that there is something more supernatural in Cotton's untiring desire to go about doing good, or in Church's calm moderation, or in Temple's unwearying unhasting labour, than in 's asceticism, or 's attacks on Colenso, or's eagerness for proselytes? Or was there nothing of the earth, earthy, in Keble's repudiation of Arnold's friendship? or Newman's attack on Hampden? or was there nothing of immortal birth in Arnold or in Robertson, in Clough, or in the catholic spirits that I have known and loved in other lands? These are sad thoughts, but I would suggest one point in which you have done injustice to The Christian Year, it seems to me. Besides these four points,1 it has a real openness of mind for the whole large view of the Church and world, quite unlike the later development of the party, or unlike the earlier religious part. It is what I have omitted in the Preface to my second volume of Lectures on the Jewish Church. You have just glanced at it, in speaking of 'the glorious sky,' etc.-Farewell, ever yours truly, A. P. STANLEY.”

In connection with this letter, Shairp's appreciation of The Christian Year should be mentioned. He found intense delight in it, and frequently perused it up to the very end of his life.

1 (1) “Religious feeling;" (2) "Home feeling;" (3) "Reserve;" (4 "Descriptions of Nature," referred to in Shairp's essay on Keble.

CHAPTER VI

SUMMER HOLIDAYS IN WESTMORLAND AND SCOTLAND

THE summer of 1843 was spent with a reading-party at Grasmere In the party were Henry Douglas, and T. D. Harford Battersby, afterwards incumbent of St. John's, Keswick, and Canon of Carlisle. They lived in the farmhouse at Pavement End, close by Grasmere Lake. It belonged to the family of Greens, who are mentioned in the seventh book of The Excursion. Arthur Clough lived in a lodging hard by, to the west of Grasmere Church.

Three of Shairp's letters to the home circle at Houstoun give a vivid picture of these months at Grasmere :

[Postmark, 8th July 1843.]

66

AMBLESIDE, Friday.

MY DEAR BINNY-As you are the only one of the family who has seen these places, you will be able to explain all the localities to the rest.

We reached this on Tuesday by mid-day, and immediately set out lodging-hunting. A lovely day, and as lovely a walk along Rydal Lake, past Wordsworth's. (By the bye, I hope it may not be with him as it was with Sir Robert Peel. You remember I used to say I never could admire him after I had seen him-especially seen him eat! So, though there is not much chance of our ever being admitted to see the Lion of the Lakes at feeding-time, yet when you see his little villa and his one-horse shay, and all that sort of thing, you begin to discover, 'Well, after all, he is only a man '.)

But to return we walked on to Grasmere, about five miles hence, to see some lodgings we were told of. By chance we inquired of an old farmer standing at his gate, where the said lodgings were, and on getting into a crack with him, we found out that he had a large house, and few in it, so that he would not be loath to lodge us himself. This seemed promising, so we inspected the rooms; found he could give us five bedrooms and two sitting. We asked him what he would charge; and after retiring for a while, he and his wife returned, and offered to do everything for us for 30s. a week each (bed and board included). We snatched at the offer. The only obstacle in the way was that he had made an offer to some people at a distance, and we could not get a decisive answer till Thursday morning. Wednesday we employed in walking to Patterdale, at the head of Ullswater, ten miles hence, through the Pass of Kirkstone-very steep. We took a boat and pulled down the lake as far as Airey Force. You were there, if I remember right-a most sweet, delicate fall, is it not? Then, dined at Patterdale, and walked home the first part of our journey-thundering fearfully, and lightning whizzing immediately under our noses. Got home here very late, and I, for one, quite done. You know how bad a walker I am, and my condition at present is very bad.

Yesterday morning concluded the bargain, and to-day we enter on possession. I hope we are very fortunate. Grasmere is a most charming retirement. (By the bye, I am not half so fond of solitude, as I once fancied I was.) The farmer is well-to-do in the world, so I daresay will provide for our creature comforts well enough. The house is close by the lake, and we have a boat at our disposal. Douglas and Proby (an Irishman, but brought up in England) are here. Willock, who was with us in Wales, we met the first day we were here; and he has gone about with us ever since. He is on his way to Scotland. . . . Battersby joins us from town, I hope to-day or to-morrow, and Lawley from Yorkshire on the 11th. To-morrow I hope to fall

to, to the work, and I do hope these three months may be of great use to me.

It was bitter, bitter, leaving my rooms, and at the beginning of long vacation there is always one or more I am sorry to say good-bye to. You know that Macintosh visited me the last few days I was in Oxford. He is going

into the Scotch Free Church. I wish he had been at Oxford these last two years, instead of Cambridge. Did I ever mention Coleridge, one of our scholars? They have elected him Fellow of Exeter. Certainly they have contrived to pick up some of the pleasantest men going for their common room. -Your very affectionate brother,

J. C. SHAIRP."

[Postmark, August 1843.]

"MY DEAR GRACE

"GRASMERE, Monday 14.

And now let me see what

I have been doing since I last wrote. Yes, on Saturday week four of us set off for the top of the Langdale Pikes ;there are two of them- -the two lusty twins' described in the second book of The Excursion as making such manytoned music. I had my Wordsworth with me. By reading the description of the Solitary's dwelling, and having got a few directions before, we made out the place exactly. Nothing could be more perfect than the description. We had scarcely got up when a storm came down upon us from the higher hills. We soon bolted down, but such a soaking I never got before. Marriott came on Tuesday afternoon. Till that day the weather, for more than a fortnight, had been very wretched. As a son of Coleridge's, who was here, said, "He did not know whether it is true that 'the king never dies,' but certainly the rain never ends." However, on Tuesday evening, it did end. On Wednesday morning Douglas, Marriott, and I set off for Keswick.

was

One of those heavenly days which cannot die.

It

We rowed down Derwent Water, or rather to the beginning of Borrowdale. I am not sure whether I like this, or the

F

head of Ullswater best; this, perhaps-but then, the day! it was such as you may live a lifetime without seeing another like it. We walked up Borrowdale for six miles, through the finest scenery I have seen in the Lakes. Borrowdale runs up from Derwent Water to Wast Water, twelve miles, and at its head are all the highest and wildest hills in this country. I was very anxious to go and stay all night near Wast Water, and go up Scawfell Pike, the highest hill in England; but Marriott, who is not very strong, did not like to stay out all night. So we turned. off to the side, after going half-way up Borrowdale, and walked eight miles home, across the hills, without a path. Just as we reached the highest part of our walk we stopped on the hillside and saw the sun go down behind the multitude of mountains crowded before us. I do not remember to have seen anything like this. It was beyond words. I stayed a little after the others. Close opposite was the hill with the fine name, so that I in very deed

Lay and listened to the mountain flood,
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

Then, as we walked down Easdale, we had the full moon to light up our way.

On Thursday Marriott, Lawley, and I walked over to Patterdale by a short way through the hills. The day was nearly as fine as the other. We rowed four miles down the lake to Airey Force. On the way we read the story about it out of the little Wordsworth Hetty gave me; and, tell her, I gathered some flowers close by the fall and put them in the book. After dining we returned, not as we came, but over Helvellyn. On the top we saw into Scotland, and the Mull of Galloway; and just below, the hill where the man died thirty-six years ago, about whom Scott and Wordsworth wrote each a poem; Scott's much the best, I think. I forgot, till after I had left it, that once Scott, Wordsworth, and Sir Humphry Davy had been there together. In one of his last poems Wordsworth, speaking of Scott, mentions it

1 He altered this judgment afterwards.