PREFACE.
No part of the world possesses so many charms for the contemplative mind as the admirable scenery of our English Lake District. None can furnish so wide a field for the excursions of a playful imagination, as those peaceful glens which are formed by the fantastic sweeps of our northern mountains.
The lover of nature, whose delight it is to traverse this romantic region, beholds here scenes the most lovely opening out on every hand. Mountains and dales wild enough, in all conscience, amidst which are hidden placid, silver lakes, embosomed in the most delicious, fairyland valleys, diversified with beautiful mansions, and snow-white cottages, nestling in all the luxuriance of their native woods and coppices.
It has been justly said that the district from Lancaster, and the Bay of Morecambe, to the borders of Scotland, includes in its territory the richest valleys, the wildest mountains, the dreariest moorlands, the greenest meadows, the most barren rocks, the thickest and most verdant woods, the sweetest towns and villages, the smoothest rivers, which the salmon loves to haunt; the most turbulent mountain streams, in whose dark pools, here and there, the speckled trout finds a dwelling-place; the gayest garden flowers, the loveliest heaths that ever grew wild, high hills, deep mines, noble families, and the loveliest maidens of the land.
Whether we contemplate the sublime grandeur of its mountains, or listen to the melodious murmurs of the distant waterfalls, or meditate along the margins of its woodland streams in the evening's calm, we must be enchanted with the scene, and feel fully prepared to exclaim with the poet:
"Lives there a man with soul so dead,
As never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!"
The Lake District has long been regarded as the romantic "classic ground" of England. The Tour of Gray and others formerly, and the works and residence of some of the most celebrated poets of our day, have thrown a "sacred halo" around it in the eye of the stranger, endeared as it is by living and departed genius; and have exalted the enthusiasm with which the visitor surveys a region that embodies more variety of charming scenery, and of picturesque magnificence, than an equal space of our own or of any other country. In extent, indeed, the sister kingdoms may surpass it, but not in beauty; and, save in their "diadem of snow," its mountains may be said to rival the sublimity of the Alps, without their vastness. Where, in all Europe, in all the wide world, can more lovely and enchanting spots be found than are embosomed amongst the lakes and mountains of Cumberland and Westmorland?
The increased and increasing facilities afforded for visiting the unrivalled scenery of the Lake district, naturally excite a corresponding desire to supply the tourist with every incident connected with this interesting locality.
The great number of popular publications as Guides and Tours to the Lakes, which, at different intervals, have been eagerly received, is a striking proof of the patriotic interest that attaches to the district. These, though they are, many of them, replete with valuable information, and render the traveller much necessary aid, are most of them deficient in their allusion to the history and traditions of some of the more remarkable sites of this romantic region.
To supply this deficiency, in part, is the object of the present Work. The interest of a country abounding in spots the most attractive in themselves, is greatly enhanced by the local associations attaching to it, its connection with bygone days, be they of the historical or legendary kind; for,
"Holier seems the ground
To him who catches on the gale
The spirit of a mournful tale,
Embodied in the sound."
In the following pages are narrated a few of the romantic stories the country affords. The district, it is true, is not particularly rich in historical incidents; nor has it been the scene of many great events; yet, it has been justly said by a popular writer, what it wants in history it more than makes up in poetry.
True, it may appear to be richer in scenery than in legend, and in poetry than romance; but, the fact is, its legends and romance have been neglected. The district is highly suggestive of both, but it has had no Sir Walter Scott to make the most of them. A part of the land so famous for beauty and for song, independent of its Border proximity, is one peculiarly favourable to the lovers of old legends; its atmosphere is one in which fancy most delights to soar and to hover, and it contains a mine of materials for romance yet almost untouched.
The fierce feuds and stormful outgoings of the adjoining Borders, are full of interest and of romance peculiar to themselves. "Battles have assailed the banks" of nearly every streamsome of the strongholds yet remain, wherein the mosstroopers, clad in steel from head to foot, issued forth in the morning lightthe hills are there, with the heath, across which they sped on gallant steeds, with lances outstretched, and gleaming helmetsthe paths are yet green amid the dun moor along which they drove their spoiland in solitary farm-houses, or lonely cottages, ancient dames may yet be met with, who can repeat, in song or story, the wild deeds which their mothers saw, and their sires performed.
Once there were more castles than churches in the country, to defend it from the Scot; and though these castles now, for the most part, stand solitary monuments of past ages and conditions of things, yet around them still linger the fame of heroic deeds, and the twilight melancholy of once absorbing woes. Besides its many other interesting monuments of antiquity, 'tis not without its aged monasteries and "ivy-mantled towers."
It has been truly said the spirit of romance is departing from the land in which we dwell. Our forests are felled where the freebooters of former days flourishedthe fish are chased from our lakes by steamboatsthe hills of heath, where the deer roved, are enclosed, and ploughed and harrowed over periodicallythe green slopes and dusky dells, where nobles chased the roe, and the sunny glades of the forest into which they emerged, with gallant trains and bridles ringing, and their hunting gear glittering in the glorious sunlight of the olden timeall these are gone; and as we wander over the land, we find mostly drains and furrows, stone dykes, and straight fences, where the heather hung its blue bells unseen from year to year, save by the gorcock or the hare, or the myriads of wild bees that circled round the breathing flowers, and, humming within their tiny cells, sought out the sweet treasures which nature had hidden there. Our castles and abbeys are in ruinsour Border-keeps are mouldering to the groundthe battle grounds have been torn up by the ploughour briery glens and leafy shaws, consecrated by immortal song to past loves, have been ruthlessly desecratedour ancient sports are at an endwe are a changed peopleand the olden time is truly gone.
Let it never be thought that we rejoice not in the present because we regret the past. We feel, and are thankful for the blessings and comforts which the improved arts of the age impart to us; we exult in the progress of science throughout the land; we can even look with complacency upon a railroad, though it intersect, with its prosaic line, the woodlands where we first felt the poetry of lifethough the very hawthorn, beneath which we breathed our vows of eternal fidelity to her who now lies nightly in our bosom, has been rooted up to prepare a path for it.
