⯑tality, with the kitchen. There are beſides a few other detached parts.

When the preſent proprietor made his pur⯑chaſe, he found this whole maſs of ruin, the cloyſters, the abbey-church, and the hall, choaked with rubbiſh. His firſt work there⯑fore was to clear, and open. And ſomething in this way, as I have juſt obſerved, might have been done with propriety. For we ſee ruins ſometimes ſo choaked, that no view of them can be obtained.

To this buſineſs ſucceeded the great work of reſtoring, and ornamenting. This required a very delicate touch. Among the ruins were found ſcraps of Gothic windows; ſmall, mar⯑ble columns; tiles of different colours; and a variety of other ornamental fragments. Theſe the proprietor has picked from the rubbiſh with great care; and with infinite induſtry is now reſtoring to their old ſituation. But in vain; for the friability of the edges of every fracture makes any reſtoration of parts an awkward patchwork.

[187]Indeed the very idea of giving a finiſhed ſplendor to a ruin, is abſurd. How unnatural, in a place, evidently forlorn and deſerted by man, are the recent marks of human induſtry! —Beſides, every ſentiment, which the ſcene ſuggeſts, is deſtroyed. Inſtead of that ſooth⯑ing melancholy, on which the mind feeds in contemplating the ruins of time; a ſort of jargon is excited by theſe heterogeneous mix⯑tures: as if, when ſome grand chorus had taken poſſeſſion of the ſoul—when the ſounds in all their ſublimity, were yet vibrating on the ear—a light jig ſhould ſtrike up.

But the reſtoration of parts is not enough: ornaments muſt be added: and ſuch incon⯑gruous ornaments, as diſgraced the ſcene, are diſgracing alſo the ruin. The monk's garden is turned into a trim parterre, and planted with flowering ſhrubs: a view is opened, through the great window, to ſome ridiculous figure, (I know not what; Ann Bolein, I think, they called it) that is placed in the valley; and in the central part of the abbey-church, a circular pedeſtal is raiſed out of the fragments of the [188] old pavement; on which is erected—a muti⯑lated heathen ſtatue!!!

A legal right the proprietor [...] has to deform his ruin, as he [...] he fear no indictment in the [...] muſt expect a very ſevere [...] court of taſte. The refined code of [...] does not conſider an elegant ruin [...] property, on which he may exerciſe [...] [...]ill the irregular ſallies of a wanton imagination: but as a depoſit, of which he is only the guardian, for the amuſement and admiration of poſterity.—A ruin is a ſacred thing. Root⯑ed for ages in the ſoil; aſſimilated to it; and become, as it were, a part of it; we conſider it as a work of nature, rather than of art. Art cannot reach it. A Gothic window, a fretted arch, ſome trivial peculiarity may have been aimed at with ſucceſs: but the magnifi⯑cence of ruin was never attained by any modern attempt.

What reverence then is due to theſe ſacred relics; which the rough hand of temerity, and caprice dare mangle without remorſe? The leaſt error is irretrievable. Let us pauſe a [189] moment—A Goth may deform: but it ex⯑ceeds the power of art to amend.

The ſcenes of Studley, which I have here deſcribed, are confined to the two contiguous vallies. The improvements of the place extend conſiderably farther: but we had neither time, nor inclination, to examine more. We had ſeen enough.

About the cloſe of the laſt century, a piece of human antiquity exiſted in the neighbour⯑hood of this abbey, ſtill more curious, than the abbey itſelf—that venerable inſtance of longevity, Henry Jenkins. Among all the events, which, in the courſe of a hundred and ſixty-nine years, had faſtened upon the memory of this ſingular man, he ſpoke of nothing with ſo much emotion, as the ancient ſtate of Foun⯑tain's abbey. If he were ever queſtioned on that ſubject, he would be ſure to inform you, "What a brave place it had once been;" and would ſpeak with much feeling of the clamour, which it's diſſolution occaſioned in the coun⯑try. [190] ^*. "About a hundred and thirty years ago, he would ſay, when I was butler to lord Conyers, and old Marmaduke Bradley, now dead and gone, was lord-abbot, I was often ſent by my lord to inquire after the lord-abbot's health; and the lord abbot would always ſend for me up into his chamber, and would order me roaſt-beef;^† and waſſel; which, I remem⯑ber well, was always brought in a black-jack." —From this account we ſee what it was that rivetted Fountain's abbey ſo diſtinctly in the old man's memory. The black-jack, I doubt not, was a ſtronger idea, than all the ſplendor of the houſe, or all the virtues of the lord-abbot.

SECT. XXVI.

FROM Studley we viſited the ſcenes of Hackfall. Theſe own the ſame pro⯑prietor; and are adorned with equal taſte.

It is a circumſtance of great advantage, when you are carried to this grand exhibition (as you always ſhould be) through the cloſe lanes of the Rippon road. You have not the leaſt intimation of a deſign upon you; nor any ſuggeſtion, that you are on high grounds; till the folding-doors of the building at Mow⯑bray-point being thrown open, you are ſtruck with one of the grandeſt, and moſt beautiful burſts of country, that the imagination can form.

Your eye is firſt carried many fathoms pre⯑cipitately down a bold, woody ſteep, to the river Ewer, which forms a large ſemi-circular [192] curve below; winding to the very foot of the precipice, on which you ſtand. The trees of the precipice over-hang the central part of the curve.

In other parts too the river is intercepted by woods; but enough of it is diſcovered to leave the eye at no uncertainty in tracing it's courſe. At the two oppoſite points of the curve, two promontories ſhoot into the river, in contraſt with each other: that on the right is woody, faced with rock, and crowned with a caſtle: that, on the left, riſes ſmooth from the water, and is ſcattered over with a few clumps. The peninſular part, and the grounds alſo at ſome diſtance beyond the iſthmus, con⯑ſiſt of one intire woody ſcene; which ad⯑vancing boldly to the front of the precipice, unites itſelf with it.

This woody ſcenery on the banks of the river may be called the firſt diſtance. Beyond this lies a rich, extenſive country—broken into large parts—decorated with all the ob⯑jects, and diverſified with all the tints of diſtant landſcape—retiring from the eye, ſcene after ſcene—till at length every vivid hue fading gradually away, and all diſtinction of parts being loſt, the country imperceptibly [193] melts into the horizon; except in ſome parts, where the blue hills of Hambledon cloſe the view.

Through the whole extent of this grand ſcene—this delightful gradation of light and colours—nature has wrought with her broadeſt, and freeſt pencil. The parts are ample: the compoſition perfectly correct. She hath ad⯑mitted nothing diſguſting, or even trivial. I ſcarce remember any where an extenſive view ſo full of beauties, and ſo free from faults. The fore-ground is as pleaſing as the back⯑ground; which it never can be, when plots of cultivation approach the eye: and it is rare to find ſo large an extent of near-ground, covered by wood, or other ſurface, whoſe parts are alike grand, and beautiful.

The vale, of which this view is compoſed, hath not yet intirely loſt it's ancient name— the vale of Mowbray; ſo called from Mow⯑bray-caſtle now no longer traced even in it's ruins; but once ſuppoſed to be the capital manſion of theſe wide domains. This vale extends from York almoſt to the confines of Durham; is adorned by the Swale, and the Ewer, both conſiderable rivers; and is cer⯑tainly [194] one of the nobleſt tracts of country of the kind in England.

Hackfall is as much a contraſt to Studley, as the idea of magnificence is to that of ſolitude. It requires of courſe a different mode of or⯑nament. A banqueting houſe, inriched with every elegance of architecture, in the form perhaps of a Grecian temple, might be a proper decoration at Mowbray-point; which at Studley would be ſuperfluous, and abſurd. The ruins of a caſtle too, if they could be ex⯑ecuted with veri-ſimilitude and grandeur, might adorn the rocky promontory on the right with propriety. The preſent ruin is a paltry thing. Any other ornamental building, beſides theſe two, I ſhould ſuppoſe unneceſſary. Theſe might ſufficiently adorn every part of the ſcenery, both in the higher, and in the lower grounds. If the expence, which is generally laid out, in our great gardens, on a variety of little buildings, was confined to one or two capital objects, the general effect would be better. A profuſion of buildings is one of the extravagances of falſe taſte. One ob⯑ject is a proper ornament in every ſcene: more [195] than one, at leaſt on the fore-grounds, diſtract it. Particular circumſtances indeed may add a propriety to a greater number of objects: as at Kew; where a ſpecimen is given of dif⯑ferent kinds of religious ſtructures: or at Chiſ⯑wick; where it is intended to exhibit an idea of various modes of architecture. But it is unity of deſign, not of pictureſque compoſition, which pleaſes us in theſe ſcenes. As far as this is concerned, one handſome object is enough.

Having examined the whole of this very extraordinary burſt of landſcape from Mow⯑bray-point, we deſcended to the bottom, where a great variety of grand, and pleaſing views are exhibited; particularly a view of Mow⯑bray-point from Limus-hill; and another of the promontory with the caſtle upon it, from the tent: and it muſt be acknowledged, that many of theſe ſcenes are opened in a very natural, and maſterly manner. If any art hath been uſed, it hath been uſed with diſ⯑cretion.

At the ſame time, amidſt all this profuſion of great objects, and all this grandeur of de⯑ſign [196] (for nature has here not only brought her materials together, but has compoſed them likewiſe) the eye is every where called aſide from the contemplation of them by ſome tri⯑vial object—an awkward caſcade—a fountain— a view through a hole cut in a wood—or ſome other ridiculous ſpecimen of abſurd taſte.

It is a great happineſs however, that the improver of theſe ſcenes had leſs in his power at Hackfall, than he had at Studley. The vallies there, and home-views were all with⯑in the reach of his ſpade, and axe. Here he could only contemplate at a diſtance what glorious ſcenes he might have diſplayed, if his arm could have extended to the horizon. Some of the nearer grounds of this grand ex⯑hibition, (I believe all beyond the Ewer,) are the property of another perſon. So that the whole peninſular part, and the grounds immediately beyond it, continue ſacred, and untouched: and theſe are the ſcenes, which form the grand part of the view from Mow⯑bray-point. In ſurveying theſe, the eye over⯑looks the puerilities of improvement at the bottom of the precipice.

[197]The banks of rivers are ſo various, that I know not any two river-views of any celebrity, which at all reſemble each other in the detail; though in the general caſt, and outlines of the ſcene, they agree. Thus at Studley, and at ^* Corby, the materials of the ſcenery are, in both places, the ſame. Each hath it's woody banks—it's river—and the ruins of an abbey. In each alſo the beauties of the ſcene are in a great meaſure ſhut up within itſelf; and the idea of ſolitude is impreſſed on both. Notwith⯑ſtanding this ſimilarity, two ſcenes can hardly be more different. At Corby, the woody bank is grander than that at Studley, border⯑ing rather on the ſublime. At Studley, the form and contraſt of the vallies, and great variety of the ground, is more pleaſing. In the former ſcene the river is ſuperior: in the latter, the ruins. In one, you wander about the mazes of a circular woody bank: in the other, the principal part of the walk is con⯑tinued along the margin of the river; the [198] woody bank, which is too ſteep to admit a path, ſerving only as a ſkreen.

There is the ſame union and difference be⯑tween the ſcenes of Persfield^*, and Hackfall. Both are great and commanding ſituations. The river, in both, forms a ſweeping curve. Both are adorned with rocks, and woods: and ſublimity is the reigning idea of each. Not⯑withſtanding all theſe points of union, they are wholly unlike. Persfield, though the country is open before it, depends little on it's beauties. It's own wild, winding banks ſupply an endleſs variety of rocky ſcenery; which is ſufficient to engage the attention. The banks of Hackfall are leſs magnificent; tho it's river is more pictureſque, and it's woods more beautiful. But it's views into the country are it's pride; and beyond any com⯑pariſon, grander and more inchanting, than thoſe at Persfield.

From Hackfall we returned to our hoſpi⯑table quarters at Norton Conyers, which is [199] ſituated in a pleaſant park-ſcene; but too flat to admit much variety.

In the time of the civil wars, the owner of this manſion was Sir Richard Graham; of whom we heard an anecdote in the family, which is worth relating; as it is not only curious in itſelf, but throws a very ſtrong, and yet natural ſhade, on the character of Cromwell.

When the affairs of Charles I. were in their wane in all the ſouthern counties; the marquiſs of Newcaſtle's prudence gave them ſome credit in the north. His reſidence was at York, where he engaged two of the gen⯑tlemen of the country to act under him as lieutenants. Sir Richard Graham was one; whoſe commiſſion under the marquiſs is ſtill in the hands of the family. As Sir Richard was both an active man, and much attached to the royal cauſe; he entered into it with all that vigour, which ability; inſpired by in⯑clination, could exert; and did the king more effectual ſervice, than perhaps any private gentleman in thoſe parts.

[200]On that fatal day, when the precipitancy of prince Rupert, in oppoſition to the ſage advice of the marquiſs, led the king's forces out of York againſt Cromwell, who waited for them on Marſden-moor, Sir Richard Gra⯑ham had a principal command; and no man did more than he, to end an action with ſuc⯑ceſs, which had been undertaken with teme⯑rity.

When the day was irretrievably loſt; and nothing remained, but for every man to ſeek the beſt means of ſecurity that offered, Sir Richard fled, with twenty-ſix bleeding wounds upon him, to his own houſe at Norton Con⯑yers, about fifteen miles from the field. Here he arrived in the evening; and being ſpent with loſs of blood, and fatigue, he was car⯑ried into his chamber; where taking a laſt farewell of his diſconſolate lady, he expired.

Cromwell, who had ever expreſſed a pecu⯑liar inveteracy againſt this gentleman, and thought a victory only half obtained, if he eſcaped; purſued his flight in perſon, with a troop of horſe.

When he arrived at Norton, his gallant enemy was dead; having ſcarce lived an hour. [201] after he was carried into his chamber: and Cromwell found his wretched lady weeping over the mangled corpſe of her huſband, yet ſcarce cold.

Such a ſight, one would have imagined, might have given him—not indeed an emo⯑tion of pity—but at leaſt a ſatiety of revenge. The inhuman miſcreant ſtill felt the vengeance of his ſoul unſatisfied; and turning round to his troopers, who had ſtalked after him into the ſacred receſſes of ſorrow, he gave the ſign of havoc; and in a few moments the whole houſe was torn in pieces: not even the bed was ſpared, on which the mangled body was extended: and every thing was deſtroyed, which the hands of rapine could not carry off.

In this country we met with another cu⯑rious memorial of the battle of Marſden-moor. A carpenter, about two years ago, bought ſome trees, which had grown there. But when the timber was brought to the ſaw-pit, it was found very refractory. On examining it with more attention, it appeared, that great [202] numbers of leaden bullets were in the hearts of ſeveral of the trees; which thus recorded the very ſpot, where the heat of the battle had raged.

SECT. XXVII.

FROM Norton we propoſed to take our rout, through Yorkſhire into Derby⯑ſhire; and ſo through the other midland counties into the ſouth of England.

The town of Rippon makes a better ap⯑pearance, as you approach it, than the gene⯑rality of country towns. The church is a large building; and gives a conſequence to the place.

From Rippon the road is not unpleaſant; paſſing generally through a woody country, till we entered Knareſborough-foreſt, where all wood ceaſed. Like other royal chaſes, it hath now loſt all it's ſylvan honours, and is a wild, bleak, unornamented tract of country.

[204]Near the cloſe of the foreſt, lies Harrogate, in the dip of a hill; a cheerleſs, unpleaſant village. Nor does the country make any change for the better; till we croſs the ri⯑ver Wharf.

From hence, leaving the ruins of Hare⯑wood-caſtle on the left, and Harewood-houſe on the right, the ancient, and modern ſeats of the family of Laſcelles, we aſcended, by degrees, a tract of high ground, and had an extenſive view which was illumined, when we ſaw it, by thoſe gleaming, curſory lights, which are ſo beautiful in diſtant landſcape; and ſo common, when the incidents of a bright ſun, a windy ſky, and floating clouds co⯑incide. It is amuſing, under theſe circum⯑ſtances, to purſue the flitting gleams, as they ſpread, decay, and vaniſh—then riſe in ſome other part; varied by the different ſurfaces, over which they ſpread.

We have this appearance beautifully de⯑tailed in an old Erſe poem, the title of which is Dargo. The bard poetically, and pictu⯑reſquely [205] compares the ſhort tranſitions of joy in the mind, to theſe tranſitory gleams of light.

"The tales of the years that are paſt, are beams of light to the ſoul of the bard. They are like the ſun-beams, that travel over the heaths of Morven. Joy is in their courſe, tho darkneſs dwells around. Joy is in their courſe; but it is ſoon paſt: the ſhades of darkneſs purſue them: they overtake them on the mountains; and the footſteps of the chearful beam are no longer diſcovered.—Thus the tale of Dargo travels over my ſoul like a beam of light, tho the gathering of the clouds is behind."

We ſhould have been glad to have ex⯑amined Harewood-houſe, as it is a ſumptuous pile; but it is ſhewn only on particular days; and we happened to be there on a wrong one.

We regretted alſo another misfortune of the ſame kind, for which we had only our⯑ſelves to blame; and that was the omiſſion of Kirkſtall-abbey. In the precipitancy of [206] an early morning, and through an unaccount⯑able error in geography, we paſſed it; and did not recollect the miſtake, till we were half a day's journey beyond it.

Around Leeds the ſoil wears an unpleaſant hue; owing in part to the dirtineſs of the ſurface; within a few yards of which, coal is every where found.—The country however changes greatly for the better, before we ar⯑rive at Wakefield, which lies in the midſt of beautiful ſcenery. The river Calder makes a fine appearance, as we leave the town; and it's banks are adorned by a Gothic cha⯑pel, now in ruins, dedicated, by Edward IV, to the memory of the duke of York, his fa⯑ther, and the other chiefs of his party, who fell at the battle of Wakefield. It is built in the elegant proportion of ten by ſix; plain on the ſides; but richly adorned on the front; and finiſhed with a ſmall octagon turret at the eaſt end.—This little edifice ſerves both to aſcertain the hiſtory of architecture, which appears to have been near it's meridian; and to illuſtrate an important part of the Engliſh ſtory. It's whimſical ſituation by the ſide [207] of a bridge, was intended probably to mark the ſpot, where ſome principal part of the action happened: tho at the entrance of great towns it was not unuſual, in popiſh times, to place chapels on bridges; that travellers might immediately have the benefit of a maſs. There was, for this purpoſe, a chapel formerly in one of the piers of London-bridge.

Not far from Wakefield we rode paſt a piece of water, which takes the humble name of a mill-pond; but is in fact a beautiful little lake, being near two miles in circum⯑ference, and containing ſome pleaſing ſcenery, along it's little woody ſhores, and promon⯑tories.

From Bank-top we had a good deſcending view of Wentworth-caſtle—of the grounds, which inviron it—and the country, which ſurrounds it. The ſcene all together is grand. The eminence, on which we ſtood, is adorned with a great profuſion of ſomething, in the way of an artificial ruin. It is poſſible it may have an effect from the caſtle below: [208] but on the ſpot, it is certainly no orna⯑ment. We found ſome difficulty in paſſing through lord Strafford's park; and proceeded therefore to Wentworth-houſe; which is a ſuperb; and is eſteemed, an elegant pile: but there ſeems to be a want of ſimplicity about it. The front appears broken into too many parts; and the inſide, incumbered. A ſim⯑ple plan has certainly more dignity. Such, for inſtance, is lord Tinley's houſe at Wan⯑ſtead, where the whole is intelligible at ſight. The hall at lord Rockingham's is a cube of ſixty feet. The gallery is what they call a ſhelf. For myſelf, I ſaw nothing offenſive in it, tho it is undoubtedly a more maſterly contrivance to raiſe a gallery upon a wall, than to affix one to it. The long gallery is a noble apartment; and the interception of a breakfaſt room from it by pillars, and an oc⯑caſional curtain, gives a pleaſant combined idea of retirement, and company. The li⯑brary alſo is grand.

There are few good pictures at Wentworth: the original of lord Strafford, and his ſecre⯑tary is ſaid to be here. It's pretenſions are diſputed; tho I think it has merit enough to maintain them any where.—There is an⯑other [209] good portrait by Vandyke of the ſame nobleman. He reſts his hand upon a dog; and his head in this picture is perhaps ſupe⯑rior to that of the other.—Here is alſo, by Vandyke, a ſon of the ſame earl, with his two ſiſters. The management of the whole diſpleaſes; but the boy is delightfully painted.

Wentworth-houſe ſtands low. It's front commands an extenſive plain, and a flat diſ⯑tant country; which are ſeen betwixt a ri⯑ſing wood on the left; and a variety of croſſ⯑ing lawns on the right. On the whole, I was not much pleaſed with any thing I ſaw here.

SECT. XXVIII.

FROM Wentworth-houſe the ſame plea⯑ſant face of country continues to Sheffield. But it ſoon begins to change, as we approach Derbyſhire. The riſing grounds become in⯑ſenſibly more wild: rocks ſtart every where from the ſoil; and a new country comes on apace. For we now approached that great central tract of high lands; which ariſing in theſe parts, form themſelves into moun⯑tains; and ſpreading here, and there, run on without interruption, as far as Scotland ^* Before we reach Middleton, the whole face of the land has ſuffered change; and we ſee nothing around us, but wildneſs, and deſola⯑tion.

[212]About two miles ſhort of Middleton we are cheared again by a beautiful valley; which participates indeed of the wildneſs of the coun⯑try; but is both finely wooded, and watered. In a receſs of this valley ſtands Middleton, a very romantic village; beyond which the valley ſtill continues two miles farther.

It is this continuation of it, which is known by the name of Middleton-dale; and is eſteemed one of the moſt romantic ſcenes of the country. It is a narrow, winding chaſm; hardly broader than to give ſpace for a road. On the right, it is rocky; on the left, the hills wear a ſmoother form. The rocks are grey, tinged in many parts with plots of ver⯑dure inſinuating themſelves, and running among them. Some of theſe rocks aſſume a peculiar form, rearing themſelves like the round towers, and buttreſſes of a ruined caſtle; and their upper ſtrata running in parallel directions, take the form of cornices. The turriti ſcopuli of Virgil cannot be illuſtrated better.

When we leave Middleton-dale the waſtes of Derbyſhire open before us; and wear the ſame face as thoſe we had left behind, on the [213] borders of Yorkſhire. They are tracts of coarſe, mooriſh paſturage, forming vaſt con⯑vex ſweeps, without any interſection of line, or variation of ground; divided into portions by ſtone walls, without a cottage to diverſiſy the ſcene, or a tree to enliven it. Middleton⯑dale is the paſs, which unites theſe two dreary ſcenes.

Having travelled ſeveral miles in this high country, in our way to Caſtleton, we came at length to the edge of a precipice; down which ran a long, ſteep deſcent. From the brow an extenſive vale lay before us. It's name is Hopedale. It is a wide, open ſcene of cultivation; the ſides of which, tho moun⯑tainous, are tilled to the top. The village of Hope ſtands at one end of it, and Caſtleton at the other. In a direction towards the middle of this vale we deſcended. The object of our purſuit, was that celebrated chaſm, near Caſtleton, called the Devil's cave.

A deſcent of two miles brought us to it.— A combination of more horrid ideas is rarely [214] found, than this place affords. It exceeded our livelieſt imagination.

A rocky mountain riſes to a great height: in moſt parts perpendicular; in ſome, beetling over it's baſe. As it aſcends, it divides; forming at the top, two rocky ſummits.

On one of theſe ſummits ſtands an old caſtle; the battlements of which appear to grow out of the rock. It's ſituation, on the edge of a precipice, is tremendous. Looking up from the bottom, you may trace a narrow path, formed merely by the adventrous foot of cu⯑rioſity, winding here and there round the walls of the caſtle; which, as far as appears, is the only road, which leads to it.

The other rock reſerves it's terrors for the bottom. There it opens into that tremendous chaſm, called the Devil's cave. Few places have more the air of the poetical regions of Tartarus.

The combination of a caſtle, and a cave, which we have here in reality, Virgil feigns— with a view perhaps of giving an additional terror to each.

[215] The poet does not give the detail of his antrum immane: if he had, he could not have con⯑ceived more intereſting circumſtances, than are here brought together.

A towering rock hangs over you; under which you enter an arched cavern, twelve yards high, forty wide, and near a hundred long. So vaſt a canopy of unpillared rock ſtretching over your head, gives you an involuntary ſhud⯑der. A ſtrong light at the mouth of the cave, diſplays all the horrors of the entrance in full proportion. But this light decaying, as you proceed, the imagination is left to explore it's deeper caverns by torch-light, which gives them additional terror. At the end of the firſt cavern runs a river, above forty feet wide, over which you are ferried into a ſeeond, of dimenſions vaſter than the firſt. It is known by the name of the Cathedral. The height of it is horribly diſcovered by a few ſpiracles at the top; through which you ſee the light of the day, without being able, at ſuch a diſtance, to enjoy the leaſt benefit from it. Beyond this cavern flows another branch of the ſame river, which becomes the boundary of other caverns ſtill more remote. But this was farther than we choſe to proceed. I never found any pictu⯑reſque [216] beauty in the interior regions of the earth; and the idea growing too infernal, we were glad to return.

The inhabitants of theſe ſcenes are as ſavage as the ſcenes themſelves. We were reminded by a diſagreeable contraſt of the pleaſing ſim⯑plicity and civility of manners, which we found among the lakes and mountains of Cumberland. Here a wild, uninformed ſtare, through matted, diſhevelled locks, marks every feature; and the traveller is followed, like a ſpectacle, by a croud of gazers. Many of theſe miſerable people live under the tremendous roof we have juſt deſcribed; where a manufacture of rope-yarn is carried on. One poor wretch has erected a hut within it's verge, where ſhe has lived theſe forty years. A little ſtraw ſuffices for a roof, which has only to reſiſt the drop⯑pings of unwholeſome vapour from the top of the cavern.

The exit from Hope-dale, in our road to Buxton, is not inferior to the ſcene we had [217] left. We aſcend a ſtraining ſteep, ornamented on each ſide, with bold projecting rocks, moſt of which are pictureſque; tho ſome of them are rather fantaſtic.

As we leave this paſs, on our right appears Mam-tor, ſurnamed the Shivering mountain. A part of it's ſide has the appearance of a caſ⯑cade; down which it continually diſcharges the flaky ſubſtance, of which it is compoſed.

On the confines of this mountain, and but a little below the ſurface, is found that curious, variegated mineral, which is formed into ſmall ornamental obeliſks, urns and vaſes. It is ſuppoſed to be a petrifaction; and is known in London by the name of the Derbyſhire drop. But on the ſpot it is called Blue John, from the beautiful blue veins, which overſpread the fineſt parts of it. Where it wears a yellowiſh hue, the vein is coarſeſt: in many parts it is beautifully honeycombed, and tranſparent. The proprietors of the marble works at Aſh⯑ford farmed the quarry of this curious mineral, [218] laſt year, at ninety-five pounds; and it is thought have nearly exhauſted it.

From Hope-dale to Buxton, the country is dreary, and uncomfortable. The eye ranges over bleak waſtes, ſuch as we had ſeen before, divided every where by ſtone walls. The paſ⯑turage in many parts ſeems good, as the fields were ſtocked with cattle; but hardly a tree, or a houſe appears through the whole diſtrict.

In a bottom, in this uncomfortable country, lies Buxton, ſurrounded with dreary, barren hills; and ſtreaming, on every ſide, with offen⯑ſive lime-kilns. Nothing, but abſolute want of health, could make a man endure a ſcene ſo wholly diſguſting.

Near Buxton we viſited another horrid cave, called Pool's hole; but it wants thoſe magni⯑ficent accompaniments of external ſcenery, which we found at the Devil's cave.

[219]The ſame dreary face of country continues from Buxton to Aſhford. Here we fall into a beautiful vale fringed with wood, and watered by a brilliant ſtream, which recalled to our memory the pleaſing ſcenes of this kind we had met with among the mountains of Cum⯑berland.

At Aſhford is carried on a manufactory of marble dug on the ſpot; ſome of which, curiouſly incruſted with ſhells, is very beau⯑tiful.

The vale of Aſhford continues with little interruption to Bakewell, where it enters another ſweet vale—the vale of Haddon; ſo called from Haddon-hall, a magnificent old manſion, which ſtands in the middle of it, on a rocky knoll, incompaſſed with wood.

This princely ſtructure, ſcarce yet in a ſtate of ruin, is able, it is ſaid, to trace it's origin into times before the conqueſt. It then wore a military form. In after ages, it became [220] poſſeſſed by different noble families; and about the beginning of this century was inhabited by the dukes of Rutland. Since that time, it has been neglected. Many fragments of it's ancient grandeur remain—ſculptured chim⯑nies; fretted cornices; patches of coſtly ta⯑peſtry; ‘Aurataſque trabes, veterum decora alta parentum.’

Not far from hence lies Chatſworth, in a ſituation naturally bleak; but rendered not unpleaſant by it's accompaniments of well-grown wood.

Chatſworth was the glory of the laſt age, when trim parterres, and formal water-works were in faſhion. It then acquired a celebrity, which it has never loſt; tho it has now many rivals. A good approach has been made to it; but in other reſpects, when we ſaw it, it's invirons had not kept pace with the improve⯑ments of the times. Many of the old formali⯑ties remained. But a dozen years, no doubt, have introduced much improvement.

The houſe itſelf would have been no way ſtriking; except in the wilds of Derbyſhire. The chapel is magnificent. It is adorned, on []

[221] the whole of one ſide, by a freſco, repreſenting Chriſt employed in works of charity.

There are few pictures in the houſe. A portrait of the late duke of Cumberland by Reynolds was the beſt. But there is much exquiſite carving by the hand of Gibbons. We admired chiefly the dead fowl of various kinds, with which the chimney of one of the ſtate rooms is adorned. It is aſtoniſhing to ſee the downy ſoftneſs of feathers given to wood. The particulars however alone are admirable: Gib⯑bons was no adept at compoſition.

From Chatſworth, through Darley-dale, a ſweet, extenſive ſcene, we approached Matlock.

The rocky ſcenery about the bridge is the firſt grand ſpecimen of what we were to expect.

As we advanced towards the boat-houſe, the views became more intereſting.

Soon after the great Torr appeared, which is a moſt magnificent rock, decorated with wood, and ſtained with various hues, yellow, green, and grey.—On the oppoſite ſide, the rocks, contracting the road, ſlope diagonally.

Theſe ſtraits open into the vale of Matlock; a romantic, and moſt delightful ſcene, in which [222] the ideas of ſublimity and beauty are blended in a high degree. It extends about two miles in length; and in the wideſt parts is half a mile broad. The area conſiſts of much irre⯑gular ground. The right hand bank has little conſequence, except that of ſhaping the vale. It is the left hand bank which ennobles the ſcene. This very magnificent rampart, riſing in a ſemi-circular form, is divided into four ample faces of rock, with an interruption of wood between each. The firſt, which you approach, is the higheſt; but of leaſt extent: the next ſpreads more; and the third moſt of all. A larger interruption ſucceeds; and the laſt, in compariſon of the others, ſeems but a gentle effort. The whole vaſt rampart is beautifully ſhaded with wood; which in ſome places, grows among the cliffs, garniſhing the rocks— in others, it grows wildly among thoſe breaks, and interruptions, which ſeparate their ſeveral faces. The ſummit of the whole ſemi-circular range is finely adorned with ſcattered trees, which often break the hard lines of the rock; and by admitting the light, give an airineſs to the whole.

[223]The river Derwent, which winds under this ſemi-circular ſcreen, is a broken, rapid ſtream. In ſome places only, it is viſible: in others, delving among rocks, and woody projections, it is an object only to the ear.

It is impoſſible to view ſuch ſcenes as theſe, without feeling the imagination take fire. Little fairy ſcenes, where the parts, tho trifling, are happily diſpoſed; ſuch, for inſtance, as the caſcade-ſcene ^* in the gardens at the Leaſowes, pleaſe the fancy. But this is ſcenery of a dif⯑ferent kind. Every object here, is ſublime, and wonderful. Not only the eye is pleaſed; but the imagination is filled. We are carried at once into the fields of fiction, and romance. Enthuſiaſtic ideas take poſſeſſion of us; and we ſuppoſe ourſelves among the inhabitants of fa⯑bled times.—The tranſition indeed is eaſy and natural, from romantic ſcenes to romantic inhabitants,

The woods here are ſubject to one great inconvenience—that of periodical lopping. About ſeven years ago, I had the mortification to ſee almoſt the whole of this ſcenery diſplay⯑ing one continued bald face of rock. It is now,^* I ſhould ſuppoſe, in perfection. More wood would cover, and leſs would diſmantle it.

The exit of this bold romantic ſcene, which from the ſouth is the entrance into it, like the exit from Hope-dale, is equal to the ſcene itſelf. Grand rocks ariſe on each ſide, and diſmiſs you through a winding barrier, which lengthens out the impreſſion of the ſcene, like the vibration of a ſound. In ſome parts the ſolid ſtone is cut through; ‘Admittitque viam ſectae per viſcera rupis.’

[225]From hence to Aſhburn the road is pleaſant, after the firſt ſteeps. The ground is varied, and adorned with wood; and we loſe all thoſe wild ſcenes, which we met with in the Peak. When nature throws her wild ſcenes into beautiful compoſition; and decorates them with great, and noble objects; they are, of all ſcenes, the moſt engaging. But as there is little of this decoration in the wild ſcenes of the Peak, we left them without regret.

[]

SECT. XXIX.

FROM Aſhburn, which is among the larger villages, and ſtands ſweetly, we made an excurſion to Dove-dale.

Dove-dale is the continuation of another ſimilar dale, which is ſometimes called Bun⯑ſter-dale; tho I believe both parts of the valley are known, except juſt on the ſpot, by the general name of Dove-dale.

Bunſter-dale opens with a grand craggy mountain on the right. As you look up to the cliffs, which form the irregular ſides of this precipice, your guide will not fail to tell you the melancholy fate of a late digni⯑tary of the church, who riding along the top of it with a young lady, a Miſs Laroche, behind him, and purſuing a track, which [228] happened to be only a ſheep-path, and led to a declivity; fell in attempting to turn his horſe out of it. He was killed: but the young lady was caught by a buſh, and ſaved. —A dreadful ſtory is an admirable introduc⯑tion to an awful ſcene. It rouſes the mind; and adds double terror to every impending rock.

The bare ſides of theſe lofty craggs on the right, are contraſted by a woody mountain on the left. In the midſt of the wood, a ſort of rocky-wall riſes perpendicular from the ſoil. Theſe detached rocks are what chiefly characterize the ſcene.—A little be⯑yond them, we enter, what is properly called, Dove-dale.

From the deſcription given of Dove-dale, even by men of taſte, we had conceived it to be a ſcene rather of curioſity, than of beauty. We ſuppoſed the rocks were formed into the moſt fantaſtic ſhapes; and expected to ſee a gigantic diſplay of all the conic ſections. But we were agreeably deceived. The whole compoſition is chaſte, and pictureſquely beau⯑tiful, in a high degree.

[229]On the right, you have a continuation of the ſame grand, craggy mountain, which ran along Bunſter-dale; only the mountain in Dove-dale is higher, and the rocks ſtill more majeſtic, and more detached.

On the leſt, is a continuation alſo of the ſame hanging woods, which began in Bun⯑ſter-dale. In the midſt of this woody ſce⯑nery ariſes a grand, ſolitary, pointed rock, the characteriſtic feature of the whole ſcene; which by way of eminence is known by the name of Dove-dale-church. It conſiſts of a large face of rock, with two or three little ſpiry heads, and one very large one: and tho the form is rather peculiar, yet is it pleaſing. It's riſing a ſingle object among ſurrounding woods takes away the fantaſtic idea; and gives it ſublimity. It is the multiplicity of theſe ſpiry heads, which makes them diſ⯑guſting: as when we ſee ſeveral of them adorning the ſummits of alpine mountains^*. But a ſolitary rock, tho ſpiry, has often a good effect. A pictureſque ornament of this kind, marks a beautiful ſcene, at a place [230] called the New-Weir, on the banks of the Wye^*.

The colour of all theſe rocks is grey; and harmonizes agreeably with the verdure, which runs in large patches down their channelled ſides. Among all the pictureſque accompa⯑niments of rocks there is nothing which has a finer effect in painting, than this variation and contraſt of colour, between the cold, grey hue of a rocky ſurface, and the rich tints of herbage.

The valley of Dove-dale is very narrow at the bottom, conſiſting of little more than the channel of the Dove, which is a conſi⯑derable ſtream; and of a foot-path along it's banks. When the river riſes, it ſwells over the whole area of the valley; and has a fine effect. The grandeur of the river is then in full harmony with the grandeur of it's banks.

[231]Dove-dale is a calm, ſequeſtered ſcene; and yet not wholly the haunt of ſolitude, and con⯑templation. It is too magnificent, and too intereſting a piece of ſcenery, to leave the mind wholly diſengaged.

The late Dr. Brown, comparing the ſce⯑nery here, with that of Keſwick^*, tells us, that of the three circumſtances, beauty, horror, and immenſity (by which laſt he means gran⯑deur) of which Keſwick conſiſts, the ſecond alone is found in Dove-dale.

In this deſcription he ſeems, in my opinion, juſt to have inverted the truth. It is difficult to conceive, why he ſhould either rob this ſcene of beauty, and grandeur; or fill it with horror. If beauty conſiſt in a pleaſing arrange⯑ment of pleaſing parts, Dove-dale has cer⯑tainly a great ſhare of beauty. If grandeur conſiſt in large parts, and large objects, it has certainly grandeur alſo. But if horror [232] conſiſt in the vaſtneſs, of thoſe parts, it cer⯑tainly predominates leſs here, than in the re⯑gions of Keſwick. The hills, the woods, and the rocks of Dove-dale are ſufficient to raiſe the idea of grandeur; but not to impreſs that of horror.

On the whole, Dove-dale is perhaps one of the moſt pleaſing pieces of ſcenery of the kind we any where meet with. It has ſome⯑thing in it peculiarly characteriſtic. It's de⯑tached, perpendicular rocks ſtamp it with an image intirely it's own: and for that rea⯑ſon it affords the greater pleaſure. For it is in ſcenery, as in life; we are moſt ſtruck with the peculiarity of an original character; provided there is nothing offenſive in it.

From Dove-dale we proceeded to Ilam; which is alſo a very characteriſtic ſcene.

Ilam ſtands on a hill, which ſlopes gently in front; but is abrupt, and broken behind, where it is garniſhed with rock, and hanging wood. Round this hill ſweeps a ſemi-cir⯑cular valley; the area of which is a flat mea⯑dow, [233] nearly a quarter of a mile in breadth, and twice as much in circumference. At the extremity of the meadow winds the channel of a river, conſiderable in it's dimenſions; tho penuriouſly ſupplied with water: and be⯑yond all, ſweeps a grand, woody bank, which forms a barrier to all the ſcenery behind the houſe; and yet, in the front, admits a view of diſtant mountains; particularly of that ſquare-capt hill, called Thorp-cloud, which ſtands near the entrance of Dove-dale.

Beſides the beauty of the ſcene, we are preſented with a great curioſity. The river Manifold formerly ran in that channel under the woody bank, which we obſerved to be now ſo penuriouſly ſupplied.—It has deſerted it's ancient bed; and about ſeven miles from Ilam, enters gradually the body of a moun⯑tain; under which it forces a way, and con⯑tinues it's ſubterraneous rout as far as the hill, on which Ilam ſtands. There it riſes from the ground, and forms a river in a burſt. The channel under the bank is a ſort of waſte-pipe to it; carrying off the ſuperfluity of water, which in heavy rains cannot enter the mountain.

[234]Curious this river certainly is: but were it mine, I ſhould wiſh much to check it's ſubterraneous progreſs, and throw it into it's old channel. The o [...]zy bed, which is now a deformity, would then be an object of beauty, circling the meadow with a noble ſtream.—Another deformity alſo would be avoided, that of cutting the meadow with two channels.—Or perhaps all ends might be anſwered, if the waſte-ſtream could be diverted. Then both the curioſity; and, in a good degree, the beauty, would remain.

On the whole, we have few ſituations ſo pleaſingly romantic, as Ilam. The rocky hill it ſtands on; the ample lawn, which incir⯑cles it; the bold, woody bank, which in⯑virons the whole (where pleaſing walks might be formed) the bold incurſion of the river; the views into the country; and the neigh⯑bourhood of Dove-dale, which lies within the diſtance of a ſummer-evening walk, bring together ſuch a variety of uncommon, and beautiful circumſtances, as are rarely to be found in one place.

[235]Very little had been done, at Ilam, when we ſaw it, to improve it's natural ſituation; tho it is capable of great improvement; par⯑ticularly in the front of the houſe. There the ground, which is now a formal flower-garden, might eaſily be united with the other parts of the ſcenery in it's neighbourhood. It is now totally at variance with it.

In the higher part of the garden, under a rock, is a ſeat dedicated to the memory of Congreve; where, you are told by your con⯑ductor, he compoſed ſeveral of his plays.

From Ilam we went to Oakover to ſee the holy family by Raphael. As this picture is very celebrated, we gave it a minute examina⯑tion.

Whether it be an original, I am not critic enough in the works of Raphael to deter⯑mine. I ſhould ſuppoſe, it is; and it were a pity to rob it of it's greateſt merit. No⯑thing, I think, but the character of the maſter could give it the reputation it holds. If it be examined by the rules of painting, [236] it is certainly deficient. The manner is hard, without freedom; and the colouring black, without ſweetneſs. Neither is there any har⯑mony in the whole. What harmony can ariſe from a conjunction of red, blue, and yellow, of which the draperies are compoſed, almoſt in raw tints? Nor is the deficiency in the colouring, compenſated by any har⯑mony in the light and ſhade.

But theſe things perhaps we are not led to expect in the works of Raphael. In them we ſeek for grace, drawing, character, and ex⯑preſſion. Here however they are not found^*. The virgin, we allow to be a ſweet, and lovely figure: but Joſeph is inanimate; the boys are grinning ſatyrins; and with regard to drawing, the right arm of Chriſt, I ſhould ſuppoſe, is very faulty^*.

On the whole, a holy family is a ſubject but indifferently adapted to the pencil. Un⯑leſs [237] the painter could give the mother that celeſtial love; and the child, that divine com⯑poſure, and ſweetneſs, (which, I take it for granted, no painter can give,) the ſubject immediately degenerates into a mother, and a child. The actions of our Saviour's life may be good ſubjects for a picture: for altho the divine energy of the principal figure cannot be expreſſed; yet the other parts of the ſtory being well told, may ſupply that deficiency. But in a holy family there is no action—no ſtory told—the whole conſiſts in the expreſ⯑ſion of characters and affections, which we muſt ſuppoſe beyond conception. So that if theſe are not expreſſed, the whole is nothing.

In the ſame room hang three or four pic⯑tures, any of which I ſhould value more than the celebrated Raphael. There is a ſmall picture, by Rubens, repreſenting the angels appearing to the women in the garden, which pleaſed me. The angels indeed are clumſey figures; and dreſſed like choiriſters: but every other part of the picture, and the management of the whole, is good.

[238]In a large picture alſo of the unjuſt ſteward, the family in diſtreſs is well deſcribed: but on the whole, it is one of thoſe ambiguous pictures, on which we cannot well pronounce at ſight. One half of it ſeems painted by Rubens; of the other half we doubted.

There are alſo in the ſame room two very capital Vanderveldts—a calm, and a ſtorm. Both are good: but the former pleaſed me better, than almoſt any picture by that maſter, I have any where ſeen.

SECT. XXX.

FROM Aſhburn, to which we returned from Oakover, we went, the next day, through a chearful, woody country, to Ked⯑dleſton, the ſeat of lord Scarſdale.

The ſituation of Keddleſton, participates little of the romantic country, on which it borders. The houſe ſtands in a pleaſant park, rather bare of wood; but the deficiency is in a great degree compenſated by the beauty of the trees; ſome of which are large, and noble. A ſtream, by the help of art, is changed into a river, over which the road conducts you obliquely to the houſe; forming a good ap⯑proach.

The architecture of Keddleſton, as far as I could judge, is a compoſition of elegance, and grandeur. The main body of the houſe, which you enter by a noble portico, is joined, by a corridore on each ſide, to a handſome [240] wing. In the back front, the ſaloon, which is a rotunda, appears to advantage. From the hall lead the ſtate rooms, which are not many. The reſt of the houſe conſiſts of excellent offices, and comfortable apartments; and the plan of the whole is eaſy, and intelligible.

The hall is perhaps one of the grandeſt, and moſt beautiful private rooms in England. The roof is ſupported by very noble columns; ſome of which are intire blocks of marble, dug, as we were informed, from lord Scarſ⯑dale's own quarries. It is rather indeed a ſpurious ſort of marble; but more beautiful, at leaſt in colour, than any that is imported. There is a richneſs, and a variety in it, that pleaſes the eye exceedingly: the veins are large, and ſuited to columns; and a rough poliſh, by receiving the light in one body, gives a noble ſwell to the column; and adds much to it's beauty.

When I ſaw this grand room, I thought it wanted no farther decoration. All was ſimple, great, and uniform, as it ought to be. Since that time I have heard the doors, and windows have been painted, and varniſhed in the cabinet ſtyle. I have not ſeen theſe alterations; and cannot pronounce on their merit: but I am [241] at a loſs to conceive, that any further embel⯑liſhment could add to the effect.

The entrance of a great houſe, ſhould, in my opinion, conſiſt only of that kind of beauty, which ariſes merely from ſimplicity and gran⯑deur. Theſe ideas, as you proceed in the apart⯑ments, may detail themſelves into ornaments of various kinds; and, in their proper places, even into prettineſſes. Alien, miſplaced, am⯑bitious ornaments, no doubt, are every where diſguſting: but in the grand entrance of a houſe, they ſhould particularly be avoided. A falſe taſte, diſcovered there, is apt to purſue you through the apartments; and throw it's colours on what may happen to be good.—I ſhould be unwilling however to ſuppoſe, that any improper decorations are added to the hall at Keddleſton; as the ornaments of the houſe, in general, when I ſaw it, ſeemed to be under the conduct of a chaſt and elegant taſte. Tho every thing was rich; I do not recollect, that any thing was tawdry, trifling, or affected.

The pictures, of which there is a conſider⯑able collection, are chiefly, what may be called good furniture pictures ^*. A Rembrandt is [242] the firſt in rank; and is indeed a valuable piece. It repreſents Daniel interpreting Bel⯑teſhazzar's dream. There is great amuſement in this picture. It is highly finiſhed; and the heads are particularly excellent. For the reſt, it is a ſcattered piece, without any idea of compoſition.

In the drawing-room are two large uprights by Benedetto Lutti; one repreſenting the laſt ſupper; the other the death of Abel. They are painted in a ſingular manner with ſtrong lights. The former has a good effect. The death of Abel is likewiſe a ſhewy picture; but has nothing very ſtriking in it, except the figure of Cain.

In the dead game by Snyders, there is a good fawn; but the picture is made diſagree⯑able by the glaring tail of a peacock.

In the dead game and dogs, by Fyt, there are good paſſages, but no whole.

The woman of Samaria, and St. John in the wilderneſs, by B. Stiozzi, are good pictures.

There is alſo a large Coyp, well-painted; but badly compoſed.

[243]At Derby, which lies within three miles of Keddleſton, we were immediately ſtruck with the tower of the great church, which is a very beautiful piece of Gothic architecture.

The object of the china-works there is merely ornament; which is particularly unhappy, as they were, at the time we ſaw them, under no regulation of taſte. A very free hand we found employed in painting the vaſes; and the firſt colours were laid in with ſpirit: but in the finiſhing, they were ſo richly daubed, that all freedom was loſt in finery.—It may now be otherwiſe.

The gaudy painters however of ſuch works, have the example of a great maſter before them, even Raphael himſelf; whoſe paintings in the pottery way, tho highly eſteemed in the cabi⯑nets of the curious, ſeem generally to be daubed in a manner fit only ad captandum vulgus. It is ſaid, that Raphael fell in love with a potter's daughter; and that to pleaſe her, he painted [244] her father's diſhes. It is probable therefore, that he ſuited them to her taſte; which ac⯑counts for the gaudy colouring they diſplay.— How much more ſimple, elegant, and beautiful is the painting of the old Etruſcan vaſes, many of which Mr. Wedgewood has ſo happily imi⯑tated? There we ſee how much better an effect is produced by chaſt colours on a dark ground; than by gaudy colours, on a light one.

A perſon curious in machinery would be much amuſed by the ſilk-mill at Derby, in which thirty thouſand little wheels are put in motion by one great wheel. The various parts, tho ſo complicated in appearance, are yet ſo diſtinct in their movements; that I was told, any one workman has the power of ſtopping that part of the machinery, which is under his direction, without interrupting the motion of the reſt.

The country between Derby and Leiceſter is flat. Quardon-wood, a little beyond Lough⯑borough, riſing on the right, makes an agree⯑able variety, amidſt ſuch a continuation of [245] uniformity. Mount Sorrel alſo has the ſame effect.

The approach to Leiceſter gives it more con⯑ſequence than it really has. The town itſelf, old and incumbered, has little beauty: but it abounds with fragments of antiquity.

Behind St. Nicholas's church is a piece of Roman architecture; one of the only pure pieces perhaps in England. We ſee many towers, which go by the name of Caeſar; and boaſt of Roman origin. I doubt, whether any of them can boaſt it with truth. And what few remnants we have, it is thought, have all been retouched in after times. This fragment ſeems to have ſuffered no alteration. It's inſignificance has ſecured it. Little more is left, than a wall, with four double arches on it's face, retiring, but not perforated. And yet in this trifling remnant there is a ſimplicity and dignity, which are very pleaſing. It is poſſible however that prejudice may in part, be the ſource of it's beauty. Through an aſſo⯑ciation [246] of ideas, we may here be pleaſed with what we have admired in Italian views.

This wall is built of brick; tho it has pro⯑bably been faced with better materials. For what purpoſe it was conſtructed, does not appear: nor whether it was intended for the end, or ſide of a building. The idea of the country is, that it has been a temple, from the great number of bones of animals, which have been found near it: from whence it takes the name of Holy-bones.

The church of St. Nicholas, which ſtands oppoſite to it, ſeems to have been built out of it's ruins, from the many Roman bricks with which it abounds. Indeed the ſtyle of building, in the body of the church, is not unlike it.

At Leiceſter alſo we were put on the purſuit of another Roman fragment—a curious piece of ſculpture; which we found at laſt in a cel⯑lar. It is a ſcrap of teſſulated pavement, on which three figures are repreſented; a ſtag; a woman leaning over it; and a boy ſhooting [247] with a bow. It may be a piece of Roman antiquity; but it is a piece of miſerable work⯑manſhip.

In this ancient town are found alſo many veſtiges of Britiſh antiquity.—From ſo rich an endowment as the abbey of Leiceſter for⯑merly poſſeſſed, we expected many beautiful remains; as it is ſtill in a kind of ſequeſtered ſtate: but in that expectation we were diſap⯑pointed. Not the leaſt fragment of a Gothic window is left: not the mereſt mutilation of an arch. It's preſent remains afford as little beauty, as the ruins of a common dwelling. And in all probability the preſent ruin is no⯑thing better, than a common dwelling; built from the materials of the ancient abbey. Such at leaſt is the tradition of the place. It be⯑longed formerly, we were told, to the family of Haſtings; and was loſt at play to the earl of Devonſhire: but before the conveyance was prepared; the owner, in the ſpirit of revenge, and mortification, ſent private orders to have it burnt.—Many a black tale might be un⯑folded in moſt old houſes, if walls could ſpeak.

[248]But the great ſtory of this abbey has a vir⯑tuous tendency. Within it's walls was once exhibited a ſcene more humiliating to human ambition, and more inſtructive to human grandeur, than almoſt any, which hiſtory hath produced. Here the fallen pride of Woolſey retreated from the inſults of the world. All his viſions of ambition were now gone; his pomp; and pageantry; and crouded levees. On this ſpot he told the liſtening monks, the ſole attendants of his dying hour, as they ſtood around his pallet, that he was come to lay his bones among them: and gave that pathetic teſtimony to the truth, and joys of religion, which preaches beyond a thouſand lectures. "If I had ſerved God as faithfully as I ſerved the king, he would not thus have forſaken my old age."

The death of Woolſey would make a fine moral picture; if the hand of any maſter could give the pallid features of the dying ſtateſman that chagrin, that remorſe, thoſe pangs of [249] anguiſh, which, in theſe laſt bitter moments of his life, poſſeſſed him.

The point might be taken, when the monks are adminiſtring the comforts of religion, which the deſpairing prelate cannot feel. The ſubject requires a gloomy apartment; which a ray through a Gothic window might juſt en⯑lighten; throwing it's force chiefly on the principal figure; and dying away on the reſt. The appendages of the piece need only be few, and ſimple; little more than the crozier, and red hat, to mark the cardinal, and tell the ſtory.

This is not the only piece of Engliſh hiſtory, which is illuſtrated in this ancient town.— Here the houſe is ſtill ſhewn, where Richard III paſſed the night, before the battle of Boſ⯑worth: and there is a ſtory of him, ſtill preſerved in the corporation-records, as we were informed by our conductor, (who did not however appear to be a man of deep eru⯑dition) which illuſtrates the caution and dark⯑neſs of that prince's character.—It was his cuſtom to carry, among the baggage of his camp, a cumberſome, wooden bed, which he [250] pretended was the only bed he could ſleep in. Here he contrived a ſecret receptacle for his treaſure, which lay concealed under a weight of timber. After the fatal day, on which Richard fell, the earl of Richmond entered Leiceſter with his victorious troops. The friends of Richard were pillaged; but the bed was neglected by every plunderer, as uſeleſs lumber.—The owner of the houſe afterwards diſcovering the hoard, became ſuddenly rich, without any viſible cauſe. He bought lands; and at length (as our intelligencer informed us) arrived at the dignity of being mayor of Leiceſter. Many years afterwards, his widow, who had been left in great affluence, was murdered for her wealth by a ſervant maid, who had been privy to the affair: and at the trial of this woman, and her accomplices, the whole tranſaction came to light.

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SECT. XXXI.

FROM Leiceſter the country ſtill conti⯑nues flat and woody; ſtretching out into meadows, paſtures, and common fields. The horizon, on every ſide, is generally terminated by ſpires. Oftener than once we were able to count ſix, or ſeven adorning the limits of one circular view.

Of all the countries in England, this is the place for that noble ſpecies of diverſion, to which the inventive genius of our young ſportſ⯑men hath given the name of ſteeple-hunting. In a dearth of game, the chaſſieurs draw up in a body, and pointing to ſome conſpicuous ſteeple, ſet off, in full ſpeed towards it, over hedge and ditch. He who is ſo happy, as to arrive firſt, receives equal honour, it is ſaid, [252] as if he had come in foremoſt, at the death of the fox.

In theſe plains, as rich, as they are unpic⯑tureſque, we had nothing to obſerve, but the numerous herds of cattle, and flocks of ſheep, which graze them: and in the deficiency of other objects, we amuſed ourſelves with the various forms of theſe animals, and their moſt agreeable combinations.

The horſe, in itſelf, is certainly a nobler animal, than the cow. His form is more elegant; and his ſpirit gives fire and grace to his actions. But in a pictureſque light the cow has undoubtedly the advantage; and is every way better ſuited to receive the graces of the pencil.

In the firſt place, the lines of the horſe are round and ſmooth; and admit little va⯑riety: whereas the bones of the cow are high, and vary the line, here and there, by a ſquare⯑neſs, which is very pictureſque. There is a greater proportion alſo of concavity in them; the lines of the horſe being chiefly convex.

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[253]But is not the lean, worn-out horſe, whoſe bones are ſtaring, as pictureſque as the cow? In a degree it is; but we do not with plea⯑ſure admit the idea of beauty into any deficient form. Prejudice, even in ſpite of us, rather revolts againſt ſuch an admiſſion, however pictureſque.

Nor are the lines only of the cow more pictureſque, it has the advantage alſo in the filling up of thoſe lines. If the horſe be ſleek eſpecially, and have, what the jockies call, a fine coat, the ſmoothneſs of the ſur⯑face is not ſo well adapted to receive the ſpirited touches of the pencil, as the rougher form and coat of the cow. The very action of licking herſelf, which is ſo common among cows, throws the hair, when it is long, into different feathery flakes; and gives it thoſe ſtrong touches, which are indeed the very touches of the pencil.—Cows are commonly the moſt pictureſque in the months of April, and May, when the old hair is coming off. There is a contraſt between the rougher, and [254] ſmoother parts of the coat; and often alſo a pleaſing variety of greyiſh tints, blended with others of a richer hue. We obſerve this too in colts, when we ſee them in a ſtate of nature.

But the cow is not only better adapted to receive the ſpirited touches of the pencil, it is better adapted alſo to receive the beauties of light. The horſe, like a piece of ſmooth garden-ground, receives it in a gradual ſpread: the cow, like the abruptneſs of a rugged country, receives it in bold catches. And tho in large objects a gradation of light is one of the great ſources of beauty; yet, in a ſmall object, it has not commonly ſo pleaſing an effect, as ariſes from ſmart, catching lights.

The colour of the cow alſo is often more pictureſque. That of the horſe is generally uniform. Whereas the tints of the cow fre⯑quently play into each other; a dark head melting into lighter ſides; and theſe again being ſtill darker than the hinder parts. Thoſe are always the moſt beautiful, which are thus []

[255] tinted with dark colours, harmoniouſly ſteal⯑ing into lighter. Here and there a few ſmall white ſpots may add a beauty; but if they run into large blotches, and make a harſh termi⯑nation between the dark, and light colour, they are diſagreeable. The full black alſo, and full red, have little variety in themſelves; tho in a group all this unpleaſant colouring may harmonize.

In the character, and general form of cows, as well as of horſes, there are many degrees of beauty and deformity.

The character of the cow is marked chiefly in the head. An open, or contracted fore⯑head; a long or a ſhort viſage; the twiſt of a horn; or the colour of an eyebrow; will totally alter the character, and give a ſour, or an agreeable air to the countenance. Nor is the head of this animal more characteriſtic, than it is adapted to receive all the graces of the pencil.

With regard to the general form of the cow, we are not indeed ſo exact, as in that of the horſe. The points and proportions of the horſe are ſtudied, and determined with [256] ſo much exactneſs, that a ſmall deviation ſtrikes the eye. In the form of the cow, we are not ſo learned. If deformity be avoided, it is enough. There are two faults particu⯑larly in the line of a cow, a hog-back, and a ſinking rump, which are it's moſt uſual ble⯑miſhes. If it be free from theſe, and have an harmonious colouring, and a pleaſant cha⯑racter, it cannot well be diſagreeable.

The bull and the cow differ more in character and form, than the horſe and the mare. They are caſt in different moulds. The ſourneſs of the head; the thickneſs and convexity of the neck; the heavineſs of the cheſt, and ſhoul⯑ders; the ſmoothneſs of the hip-bones; and the lightneſs of the hind-quarters, are always found in the bull; and rarely in the cow.

The ſheep is as beautiful an animal, as the cow; and as well adapted to receive the graces of painting. Tho it want the variety of co⯑louring; yet there is a ſoftneſs in it's fleece, a richneſs, a delicacy of touch, and a ſweet [257] tenderneſs of ſhadow, which make it a very pleaſing object.

The ſheep is beautiful in every ſtate, except juſt when it has paſt under the ſheers. But it ſoon recovers it's beauty; and in a few weeks loſes it's furrowed ſides, and appears again in a pictureſque dreſs. It's beauty continues, as the wool increaſes. What it loſes in ſhape, it gains in the feathered flaki⯑neſs of it's fleece. Nor is it the leaſt beau⯑tiful, when it's ſides are a little ragged— when part of it's ſhape is diſcovered, and part hid beneath the wool. Berghem de⯑lights to repreſent it in this ragged form.

In the characters, and forms of ſheep we obſerve little difference. We ſometimes ſee an unpleaſing viſage; and ſometimes the diſ⯑agreeable rounding line, which we have juſt called the hog-back: but in an animal ſo ſmall, the eye is leſs apt to inveſtigate parts: it rather reſts on the whole appearance; and the more ſo, as ſheep, being particularly gre⯑garious, are generally conſidered as objects in a group.

[258]The obſervations I have made with regard to the beauty of theſe animals, are confirmed by the practice of all the great maſters in ani⯑mal life, Berghem, Coyp, Potter and others; who always preferred them to horſes and deer, in adorning their rural ſcenes.—It is an ad⯑ditional pleaſure therefore, that ſuch animals, as are the moſt uſeful, are likewiſe the moſt ornamental.

Having thus examined the forms of theſe pictureſque animals, we ſpent ſome time alſo in examining their moſt agreeable combina⯑tions.

Cattle are ſo large, that when they orna⯑ment a fore-ground, a few are ſufficient. Two will hardly combine. Three make a good group—either united—or when one is a little removed from the other two. If you increaſe the group beyond three; one, or more, in proportion, muſt neceſſarily be a little detached. This detachment prevents hea⯑vineſs, and adds variety. It is the ſame prin⯑ciple []

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[259] applied to cattle, which we before ap⯑plied to mountains, and other objects^*.

The ſame rules in grouping may be applied to diſtant cattle; only here you may introduce a greater number.

In grouping, contraſted attitudes ſhould be ſtudied. Recumbency ſhould be oppoſed to a ſtanding poſture; fore-ſhortened figures, to lengthened; and one colour, to another. White blotches may inliven a group, tho in a ſingle animal, we obſerved, they are offen⯑ſive.

Sheep come under the ſame rules; only the fore-ground, as well as the diſtance, ad⯑mits a larger number of theſe ſmaller ani⯑mals. In paſtoral ſubjects ſheep are often ornamental, when dotted about the ſides of diſtant hills. Here little more is neceſſary, than to guard againſt regular ſhapes—lines; circles; and croſſes; which large flocks of ſheep ſometimes form. In combining them however, or, rather ſcattering them, the [260] painter may keep in view the principle, we have already ſo often inculcated. They may be huddled together, in one, or more large bodies; from which little groups of different ſizes, in proportion to the larger, ſhould be detached.

In favour of the doctrine I have here ad⯑vanced of the ſubordinate group, I cannot forbear adding the authority of a great maſter, whoſe thorough acquaintance with every part of painting hath often, in the courſe of this work, been obſerved.

Aeneas, on his landing upon the coaſt of Africa, ſees from the higher ground a herd of deer feeding in a valley; and Virgil, who, in the ſlighteſt inſtance, ſeems ever to have had before his eyes, ideas of pictureſque beauty, introduces the herd, juſt as a painter would have done. From the larger group he de⯑taches a ſubordinate one:

I need not conceal, that ſome commentators have found in theſe three ſtags, which the []

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[261] followed, the poet's inclination to ariſto⯑cracy; and that others have ſuppoſed, he meant a compliment to the triumvirate. It is the commentator's buſineſs to find out a recondite meaning: common ſenſe is ſatisfied with what is moſt obvious.

It may be obſerved further, that cattle and ſheep mix very agreeably together; as alſo young animals, and old. Lambs and calves fill up little interſtices in a group, and aſſiſt the com⯑bination.—I may add, that human figures alſo combine very agreeably with animals. Indeed they generally give a grace to a group, as they draw it to an apex.

I ſcarce need to apologize for this long digreſſion, as it is ſo naturally ſuggeſted by the country, through which we paſſed; and ſo cloſely connected with the ſubject, which we treat. He who ſtudies landſcape, will find himſelf very deficient, if he hath not paid great attention to the choice, and com⯑bination, both of animal and human figures.

SECT. XXXII.

LEAVING the plains of Leiceſterſhire, we entered the county of Northampton, which aſſumes a new face. The ground begins to riſe and fall, and diſtances to open.

Lord Strafford's gardens, extending a con⯑ſiderable way on the left, are a great ornament to the country.

Lord Hallifax's improvements ſucceed. They make little appearance from the road: but the road itſelf is ſo beautiful, that it requires no aid. It paſſes through ſpacious lanes, adorned on each ſide by a broad, irregular border of graſs; and winds through hedge-rows of full-grown oak, which the ſeveral turns of the [264] road form into clumps. You have both a good fore-ground, and beautiful views into a fine country, through the boles of the trees. The undreſſed ſimplicity, and native beauty, of ſuch lanes as theſe, exceed the walks of the moſt finiſhed garden.

From Newport-Pagnel the country ſtill continues pleaſant. Before we reach Wooburn, we have a good view of Wooburn-abbey, and of the ſurrounding woods; which deco⯑rate the landſcape.

Wooburn-park is an extenſive woody ſcene, and capable of much improvement. We rode through it: but could not ſee the duke of Bedford's houſe; which is ſhewn only on particular days.—But the diſappointment was not great. The furniture of all fine houſes is much the ſame; and as for pictures (ſuch is the prevalence of names, and faſhion) that ſometimes what are called the beſt collections, ſcarce repay the ceremonies you are obliged to go through in getting a ſight of them.

[265]After we leave Wooburn, the views con⯑tinue ſtill pleaſant; till we meet the chalky hills of Dunſtable. Theſe would disfigure the lovelieſt ſcene. But when we have paſſed theſe glaring heights, the country revives: the riſing grounds are covered with wood, and verdure; and the whole looks pleaſing. About Redburn particularly the country is beautiful; and is thrown into diſtance by large oaks, which over-hang the road.

St. Albans' church, and the ruins about it, make an immenſe pile; of which ſome parts are pictureſque. There is a mixture too of brick and ſtone in the building, which often makes a pleaſing contraſt in the tints. Tho there are many remains of beautiful Gothic in this church; there are more deformities of Saxon architecture; particularly the tower, which is heavy, and diſagreeably ornamented. The little ſpire, which ariſes from it, is very abſurd.—Within the church is a monument near the altar, of very curious Gothic work⯑manſhip.

[266]Among the numerous inhabitants of the ſubterraneous regions of this church, lies that celebrated prince, remembered by the name of good duke Humphrey; the youngeſt bro⯑ther of Henry V. He was put to death by a faction, in the ſucceeding reign; and was buried ſomewhere in this abbey; but his grave was unknown. Having lain concealed near three centuries, he came again to light, not many years ago. By an accident, a large vault was diſcovered, in which he was found ſole tenant; wrapped in lead, and immerſed in a pickle, which had preſerved him in tole⯑rable order.

Leaving St. Alban's, we paſt the ruins of Verulam; which was raiſed in Roman times, and deſtroyed in Saxon. As it was never reſtored, very little now remains of that ancient town. In one part, about a quarter of a mile from the road, a fragment has the appearance of an old caſtle; but the veſtiges of the wall run at leaſt a mile.

[267]Beyond Verulam the country grows pleaſant. Soon after you paſs Barnet, the road enters Finchley-common. The diſtance is woody, interſected by an extenſive plain, which is connected with it by a ſprinkling of ſcattered trees. The parts are large; and the ſcenery not unpictureſque.

The firſt view of Highgate-hill would make a good diſtance, if it were properly ſupported by a fore-ground. The view from it, is very grand; but is diſtracted by a multiplicity of objects.

After this, the country is gone. London comes on apace; and all thoſe diſguſting ideas, with which it's great avenues abound—brick-kilns ſteaming with offenſive ſmoke—ſewers and ditches ſweating with filth—heaps of col⯑lected ſoil, and ſtinks of every denomination— clouds of duſt, riſing and vaniſhing, from agi⯑tated wheels, purſuing each other in rapid mo⯑tion—or taking ſtationary poſſeſſion of the [268] road, by becoming the atmoſphere of ſome cumberſome, ſlow-moving waggon—villages without rural ideas—trees, and hedge-rows without a tinge of green—and fields and mea⯑dows without paſturage, in which lowing bullocks are crouded together, waiting for the ſhambles; or cows penned, like hogs, to feed on grains.—It was an agreeable relief to get through this ſucceſſion of noiſome objects, which did violence to all the ſenſes by turns: and to leave behind us the buſy hum of men; ſtealing from it through the quiet lanes of Surry; which leading to no great mart, or general rendezvous, afford calmer retreats on every ſide, than can eaſily be found in the neighbourhood of ſo great a town.

July 3, 1772.