Ulpha—Cockley Beck—The Sunken Graves—Dale-head—“The Stepping Stones”—Hinging House—The Clan Tyson—Anecdotes—T’ Birks Brig—Remarks on Scenery, and Quotations—Seathwaite Beck—Miss Martineau on the Church and Parsonage—Newfield—Entertainment for Man and Beast—Dan Birkett—Walla-barrow Crag—Stoneythwaite—Mr Wordsworth’s Anecdote—Character of Scenery.

As you pursue your rugged way down the vale, you at length come in sight of a group of buildings, which offers to you, as the gibbet did to the castaway mariner, the comforting assurance that you are still a sojourner in a civilised country—a matter on which you were beginning to feel uneasily dubious. It is the onstead of a large sheep farm, well known by the designation of Black Hall, which forms the most northerly portion of the Chapelry of Ulpha—a wild tract of country extending for many lonely miles along the Cumberland side of the Duddon, deriving its outlandish looking appellation from the same royal personage who is said to have accorded the honour of bearing his name, as part of theirs, to the town of Ulverstone and the Lake of Ullswater, the old Saxon Monarch Ulfo or Ulphus (some call him one and some the other), who, for anything that I know to the contrary, was one of the Kings of the Heptarchy. Probably, when I mention this, you will remember that Scott, in the Bridal of Triermain, tells of the Baron’s Page, when sent by his lord to enquire at the Sage of Lyulph’s Tower whether the fair apparition in his dream was “an airy thing” or of the earth earthy—

Push on, and, as you round the elbow of the hill, you are farther cheered by the nearer prospect of another domicile on the Lancashire side of the brook; that is the residence of Mr Daniel Tyson, the worthy proprietor and occupant of Cockley Beck, the name of the house and farm being derived from the stream that rushes along its north-western boundary, and said to signify “a winding or rugged stream;” others say its name is derived from the former condition or character of the bridge here which used to be “Cocklety,” a term implying “a daring contempt of danger and accommodation” on the part of its architect; others, again, say that the name of the brook ought to be Cockling or Cackling Beck, because the noise it occasionally makes in its stoney bed may, by the aid of a leetle imagination, be likened to that by which a hen announces to all concerned that she has just got safely quit of an egg.

The vale of Seathwaite now assumes a more attractive aspect; your pleasantest road lies through the farm-yard of Cockley Beck, and that hearty-looking elderly man, the uniform cherry-colour of whose honest phiz bespeaks exposure to many a biting mountain blast, is Daniel Tyson himself. If you are disposed to rest and chat awhile, you may lead him, nothing loath, into conversation, and if you do so, I fancy that some of his communications will surprise, if they don’t interest you; for instance, in allusion to some skins you may notice hung up to dry, he will inform you that the weasels about Cockley Beck have a fashion, on the advent of winter, of CONJECTURES.changing their colour from brown to white, resuming their more sombre coloured coats on the return of spring; a fact in local zoology of which I incline to imagine you have not hitherto been cognisant. He will also tell you, should anything suggest the subject, that, in one of his pastures, a little up the beck, there existed, till within the last few years, a number of graves arranged in rows, but which now, either from the sinking of the soil, or the growth of the surrounding moss, &c., have become level with the adjacent surface, and all distinct traces of them obliterated. What rather adds to the interest excited by these mysterious tombs is, that there is no history, authentic, traditional, or legendary, to account for their existence—thus affording a capital field for those imaginative geniuses who love to speculate upon such mysteries or to frame what maybe awanting for their satisfactory development. With me the favourite probability in this instance is, that a skirmish, tolerably fatal, has been fought in this sequestered nook during the progress of some of the horrible wars that, from time to time, have saddened our merry land, and that the slain have been buried here where they fell; but, whether the supposed skirmish was fought between the factions of York and Lancaster about the time poor King Henry sought and found, for a season, a house of refuge in this vicinity; or between the Cavaliers and Roundheads, when the Flemings of Conistone stood out for Church and King; or between the Dalesmen themselves and a stray party of Moss-trooping Scots, who, “in the old riding times,” occasionally pushed their predatory incursions even into these poor valleys, neither Mr Tyson nor I will inform you, for, as I said before, history, authentic and apocryphal, is silent on the subject, Daniel is a man of verity, and I am but a lame hand at invention; therefore you need not hope for even a fabricated story (which, after all, would be better than none), in connection with this now effaced souvenir of the good old times.

But it is time you were taking leave of Cockley Beck, and as you are doing so, you may perceive at the foot of the heights to your left a number of rubbish heaps, the result of a mining speculation set a going and kept up by some spirited and very persevering gentlemen chiefly resident in Ulverstone. You now canter along a decent road through flat meadows where, if it be the season, the lads and lasses of the dale are busily engaged in securing the hay-crop and carrying it home, probably on horseback, for the old farmers here have not as yet begun to use carts for that purpose. On this road, too, there are “oceans of gates” to open, the frequent recurrence of which becomes rather troublesome, should your pony not be all the steadier. You very soon arrive at another farm, called Dalehead; but, by the bye, just before you reach that, you had better turn off to the right by a track that soon brings you to the river side, and take a look at the stepping stones by which the Duddon is crossed at this point. When you have looked at them, you seem to wonder what it may be that should entitle them to be noticed more than any other stepping stones in the country. I'll tell you. Mr Wordsworth says they are—

and so on. It certainly does require a poet’s eye to discover the title of these stones to be made the subject of two whole sonnets of fourteen lines apiece; and apropos to that, I once, at an evening party near Hawkshead, overheard a gentleman ask another, “Have you read Wordsworth’s sonnets on the Duddon?” “No.” “O then,” said the first, “if you ever do read them, don’t believe them! We were there last week, and we didn’t find anything as he has described it.” Now though this advice is entitled to some respect, inasmuch as the giver is an amateur painter and musician of high excellence and also a very keen angler, which last a respected friend of mine would call the most intellectual and poetical pursuit of the three, I cannot quite coincide with it, and I shall soon make you admit that, although the vale of Seathwaite may not be all that the Laureate, in the customary exercise of poetic licence, may seem to make it, yet is it well worthy a visit from any one with the smallest pretensions to a taste for the picturesque.

Leaving Dalehead, you soon come to another farm-house, noticeable as presenting, in strong contrast to its dingy-looking, though prettily placed neighbours, a clean and cheerful, because whitewashed, exterior, a veracious index of the comfort, tidiness, and hospitality that characterise its interior. It is called Hinging House, and is the residence of another of the clan Tyson, the members of which are so numerous in this, and the sister vales Eskdale, Wastdale, The Langdales, &c., that in case of need, their chief, if they’d had one, might levy a regiment of his own name, as was done, if I remember aright, by one of the Highland Chieftains, and a regiment, too, that would be scarcely surpassable even by the Queen’s household troops as regards the strength, stature, figures and features of the rank and file. In this dale alone there are, zoologically speaking, some magnificent specimens, both male and female, of the genus homo amongst the Tysons: and, indeed, the same may be said truly enough of the Walkers, Dawsons, Birketts, and the bearers of other Seathwaite surnames.

The great number of families bearing the name of Tyson renders it necessary for their neighbours and themselves to adopt the custom of distinguishing individuals by the names of their residences, as Daniel of Cockley Beck, George of Black Hall, Harry o’ t’ Hinging House, and so on ad infinitum.

Not long ago, I had occasion to call at a house in Little Langdale, and the friend who accompanied me was joined, whilst waiting in the fold, by a fine ruddy and lively little fellow who had not then attained the dignity of his first breeches. He was, by way of starting a conversation, accosted with the question most common under such circumstances, “What is your name?” The answer was ready, “Jimmy o’ t’ Fell-foot!” “What other name have you?” “I have nin!” and neither his questioner nor his grown-up brother, who came up during the conversation, could prevail upon the youngster to assert his right to any other designation than “Jimmy o’ t’ Fell-foot.”

Another anecdote illustrating the power of this custom and then we'll march on. Mr Tyson, the much respected incumbent of Seathwaite, had, and perhaps still has a son settled in London, and a worthy statesman, one of his parishioners, having business requiring his presence in town, was furnished with Mr Thomas Tyson’s address, which, with some difficulty, he contrived to make out, and greatly astonished the servant who opened the door to his knock by asking, in a dialect very distinctly not that of a Cockney, “If ye pleese, does Tom o’ t’ Priest’s leeve here?”

Continue your course down the vale, again passing through the farm-yard and holding on along the foot of the fell by a road which has become somewhat more rugged, you, by and bye, re-approach the river and arrive at the Birks Bridge—the which I may guarantee to be much better worth an examination than those paltry stepping stones that disappointed you so grievously. The Duddon, for some distance above and below this bridge, considerably narrows and deepens, and loses the general rapidity of its current, passing through a chasm, A SLIGHTED BEAUTY.the jagged rocky walls of which rise perpendicularly to a considerable height above the surface, and sink to a depth a good deal below the level of the river’s bed above and below the chasm (whether this be “the FaËry Chasm” which Mr Wordsworth has pressed into his service as a subject for one of his sonnets, not knowing, can’t say, but it may perhaps do as well for it as any other). At a point where opposite portions of these rocky walls jut out so as to render the space between extremely narrow, the little arch of the bridge springs boldly across the void, the jutting portions of rock forming piers more substantial and durable, barring earthquakes, than any artificial structure for the same purpose in the kingdom. The water on the lower side of the bridge is still and very deep, I should say nearly two fathoms, and bears a beautiful tinge of faint blue, but is so clear that, if you happened to wear blue spectacles, you might very well fancy that you were staring down into a river course destitute of water. The best view of this little bridge and its picturesque natural adjuncts is to be gained by fastening your steed to the gate at its further end, and descending to a little platform of rock nearly on a level with the surface of the water about twenty yards below the bridge, and, when there, I think you will agree with me that this neglected atom of scenery is a full compensation for the fatigue of even a longer and rougher ride than you have undertaken on this joyful occasion, as Saunders Mucklebackit’s mother called her grandson’s funeral.

Remount your Bucephalus and canter away down the dale past the farms of Troutwell and Browside, through scenery which suggests a couplet from “The Lady of the Lake,” for assuredly

THE “CHERISHED” OF DUDDON.applies with equal propriety to Seathwaite as to the glorious scenery around Loch Katrine. As you approach the farm of Nettleslack, you must make up your mind to quit either the river or your poney, for the road diverges from the Duddon, which now assumes a course where

But you must take my word for all this, for you cannot “wind 'twixt rock and wave” on horseback, therefore keep the good road, whilst you have it. Cross Seathwaite Beck by Nettleslack Bridge, and push on for the little Inn at Newfield, to reach which you must pass between the Chapel and the Parsonage. Behind the latter, you may notice Seathwaite Beck, a tributary of the Duddon nearly as large as itself, which rushes impetuously and noisily along—

The “torrent white” looks exceedingly black and gloomy under the shadow of these dense overhanging branches, causing the numerous patches of snow-like foam to look “than snow more white” by the contrast.

Of Seathwaite Chapel Miss Martineau says, “when the traveller reaches the Church, he finds it little loftier or larger than the houses near. But for the bell, he would hardly have noticed it for a Church in approaching: but when he has reached it, there is the porch, and the little grave-yard, and the spreading yews encircled by the seat of stones and turf, where the early comers sit and rest, till the bell calls them in. A little dial on a whitened post in the middle of the enclosure, tells the time to the neighbours who have no clocks.” Miss Martineau may undertake to supply all “the neighbours who have no clock” with that essential article of domestic respectability, for I can answer for it, there is no house in Seathwaite without one. “Just outside the wall,” Miss M. says, “is a white cottage, so humble that the stranger thinks it cannot be the parsonage: yet the climbing roses and glittering evergreens, and clear lattices, and pure uncracked walls, look as if it might be.”

I have a good deal to say in connection with this same Church and Parsonage, but I suppose it must be deferred, for after your long ride you must be somewhat athirst, and an unromantic feeling of emptiness most likely renders you insensible to the charms of scenery as well as sentiment. Your pony, who has been here before, has for sometime shewn an impatient consciousness of the proximity of Edward Stables’ corn-chest, and, in fair time of day, here you are at the door of his public, which, though of rather unpromising exterior, has the wherewithal inside to furnish forth a plain, but plentiful, savoury, and to a man, in your circumstances, satisfactory feed—

I am not sure that I quote correctly, but you will find that the facts are correctly given. If it be about the end of the week, you will probably fall in with my friend Dan Birkett, “t’ heead Captain of Seeathwaite Tarn-heead Mines,” ANTIQUITIES AND ANECDOTE.who will not require much pressing to take a glass of grog, and whose varied conversation may amuse you, whilst your ham and eggs are being cooked. Amongst other matters, he will tell you that, in the Longhouse Close, on the side of Walna Scar, with which you shall be made acquainted by and bye, are to be seen the remains of an ancient British town, consisting of the ruins of several stone-built huts, and a large enclosure, where Dan says they secured their flocks from the wolves: he also says that they wore no clothes except a coat, but painted their legs blue, and lived out upon the bare hill-sides, that they might preserve the bottoms, which were then covered with wood, for hunting in.

Whilst you are taking your ease at your Inn, you may note from the yard thereof a very fine, precipitous and rocky height upon the farther side of the stream, which it is impossible to pass by unnoticed. It bears the fine rolling name of Walla-barrow Crag, and, upon its further side, the remains of a Roman castrum are said to exist, and, though I, when I made the attempt, was unable to trace them, they may be there for all that. Looking along the heights to the south of Walla-barrow Crag, you will be struck with the appearance of trees and

indicating the situation of a farm called Stoneythwaite, perched like an eagle’s nest on the summit of the precipice, with some of its fields upon ledges half-way down.

“The laurel-honouring Laureate” says, respecting this portion of Duddon vale,—“The chaotic aspect of the scene is well marked by the expression of a stranger, who strolled out while dinner was preparing, and, at his return, being asked by his host, “What way he had been wandering?” replied, “As far as it is finished!”

The wild is the prevailing characteristic of Seathwaite scenery; and, at the same time, it is invested with an air of quietness and repose which prevents its wildness approaching the savage or terrible, though many distinct parts of it, as well as its general aspect, are fully entitled to the epithet of sublime.