GEORGE NEWBY: THE POETICAL PARSON OF BORROWDALE
In trying to trace the history of the house built by Mary Barker at Rosthwaite in Borrowdale, Cumbria, in 1816-7, now the Scafell Hotel, I was advised by the current landlord that it had at one time served as Borrowdale's parsonage. Close inspection suggests that this was only for a few months, while the parsonage house near the chapel was being renovated, but the parson (or more properly, perpetual curate) in question turned out to have one significant factor in common with Miss Barker- whom he never met- so he merits a little exploration of his life.
Later evidence such as census returns indicates that George Newby was born at Ulverston, Lancashire, in 1800. Unfortunately 1800 baptisms are missing from the Lancashire OnLine Parish Clerk project, so more work is needed!
Clergy of the Church of England Database, [my summary of entries 1823-34]:
George Newby, born around 1800 at Ulverston in the Furness district of Lancashire, was educated for the Church at the then-new St. Bees College on the west coast of Cumberland, where he qualified in 1823. He was ordained as a deacon on 3 Oct 1824 by Bishop Blomfield of Chester. He served as curate at Colton near Ulverston for the next three years, then on 26 Jan 1828 Blomfield appointed him as stipendiary curate at Muncaster in Cumberland, where he remained until he was appointed by Bishop Percy of Carlisle as curate of Arthuret on 20 Aug 1833.
Meanwhile, in Borrowdale:
Jane Platt (editor), "The Diocese of Carlisle, 1814-1855", 2015 [my summary]
In the late 1820s, when the newly-appointed Bishop of Carlisle, Hugh Percy, surveyed his parishes, he made no comment on the chapel (which had been rebuilt in 1824-5, following careless repairs around 1813) but observed that "The Glebe House is unfit for the residence of the Incumbent".
Find A Grave, (Borrowdale: George Newby, 1872), (event 1834)
"MARY HIS WIFE, WHO DIED JULY 9TH 1834 IN THE 36TH YEAR OF HER AGE. And was Interred at Longtown."
FindMyPast (from Arthuret parish register), (event 1834)
"Mary Newby, Female, ... Burial date 14 Jul 1834, Burial place Arthuret, Cumberland, England"
Cumberland Pacquet, 22 Jul 1834:
Deaths ...
"At Longtown, on the 11th inst., Mary wife of the Rev. G. Newby, curate of Arthuret, aged 37 years."
Oxford Chronicle, 6 Jan 1838:
Deaths ...
"Aged 78, the Rev. William Parsable, 32 years perpetual curate of Borrowdale, Cumberland, and twelve years vicar of Gilcrux, Cumberland."
Ancestry.com, (event 1838):
"George Newby ... Marriage Date: 30 Jan 1838. Marriage Place: Arthuret, Cumberland, England. Spouse: Margaret James ..."
Cumberland Pacquet, 27 May 1838:
"On Thursday last the Rev. George Newby was licensed, by the Lord Bishop of Carlisle, to the perpetual curacy of Borrowdale, on the presentation of the Rev. J. Lynn, A.M., vicar of Crosthwaite."
Find A Grave, (Borrowdale: George Newby, 1872), (event 1840)
"MARY ANN THEIR DAUGHTER WHO DIED AUGUST 14TH 1840, AGED 16 YEARS"
Census return- Cumberland, Crosthwaite parish, Rosthwaite, 1841:
[Ages of adults are given to the nearest 5 years:]
| YE sleek-faced happy mortals, who are bless'd With minds of sameness, equable and smooth, Like a smith's anvil— not to be impress'd With what is formed thereon— ye'll deem uncouth My Muse, which sings the Melancholy mind, And its sad joys, unseen, assays to find. Yet if perchance, from your ethereal height, Where shine eternal suns, and know no night; Nor fogs nor storms, along the calm serene, E'er dim your fair horizon's changeless scene; Ye view this grosser region's thick-spread gloom, Where silent MELANCHOLY breathes his doom:— Know that a pleasing sadness prompts the lay, Which marks the bright spots of his cheerless day. ... |
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The Lowdore streamlet, fainting in the heat, And softly trickling to its dark retreat;— Then slowly pac'd acoss the open glades, Still ling'ring whiles beneath the wood's thick shades, Till the wide prospect open'd on the sight, As rose the gentle breeze upon this height. And oh ! how grateful to the chasten'd heart The pure delight its blended charms impart ! Whoe'er by Nature taught, unmoved, surveys The Panoramic scene she here displays ! The prostrate Derwent, courting to explore The many windings of his varied shore— The lofty Skiddaw, with peculiar grace, Majestic, tow'ring o'er his giant race; Now on the glist'ning waves inverted laid, In all his placid dignity pourtray'd— The op'ning vale, where Bassenthwaite displays His lengthen'd lake, and wood-embosom'd bays— The sweeping mountains, in their southward range, Impending o'er the low, romantic Grange, Their wild confusion curving into line, As, with terrific mien, they circling join, Where, clad in matchless beauty, Nature reigns, Supremely grand, o'er Borrowdale's domains; Their litt'ring summits, rearward, waving high, Far as the two-topp'd Scawfell meets the sky— The dale below, by lake and mountain 'closed, Small in extent, but with nice art compos'd— Of rip'ning corn, and meadows strew'd with hay— Of scatter'd cots along the winding way— While, issuing from the mountains' massy pile, The gleaming river, ling'ring, sports awhile Beneath the gliding sun— then gently teems To the calm lake, its smoot commingling streams— And the mix'd woods, their hues of varied green, In rich profusion, scatter o'er the scene, Which, now transform'd, in darker image lies, Whose faintest sketch my feeble hand defies. At first, a dense impenetrable cloud En wraps the valley in its vap'ry shroud; And, far or near, in vain the straining eye Attempts each well-known object to descry— High mountain— lake— and mead— and tree— Are vanished all— a vast extended sea, Which seems, afar, to reach the lengthen'd skies, In misty dimness, now, before thee lies. A melancholy look its waters wear— Yet tranquil and compos'd— no tumult's there— Upon the gloomy calm, reflected dim, Thy spirit sees its own sad image swim— Accordant feelings prompt spontaneous smiles Of sympathetic joy, when num'rous isles, In peaceful loveliness and look serene Surpassing aught fair Nature's choicest scene Can boast— or fond creative Fancy prize— Upon thy sight in sudden beauty rise. There, good Saint Herbert, dedicate to God, Might deign to fix his heav'n-fore-stall'd abode— Secluded, weep o'er all the ceaseless strife That swells the wide tempestuous sea of life— High converse hold with Spirits of the Blest, And "pray his soul" to everlasting rest. Fit emblem of whose aspirations high, And heav'n-ward tendencies, the op'ning sky, Clear and serene, the sun-capt summit shews Of yonder mountain shining o'er the gross Dense vapour.— So when guilt's deep-piercing sting Goads on the sinner to remorse and sorrowing; And fearful doubts of heav'ns free pard'ning grace Forbid weak Reason's falt'ring steps to trace Thro' the dark mists of Penitence— the way To Virtue's peaceful realms— a mild bright way, Far from the thorny wreath of "Him who died That man might live," shoots forth— the cheering guide To heaven's high mercy seat, of whoso, straight, In honest faith pursues the gracious light. Or, wand'ring thro' the world's wide wilderness, When mis'ry sinks, forlorn and comfortless,— Hope's bright effulgence, breaking o'er the gloom, Will, haply, thus the dreary waste illume; The wretch sustain; and energy supply To gain the region of a happier sky. So, when the hov'ring soul, appall'd, surveys Death's gloomy vale, where all the countless ways Of life, converging, vanish from the sight, Lost in the dismal shades of endless night— The radiant beams of boundless love divine, From Calv'ry's holy mount, serenely shine; And o'er the awful gulf, perchance, display The peaceful mansions of celestial day. [the above is quoted from pages 26-31 of the book] |
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"Say, is it thus that "Babylon the Great" Still reigns sole Arbitress of Ireland's fate? In her false prodigies, her pompous rites, Her penances, her mass, her gorgeous sights— "All her abominations"— may we trace The Druids' influence o'er the Celtic race? Her long-discarded robes, to deck her out With those false arts and meretricious wares, Once lured mankind and kept them in her snares: There are, her own chaste garb would rudely tear, With these, away— severely strip her bare, And leave her, unlike all God's gifts to man, A work of chance, an end without a plan. Is not her spirit marred, when Party deems, Her pow'r is centred in its own extremes ? Shall we deny that pure Religion can, In faith, "bow down a Nation as one man?" No— see, through Mammon's foldings gleams the light, Marks her triumphant in her own meek might !" [the above is quoted from pages 23-4 of the book] |