The morning call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1878-1895, 1891-05-24


mazeS OF antiquity, while in the very names
Of the inn and valley of Thirlspot, and of
Thirmere set like twin sapphires in the
bosom Of the vale, tell of the Viking
lhQrold VINO dwelt here and bequeathed the
spot his name forever
Times upp from the guard, breaks in
upon all your dreamful musings. In trice
your now CHEEKY companions are in their
places. The notes of the cOach-horn flood
the valley. On, on you speed, soaring the
sandpipers into the rusheS and reeds; and
me flng-OuSelS skim Scamp6rlngly TO the
farther shadOwY sh0re-through the valley,
past sleeping Thirlmere; up past little
Wytneburn Church, not as big as your own
paIlor, and the second smallest house of God
IN Britain; and then up, up again, as over
Castle Rigg, to weird old Dunmail Raise.
Here parting look is had at grim HelVellyn,
and the eye fingers lovingly on the pale
blue OF st. Johns Vale below the deeper
blue OF far Blencathra; the whole mini
AZURE image OF the pass OF Lauterbrunnen.
Here, too, is that northern curiO OF the anti
QuaTians, the Raise itself. Ii is huge eairn
OF pebbles. Traditions say the caIrn was
made over 1000 years ago. on the defeat and
slaughter of Dunmail King of Cumbria, in
the year 945. Dunmaifs dominions were
given to King Malcolm of Scotland, and the
earn was left to mark the boundary of the
two Kingdoms, as It to-day forms the bound
airy Of the shires Of Cumberland and West
|, moreland Into the latter and another noble
mOuntain-flanked valley your coach now
plungeS with smoking horses and wheels.
Faster and faster speeds the coach, and
faster and thicker crowd objects and scenes
halIowed by the lives and graves of men and
THE IMMORTAL GLAMoR OF SONG.
Complementary speaking, it is all the
Vale OF ROthay. To the east the eye scans
the sides and heights of Fairfield, Red
ScreeS and Wansfell, with the far ridges of
High street and KirkstOne behind. To the
west rise in weird and preciplt0uS masses
the savage Pixies OF LaDgdale and Grin kle
Crags and Wetherlam with their sunshiny
cones are seen in the far south. Beneath
you IS the fair and peaceful valley, with gray
OLD GrasmeTe, by It's square church-toWer
asleep beside the peaceful waters OF its
beauteOuS lake; SublImIty, beauty, peace,
everywhere blended as if by magic wand.
See to the right that ancient mill-wheel.
Above it rises mighty Helm Crag. its crown
Ing majestic plies OF stone ever fairy woman,
cOwled priest, threatening demon, or myriad
changing other forms from poets days to
Druid times of old. Stone Arthur,
The last that paFleys with the setting sun,
Browns opposite. You rush by Swan Inn,
whence Wordsworth, Southey and Scott
left on their ponies for HelYelIyn's ascent,
and where there are still delicious legends
of how Scott came back of evenings after
W Wordsworth was safely snoring at GraS-
mere, to mix the lake water with a few
across ROthay'S bridge your eye follows
the spume and foam of Sour Milk Ghyll.
and your thought leaps to the farthest
depth of EaSdale, which Wordsworth
haunted and vowed was all his own. And
here, just by the northern edge of Gras-
mere village, is Allen Bank. Volumes
could be written upon its memoIeS-fOr 1t
is Allen Bank where Wordsworth wrote
most OF the Excursion, where De Quincy
and christopher North" first met. and
where C0lerldge wrote the Friend"
But here IS GraSmere; Grasmere of an
cient RuSh-bearng" fame; GTaSmere with
perhaps the oldest and certainly the quaint
est church in England; GrasmeTe where the
brave Did dame SOundly waliOped the Prince
of Wales tor harrying" her sheep; Gras-
mere where De Quincy for thirty-seYen
years retained his Dove Cottage and its
maze of books that all the other writers bOT-
TOwed and never brought back. so absorbed
and absorbing were they, and where the
angel, Margaret fought the demon opium
and rescued that WondT0us intellect and
soul from incOnceiyable bells and torment;
GraSmeTe where in old St. OsWald's church
yard sleep Hartley Coleridge and William
NOrdS worth, and the beauteoUs R0thay,
leaping from sequestering meadows, gives
back along the old church wall the deathleSS
songs they sung.
The heart swellS and the eyes fill quickly
here; and you are glad the fresh relay of
horses speeds You so swiftly away, The
road lays along the shores Of Grasmere. To
the west are mountains, mountains every
where. Half way around the base Of bold
White Moss, high above your head Is the
WISHING GATE,
Famous in romance and song. Turning
sharply to the left, little Rydal Water a
speck Of blue in a now almost level valley
Is before you. la that cottage to the left
lives a granddaughter of Wordsworth
Swinging into the north-and-sOuth highway
at spanking speed, you come alongside a
tiny cottage imbedded in ivy, its hedge and
walls squaTely upon the road and a sweet
Bit Of meadow slOpIng away from the place
to the shore of Rydal Water. Nab Scar
rises high behind IT. like the fr-hung hill
behind the Alcott Cottage at Concord. 1t
Is Nab Cottage, and was built nearly 800
years ago. In it loyal Margaret SimD-
son, afterward wife of De Quincy, was
born, and under It's States and iyies Hart
lev ColeTidse lived and bTeathed his last.
You can scarcely recall these things be-
fore You are passing Rydal. Just glimpse
OF the little church Is seen, SO dense Is the
foliage here. But you know that mp there
at the end Of that shadOwy way. to the
right is splendid Rydal Hail. TO the left
Rydal Mount. where Wordsworth lived for
forty blIssful years; and that the melodies
Of the Rydal waterfalls are just behind.
From Rydal through AmDleside to Win
deTmere, Is one mad rush OF your coach,
meeting and passing coach and vehicle of
every description, tourists of every ma
tlOnality In every pleasant means of going
and coming, and altogether one wild whirl
OF enhancing, associative interest. Here
IS Eleray, Sentineled by it giant syca-
more and rife with memories of Professor
Wilson. There is Fox How, where lived
noble Dr. Arnold. Behind that mass of
beech and laurel lived Harriet Martineau,
and the sun-dial on the fragrant terrace
still bears the descriptive echo of her lofty.
lifelong sOuPs desire, "Come, light, visit
mew Ambleside. haunted by the wTaiths
of all these folk, and hidden in its mass OF
foliage and bloom, IS whlsked behind. And
then, through an almost unbr0ken avenue
of beeches and sycamore, you are whlrled
along one of the grandeSt roads in England;
with swift chances to right and left of
mountain, vale, lake and stream of cot
tage, hall and hostel old; until, with
aching bones, whirling head, hungry
stomach, and heart athril for its
royal stirring, your coach is brought up
with crash and a bang in front of John
Riggs famous Windermere hosiery. The
grateful odOrs of br0iling char almost as
ravishing as those of ThompsOn's Glouces-
ter ''Dlanked sbad!) ascend to your eager
nOstTis; aud before your eyes lies one OF
the sweetest scenes on eaTth-transcendent
WindeUmere. queen OF all the Umbrian
lakes, dotted with dreamful sails; and from
her silyery shores Unpleading tile gladden.
Ing vision to meaSureleSs masses OF mount
aims swathed in emerald and purple aud
crowned with sun-kissed glOries, to the high,
far horizon line, that hints of but repels the
tempests q the thunderouS Irish Sea.
%C0pyTfght EDGAR L. WAKENAN.
--
A SPIDER WHEELING A FLY.