Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/Kendal
KENDAL.
Kendal, the eldest child of Westmoreland,
With its white homes, and cheerful poplar shades,
And graceful bridges o'er the winding Ken,
And happy children playing in the streets,
Came pleasantly upon us.
So we paused,
Leaving the echo of the tiresome wheels,
Rejoiced, amid those rustic haunts to roam,
And grassy lanes.
There was an ancient church,
Dark-browed, and Saxon-arched, and ivy-clad;
And there amid its hallowed aisles we trod,
Reading the mural tablets of the dead,
Or poring o'er the dimly-sculptured names
Upon its sunken pavement.
Next, we sought
Yon lonely castle, with its ruined towers,
Around whose base the tangled foliage, mixed
With shapeless stones, proclaimed no frequent foot
Intrudes amid its desolate domain.
Yet here, the legend saith, thine infant eye
First saw the light, Catharine! the latest spouse
Of the eighth Tudor's bluff and burly king.
Here did thy childhood share the joyous sports
That well it loves? Or did they quaintly set
The stiff-starched ruff around thy slender neck,
And bid thee sit upright, and not demean
Thy rank and dignity?
Say, didst thou con
Thy horn-book lessons mid those dreary halls,
With their dark wainscot of old British oak?
Or on the broidered arras deftly trace
Some tale of tourney and of regal pomp,
That touched perchance the incipient energy
Of young ambition to become a queen?—
If it were so, methinks that latent pride
Was well rebuked, perchance purged out entire
With euphrasy and rue.
How didst thou dare
To build thy nest where other birds had fallen
So fearfully? If e'er the pictured scenes
Of earlier years stole to thy palace-home,
Pouring their quiet o'er its vexing cares,
The cottage-girl, who watched her father's sheep,
The peaceful peasant singing at his toil,
Meekly content, came there no pang to chase
The fresh bloom from thy cheek?
When in his sleep
The despot murmured sullenly and stern,
Didst thou not tremble, lest in dreams he saw
The axe and scaffold, and would madly wake
To blend thy fate with that of Ann Boleyn
And hapless Howard?
True, thy pious soul
Had confidence in God, and this upheld
In all calamities, and gave thee power
To scape the snare; but yet methinks 't were sad
For woman's timid love to unfold itself
Within a tyrant's breast, trusting its peace
To the sharp thunderbolt.
And so farewell,
Last of the six that rashly spread their couch
In the strong lion's den.
My talk with thee
Doth add new pleasure to our quiet stroll
Amid the lowly train, who, free from thoughts
Of wild ambition, hold their noiseless way.
Then toward the traveller's home, as twilight drew
Her dusky mantle o'er the face of things,
We bent our steps, with many a gathered theme
For sweet discourse, till welcome evening brought
Refreshment and repose. To our fair board
The finny people of the Ken came up,
Tempting the palate in the varied forms
Of culinary art, while with the fruits
That ripen slow 'neath England's shaded skies,
Were fresh-made cheeses from the creamy bowls,
Filled by the herds that ruminate all day,
In pastures richly green.
So, well content,
Beside the shaded lamp we lingering sate,
And spoke of home, and of the Power who shields
The weary traveller, and doth bid him sleep
Secure 'neath foreign skies, cheering his dream
With faces of his loved ones far away,
And sound of gentle gales that stir the vines.
O'er his own door.
And thus he seems to hold
Existence in two hemispheres, and draw
From nightly visions mid his household joys
Fresh strength at morn to run his destined way,
God of the stranger! with new trust in thee.
Wednesday, August 26, 1840.
We found at Kendal a most comfortable retreat at the "Commercial Inn." Though less splendid in its arrangement than some of the establishments which distinguish the larger cities, it comprised in itself, and in the attention of its hosts, every material to satisfy a party, wearied like ourselves with a recent voyage, and happy to refresh our spirits during a day of rain in each other's society. On our return from the lakes of Cumberland, we visited it again, promising to recommend it to our friends. Indeed it would be safe to recommend in England all the means and appliances of a traveller's course, the fine roads, coaches, coachmen, and horses, the cars and arrangements on the railways, the scrupulous neatness of the public houses, the excellence of the articles presented at the tables, the respectful attendance of intelligent servants; and if the price demanded is in proportion, the one who partakes of such benefits should be willing to accord the remuneration. If he is not, he will be very likely to become so, after some experience of the hindrances and discomforts of continental travel.
In the old church of Kendal, a singular incident took place soon after those civil wars had subsided, which preceded the execution of Charles the First. A Westmoreland gentleman, by the name of Philipson, an adherent to the cause of the king, was on a visit to his brother, who had a pleasant residence on the principal island in the lake of Winandermere. While enjoying that quiet retirement, the house was besieged by some soldiers under the command of Colonel Briggs, a parliamentarian officer, who desired to get possession of a person supposed to be so obnoxious to the party in power. The arrival of unexpected forces obliged him to abandon his enterprise. Philipson being exceedingly spirited determined on retaliation. He advanced with a troop of horse to Kendal, where Colonel Briggs was, and hearing that he had gone to church repaired thither, and entering it on horseback rode entirely through it. The consternation of the assembled worshippers was great, and his profanation of the sacred edifice gained him nothing, as the object of his search was not there. Probably most readers will be reminded of the poetical use made of this circumstance by Sir Walter Scott, in his Rokeby.
"Through the gothic arch there sprang
A horseman armed, at headlong speed,
Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed,
All scattered backward as he came,
For all knew Bertram Risingham.
Three bounds that noble courser gave,
The first has reached the central nave,
The second cleared the chancel wide,
The third, he was at Wycliffe's side."