Travellers Stories | Page 7

from one of these beautiful hills into Eskdale, or Ennesdale, of walking four miles on the banks of Ullswater, of looking with your living eyes on Derwent Water, Grassmere, Windermere, and many other lovely spots of which you have seen pictures and read descriptions; and of being one in the pleasantest party in the world, as you think, stopping where, and when, and as long as any one pleases.
It was on this journey that I first saw a real ruin. The ruins of Calder Abbey I had never heard of; but the impression it made upon me I can never forget; partly, perhaps, that it was the first ruin upon which I ever gazed. One row of the pillars of the great aisle remains standing. The answering row is gone. Two tall arches of the body of the main building remain also, and different pieces of the walls. It is of sandstone; the clusters of columns in the aisle look as if they were almost held together by the ivy and honeysuckles that wave around their mouldering capitals with every motion of the wind. In every crevice, the harebell, the foxglove, and innumerable other flowers peep forth, and swing in the wind. On the tops of the arches and walls large flowering shrubs are growing; on the highest is a small tree, and within the walls are oak trees more than a century old. The abbey was built seven hundred years ago; and the ruins that are now standing look as if they might stand many centuries longer. The owner of the place has made all smooth and nice around it, so that you may imagine the floor of the church to look like green velvet. It seems as if the ivy and the flowers were caressing and supporting the abbey in its beautiful old age.
As I walked under the arches and upon the soft green turf, that so many years ago had been a cold rough stone pavement, trodden by beings like myself; and felt the flowers and vines hanging from the mouldering capitals touch my face; and saw, in the place where was once a confessional, an oak tree that had taken centuries to grow, and whose top branches mingled with the smiling crest of flowers that crowned the tops of the highest arches,--the thought of the littleness and the greatness of man, and the everlasting beauty of the works of the Creator, almost overwhelmed me; and I felt that, after all, I was not in a decaying, ruined temple, but in an everlasting church, that would grow green and more beautiful and perfect as time passes on.
There is a fine old park around these lovely ruins; and, not far off, a beautiful stream of water, with a curious bridge over it. The old monks well knew how to choose beautiful places to live in. All harmonizes, except--I grieve to tell of it--a shocking modern house, very near, very ugly, and, I suppose, ridiculously elegant and comfortable inside. From this hideosity you must resolutely turn away; and then you may say, as I did, that your mortal eyes have never rested on any thing so lovely as the ruins of Calder Abbey.
Sometimes Miss Martineau would tell us some pretty legend, or some good story.
This was one of the legends: Near the borders of the Ullswater is the beautiful Ara Force, one of the most lovely falls I have seen in England. One may stand below, and look up at the rushing stream, or above, on the top of the fall. Here, long ago, in the time of the crusades, stood a pair of lovers; and here grows an old oak which was their trysting tree. The lady was of noble birth, and lived in a castle near by; and her true knight used to come at the still hour of evening to meet her at the Ara Force.
At length the lover was called away to the Holy Land. As he left his lady, he vowed to be her true knight, and to return and wed her. Many long days passed away, and the lady waited in vain for her true knight. Though she heard often from others of his chivalrous deeds in the East, yet no word came from him to tell her he was faithful; and she began to fear that he was no longer true to her, but was serving some other lady. Despair at last came upon her; and she grew wan and pale, and slept no longer soundly: But, when the world was at rest, she would rise in her sleep, and wander to the trysting tree, and pluck off the green oak leaves, and throw them into the foaming water.
The knight was all this time faithful, but was not able to send word