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The Archdeacon, Doctor Froswick, and the Rural Dean, Mr. Brathay, who completed the Commission of Inquiry, were both men of middle age; the Archdeacon, fresh-coloured and fussy, a trivial, kindly person of no great account; the Rural Dean, broad-shouldered and square-faced, a silent, trustworthy man, much beloved in a small circle.
Below, he would following his allegory have said; but rhyme forbade and allegories are not so headstrong on the banks of the Brathay as on those of the Nile. A sonnet on Thomson's grave is a fine specimen of empty sounds and solid nonsense: Whene'er I linger, Thomson, near thy tomb, Where Thamis "Classic Cam" will be somewhat amazed to hear his learned brother called Thamis
The cart deposited the school-boy in Brathay and started again for Langdale. 'Yo couldna get at Langdale for t' snaw lasst week, said the young farmer, as they turned a corner into the Skelwith Valley. 'T' roads were fair choked wi't. 'It's been an early winter, said Fenwick. 'Aye, and t' Langdales get t' brunt o't. It's wild livin there, soomtimes, i' winter.
The hopes of the Archdeacon, for one set of reasons, and of Dornal, for another, that some bridge of retreat might be provided by the interview, died away. The Dean had never hoped anything, and Mr. Brathay sat open-mouthed and aghast, while Meynell's voice and personality drove home ideas and audacities which on the printed page were but dim to him.
The owls hooted in the oak-woods, and the sound of water the Brathay rushing over the Skelwith rocks, and all the little becks in fell and field, near and far murmured through the night air, and made earth-music to the fells. Farrell had much of the poet in him; and the mountains and their life were dear to him.
but he does not tell us what she has been doing ever since. When he sees two Cumberland streams the Brathay and Rothay flowing down, first to a confluence, and afterwards to the sea, he fancies "a soul-knit pair," man and wife, mingling their waters and gliding to their final haven in kindred love, The haven Contemplation sees above!
I should like some time to read you a description of this lovely place, written by Miss Martineau herself. Then you will almost hear the murmuring sound of the Brathay and the Rotha, and breathe the perfume of the wild heather, and catch the freshness of the morning breeze, as she offers you these mountain luxuries in her glowing words. Miss Martineau lives a little out of the village.
The Professor looked at the ceiling, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. The green shade concealed the Dean's expression. He also knew no German, but it did not seem necessary to say so. Canon Dornal looked uncomfortable. "Do you see who it was that protected Darwen from the roughs outside his church?" he said presently. Brathay looked up. "A party of Wesleyans? class-leaders? Yes, I saw.
And he! all the time the strength of a man's maturest passion was mounting in his veins. And with it a foreboding coming he knew not whence like the sudden shadow that, as he looked, blotted out the moonlight on the shining bends and loops of the Brathay, where it wandered through the Elterwater fields.
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