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the church gates is the old hall, taken notice of one hundred and
fifty years ago by drunken Barnaby, in his Itinerary. It is still
an inn, and no doubt keeps up its ancient character.
Veni Lonsdale, ubi cernam,
Aulam factam in tabernam;
Nitidae portae, nivei muri,
Cyathi pleni, pacae curae;
Edunt, bibunt, ludunt, rident,
Cura dignum, nihil vident.
I came to Lonsdale, were I staid
At hall, into a tavern made:
Neat gates, white walls - nought was sparing;
Pots brim-full - no thought of caring;
They eat, drink, laugh, are still mirth making -
Nought they see that's worth care taking.
On our entrance into the church-yard we were struck with the
neatness and elegance of the vicarage house, which faced us. The
pleasant garden adjoining, ornamented with a neat octagonal
summer-house, commanding one of the most delightful prospects of
nature, must render this sweet retreat a happy abode to the
worthy vicar.
We walked through the church-yard, which is large and spacious,
along the margin of a high and steep bank, to neat white
mansion-house full in view, somewhat above half a mile distant,
called Underley. The prospect was of the most amusing kind. At
the foot of the steep bank on which we walked, being about forty
or fifty yards perpendicular, glided the large pellucid river
Lune, amongst the rocks and pebbles, which amused the ear, whilst
the eye was entertained itself with a vast variety of agreeable
objects. A transparent sheet of still water, about half a mile in
length, lay stretched out before us; at the high end of it was a
grotesque range of impending rocks of red stone, about thirty
yards in perpendicular height, which had an excellent effect in
the scene, both by their colour and situation. We were told,
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