Tales and Legends of the English Lakes Part 7

But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief His absent brother still was at his heart.

And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found (A practice till this time unknown to him) That often, rising from his bed at night, He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping He sought his brother Leonard.--You are moved; Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you, I judged you most unkindly.

LEONARD.

But this youth How did he die at last?

PRIEST.

One sweet May morning (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd lambs, With two or three companions, whom their course Of occupation led from height to height Under a cloudless sun, till he, at length, Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge The humour of the moment, lagg'd behind.

You see yon precipice;--it wears the shape Of a vast building made of many crags; And in the midst is one particular rock That rises like a column from the vale, Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar.

Upon its aery summit crown'd with heath, The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, Lay stretch'd at ease; but, pa.s.sing by the place On their return, they found that he was gone.

No ill was fear'd; but one of them by chance Entering, when evening was far spent, the house Which at that time was James's home, there learned That n.o.body had seen him all that day; The morning came, and still he was unheard of; The neighbours were alarm'd, and to the brook Some hasten'd, some towards the lake; ere noon They found him at the foot of that same rock-- Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after I buried him, poor youth, and there he lies!

LEONARD.

And that then is his grave!--Before his death You say that he saw many happy years?

PRIEST.

Ay, that he did--

LEONARD.

And all went well with him?--

PRIEST.

If he had one, the youth had twenty homes.

LEONARD.

And you believe, then, that his mind was easy?

PRIEST.

Yes, long before he died, he found that time Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless His thoughts were turn'd on Leonard's luckless fortune, He talk'd about him with a cheerful love.

LEONARD.

He could not come to an unhallow'd end!

PRIEST.

Nay, G.o.d forbid!--You recollect I mention'd A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured That, as the day was warm, he had lain down Upon the gra.s.s, and waiting for his comrades, He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep He to the margin of the precipice Had walk'd, and from the summit had fallen headlong.

And so, no doubt, he perished: at the time, We guess, that in his hands he must have held His shepherd's staff: for midway in the cliff It had been caught; and there for many years It hung, and moulder'd there.

The priest here ended-- The stranger would have thank'd him, but he felt A gushing from his heart, that took away The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; And Leonard, when they reach'd the churchyard gate, As the priest lifted up the latch, turned round, And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"

The vicar did not hear the words: and now, Pointing towards the cottage, he entreated That Leonard would partake his homely fare; The other thank'd him with a fervent voice, But added, that, the evening being calm, He would pursue his journey. So they parted.

It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short, And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd All that the priest had said: his early years Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes, And thoughts which had been his an hour before, All press'd on him with such a weight, that now This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd A place in which he could not bear to live: So he relinquish'd all his purposes.

He travell'd on to Egremont: and thence, That night, he wrote a letter to the priest, Reminding him of what had pa.s.s'd between them; And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, That it was from the weakness of his heart He had not dared to tell him who he was.

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now A seaman, a grey-headed mariner.

[2] This actually took place on Kidstow Pike, at the head of Hawes Water.

[3] The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the c.u.mberland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale.

The Leeza is a river which flows into the lake of Ennerdale; on issuing from the lake it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont.

EMMA; OR, THE MURDERED MAID.

A TRAGEDY OF THE LAKE DISTRICT.

On the death of Emma's father, she found herself, with a widowed mother, deprived, at one stroke, of nearly all the comforts, and the means of procuring them, which she had enjoyed during her father's lifetime. A small jointure of thirty pounds a-year was all that remained to her mother, for her father had died insolvent.

This thirty pounds a-year Emma thought might support her mother, if she could support herself. Determined to burden no one for her subsistence, and believing that humble servitude was, in the eyes of Heaven and of men, more honourable than a mean and degrading dependence on the bounty of friends for a precarious supply of our temporary wants.

Her mother strenuously opposed Emma's resolution of going to service.

She would subject herself to any privations, rather than her young and lovely daughter would be reduced to this severe necessity--she would work for hire--she would beg--she would borrow--she should almost steal, rather than Emma should be compelled to labour. Her mother's entreaties, however, so far from having the desired effect of preventing her going to service, only confirmed Emma in her previous resolution. Should she be a burden to her mother--to that mother who expressed so tender a solicitation for her welfare--who was rapidly descending the downhill of life--who had all her days been accustomed to the elegances of taste?

No, no; rather than take anything from her, she would add a little to her comforts; and a portion of her yearly wage should be set apart as a present to her mother.

The affectionate mother, who had never before parted a single day with her daughter, saw her set out to her place of service (a gentleman's family among the lakes, where her father had been upon terms of intimacy) with an aching heart. She felt as if she was parting with her for the last time; and required all the resolution she was mistress of to tear herself from her dear Emma. "Go," she said, "and take a mother's fondest, warmest blessing; and if you should find yourself unable to accomplish your resolution, or feel any inconvenience, return and share what Heaven has left us, with an affectionate mother. It is not much, Heaven knows; but I could doubly enjoy it, were it less, if I had you to share it." Emma a.s.sured her mother, that if any unforeseen difficulty occurred, she would instantly repair to her natal home; and cheered her with a promise of constantly writing. This pacified, but did not console her mother. She knew too well the independent spirit of her daughter to hope for her return, except on some awful emergency.

Time rolled on, and repeated letters, both from Emma and her mistress, a.s.sured the mother that all was well, and that Emma was healthy and happy. At length Emma sent the joyful intelligence that she would come over on Whitsun Sunday morning, and spend the week with her.

Emma arose, with buoyant spirits, packed up a small bundle of necessaries in a handkerchief, put her wages in her bosom, and set out to see and cheer her affectionate parent. The morning was extremely fine, and she amused herself with the bright and varied prospect, till the road, descending a steep hill, led her into a richly romantic valley. A copse of wood overhung the road, a huge rock formed the fence on that side next the wood, and seemed like a natural wall. Over the rock fell, in three or four unequal cascades, the stream of a brook which might be heard tumbling through the wood to a considerable distance. Close to the place where the water left the wood, one part of the rock shot up to an immense height, bearing no very distant resemblance to the ruins of an old castle. From a fissure in the rock grew the stump of an old oak, whose branches had apparently been lopped by the wind, except one, which, bending down almost to the stream, had escaped its ravages by its humble situation. On a large stone, in this romantic spot, Emma sat down to rest herself awhile, and slake her thirst at the stream.

Though Emma's heart did not entertain a thought but of the joy her mother would feel on receiving the first-fruits of her first wages, every bosom was not warmed by so generous an impulse. Sam the cow-lad at Emma's master's had ascertained that she had that day received her wages, and was gone to her mother's; and he instantly formed the resolution to rob the generous girl of the hard earned pittance. By a nearer route, over the hills, he sought to meet her in this solitary spot, where there was little possibility of being surprised in the action. While Emma was thus meditating on the happiness which she would soon feel in her mother's arms, Sam came up and commanded her to deliver up her money; she entreated him to leave her a little for a present to her mother, but the human fiend (and human fiends are the worst fiends), refused to leave her a farthing. He had secured the booty, and Emma was preparing to pursue her journey, when the horrid thought entered his head, that unless he added murder to his robbery, he would be liable to punishment for his crime. There was not a moment for deliberation; and the lovely, the young, the innocent Emma fell a corpse at the wretch's feet. Fear added wings to the speed of the villain, and he fled, as if from the face of heaven.

The day pa.s.sed on with the same calm serenity as if nothing had happened. Noon came to the widow's cottage but no Emma arrived. As the evening drew on the mother's unhappiness increased; and she set out to meet her daughter, for whose fate she felt most keenly, without being able to a.s.sign any cause. As the sun was sinking, amid a rich profusion of evening tints, which threw a dazzling l.u.s.tre over all the scene, the widow reached the vale where her murdered daughter slept her last long sleep. But the pencil alone can finish the picture--words are of no utility.

It would be superfluous to say that I would have the last picture sketched at the moment when the mother first discovers that it is the lifeless body of her daughter that lies stained with its own gore, that she is bending over. Cold must be that heart that would not feel the full force of such a piece. Poor would the richest landscape you ever drew appear, when compared with this.

It is strange that those who profess to have hearts so open to the beauties of nature, should reject the loveliest object in it. Adam, though placed in the midst of Paradise, was not content till Eve was added to its other beauties; nor would I ever draw a picture without such an enlivening object. Beside, in most of our fine sublime scenes about the lakes, we lose the princ.i.p.al zest of the piece by having nothing beautiful to contrast with the rugged. The more wild and terrible the scene I had to paint, the greater care would I take to introduce some lovely female form to mark the contrast; then

"Each would give each a double charm, Like pearls upon an Ethiop's arm."

HISTORICAL, POETICAL, AND ROMANTIC

a.s.sOCIATIONS OF CARLISLE.