The record-union., 1891-05-23

ACROSS 1nIrITnere Is ancient, haunted
Armboth Hall. You passed in your mad
gallop down the mountain side Fisher
tlace, where Rossetti, at deaths door,
read the last proofs of his wild, melodious
| sonnetS. To the right is the pony path
leading over to outlandish Watendlath !;
and you can any time go over its weird,
wild course with Forster and Matthew
Arnold by reading the latter's exquisite
poem, Resignation" All this valley
was Wordsworth's and Coleridge's daily
meeting ground. Down there in Thrill
mere is the Rock of Names - where the
names Of William Wordsworth, Dorothy,
bis faithful sister, Mary Hutchinson
afterwards his noble wife, Samuel Tay
lor Coleridge, John Wordsworth and
Sarah Hutchinson We're chiseled by their
own hands
At the valleys edge to the north is all
that is left OF the Cherry TreeInn, forever
famous because Wordsworth stopped his
peasant "Waggoner' there, and at the
village merry night gave him two or
three hours Of rousing fun. Under Bull
| CragS is the ancient Justice Stone'
where in olden times the law was admin
istered. Almost clinging to the crags in
spots like channels, around the noble val
! ley's rim are fiOckS of the black-taced
Herdwick sheep Of Umbria, which tradi-
| ton says the Armada brought here 300
| years ago. Not only here but on many a
mountain side in Cumberland you will
| see circular green bits Of pasture on the
| hillsideS. They are walled with stone,
and are the earliest Enclosures by civil
| llzed people IN the north of England. In
| ancient times the cows We're herded
within them at milking time. Here and
there on highest crags can be seen the
! 'maenS" or cairns OF old. These and
! countless other objects will lead you into
| the mazes of antiquity, while in the very
names OF the inn and valley Of Thirlspot,
and of Thirlnere set like twin sapphires
! in the bosom of the vale, tell of the 'Nik-
! ing Thorold who dwelt here and be-
queathed the spot his name forever.
Times up!' from the guard, breaks
in upon all your dreamful musings. In
a 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 the ring-ousels skim
scamperingly to the farther shadowy
shore; through the valley, past sleeping
Thirimere; up past little Wytheburn
! Church, not as big as our own parlOr,
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
]
| Lauterbrunnen. Here, too, is that
northern curio of the antiquarians, the
Raise itself 1t is a huge cairn of pebbles.
! Tradition says the cairu was made over
| LOCO years ago, on the defeat and
slaughter Of Dunnail, King of Cumbria,
in the year 945. Dunmairs dominions
! were given to King Malcolm of Scotland,
and the cairn was left TO mark the bound
airy of the two Kingdoms, as it to-day
forms the boundary OF the shires of Cum
! berland and Westmoreland. Into the
/ latter and another noble mountain
! thanked valley your coach now plunges
with smoking horses and wheels. Faster
and 1aster speeds the coach, and faster
/ and thicker crowd objects and scenes hal
! lowed by the lives and graves of men and
the immortal glamor of song.
Comprehensively speaking, il is all the
! Vale of Rothay. To the east, the eve
scans the sides and nights Of Fairfield,
| Red Screes and Nadstell. with the far
ridges of High street and i[irkstone be-
hind. To the west, rise III weird and
! precipitous masses the savage Pixies of
! Langdale, and Cringle Crags and Wether-
/ lam with their sunshiny cones are seen
in the far south. Beneath you is the fair
and peaceful valley, with gray old Grass
| mere, by its square church-tower, asleep
! beside the peaceful waters gifts beaute-
! Gus lakG-Sublimity, beauty. peace,
! everywhere blended as if by a magic
wand. See to the right that ancient mill
| wheel Above 1t rises mighty Helm
| Crag, its browning majestic piles OF stone
every fairy woman, COwled priest, threat
/ ening demon, or myriad changing other
| forms from poets days to Druid times of
old. Stone Arthur,
'.The last that parleys with the setting SUM-
frowns opposite. You rush by Swan Inn
whence Wordsworth, Southey and Scott
! left on their ponies for Helvellyn's ascent,
and where there are still delicious legends
of how Scott came back OF evenings,
I after Wordsworth was safely snoring at
| Grasmere, to mix the lake water with a
| few drops Of John Barleycorn. As YOU
! crash across Rothay's bridge, your eve
! follows the spumc and foam of Sour Milk
| Ghyll, and yOur thought leaps to the
farthest depth of Easdale, which Words
worth haunted and vowed was all his
own. And here, just by the northern
/ edge of Grasmere village, is Allen Bank
! Volumes could be written upon its
memories; Tor it is Allen Bank where
| Wordsworth wrote most Of the ''EXcur-
! sion," where DeQuincey and Christie
| pher North" first met, and where Cole
ridge wrote the Friend"
But here is Grasmere: Grasmere of an
| cieut ''Rushbearing' fame; Grasnlere
| with perhaps the Oldest and certainly the
quaintest church in England; Grasmere
! where the brave old dame soundly wal
! loped the Prince OF Wales for "harTving''
! her sheep; GraSmere where DeQuincey
! for 81 years retained his Dove Cottage
and its maze OF books that all the other
/ writers borrowed and never brought
! back, so absorbed and absorbing were
they, and where the angel, Margaret.
| fought the demon opium and rescued that
wondrous intellect and soul from incon-
! ceivable hells of torment; Grasn1ere,
| where in old St. Oswald's churchyard
sleep Hartley Coleridge and William
| Wordsworth, and the beauteous Rothay,
| leaping from sequestering meadows, gives
| back along the old church wall the death
less 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
! Grasmcre. To the west are mountains.
| mountains everywhere. Half way around
the base of bold White Moss, high above
| your head, is the wishing Gate" IA
nous in romance and song. Turning
| sharply to the left little Rydal Water, a
! speck of blue in now almost level val
ley, is before you. In that cottage TO the
left lives q granddaughter of Words
/ worth. Swinging into the north-and-
south highway at spanking speed, you
come alongside a tiny cottage embedded
in ivy, its hedge and walls squarely upon
the road, and a sweet bit of meadow sIop-
ing away from the place to the shore OF
| Rydal Water. Nab Scar rises high behind
1t, like the tir-hung hill behind the Alcott
| cottage at Concord. 1t is Nab Cottage.
and was built nearly 800 years ago. In it
loyal Margaret Simpson, afterward Wife
OF DeQuincey, was born, and under its
states and iyies Hartley Coleridge lived
and breathed his last