The Old Man; or, Ravings and Ramblings round Conistone — Part 83

It is indisputable that the poet must possess something that may be called “a transmuting power” of vision, for to the unpoetical optics of any “worthy man of prose,” like you or me, Blea Tarn is much more like a platter than “an urn.” Once upon a time, I—even I myself—in a very sentimental mood, perpetrated a sonnet upon Blea Tarn, and, if you can tolerate such enormity, here it is:

It is the very home of loneliness This lonely dell, with lonely hills around, Whose hundred rills emit one lonely sound— A hum which doth the lonely soul oppress, When joined with the lone scene you look upon. The lonely pool with murky shadows thrown Across its waters; and, within the gloom Of mountain shade, the lonely dwelling-place, Upon whose lonely roof each flitting trace Of sunbeam fades like smiles beside a tomb. And were you long to linger there and muse In chilling loneliness, 'twould make you shiver, Submerge your brightest fancies in the blues, Mar much enjoyment, and derange your liver.

It is no longer, nor has it been, for many years, a “treeless nook,” for the “one abode” is now shaded by a sycamore or two, and the hill-side beyond the tarn is covered with Mr Wordsworth’s most especial aversion, an extensive plantation of fine larches, which were planted, I suppose, by Dr Watson, the venerated Bishop of Llandaff, in the possession of whose representatives the place still remains. For miles hereabouts the scenery partakes largely of the Blea-tarn character, and were it not for the house, the road, the little fields and the intruding larches, there were nothing to indicate that the hand or foot of man has been there. It is not until you are descending a steep hill towards Wall-end, that the fertile meadows, the flourishing trees, the hedge-rows and the homesteads of Great Langdale, and the magnificent Pikes towering beyond them, neutralize the effect of the dreary scene you are emerging from. But in introducing you to Great Langdale, I am glad to resign my office to a much more efficient and eloquent cicerone—so attend to _him_:—“Promise not to lift your eyes from your ponies' ears, till we cry 'eyes forward'! We wish you to enjoy the soul-uplifting emotion of instantaneous magnificence. There, honest Jonathan, hold the gate open till the cavalry get through; and now,——behold the VALE OF GREAT LANGDALE! There is no lake in that depth profound—the glittering sunshine hides a cloud of rich enclosures, scattered over with single trees; and, immediately below your feet, a stately sycamore-grove shrouding the ancient dwelling of Wall-end. Ay, your dazzled eyes begin now to discern the character of the vale, gradually forming itself into permanent order out of the wavering confusion. That thread of silver is a stream! Yonder seeming wreath of snow a waterfall! No castles are these built by hands, but the battlements of the eternal cliffs! There you behold the mountains, from their feet resting on the vale as on a footstool, up to their crests in the clear blue sky! And what a vast distance from field to cloud! You have been in Italy, and Spain, and Switzerland,—say, then, saw ye ever mountains more sublime than the Langdale Pikes?”