Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1891-05-03

cnurchyard, near tne murmurlngs OF the
river Greta he SO loved, that high-souled
calm, Robert Southey.
Here, too. the unhappy Coleridge passed
the most fruitful, though still the most
miserable. years of his baleful slavery to
deadly drug. Beside him, in this wrath
procession Of intellectual genii OF the Lake
region, appears that one who of all English
men of letters existed in the dreamlife mad
ness of opium, Thomas De Quincy. Down
there in one of Keswick's cottages Shelley
passed, with his girlwife Harriet the only
happy hours OF his unfortunate lite. Sturdy,
iconoclastic, yet true and Christian if
hereto, Harriet Martineau stands bright
and clear in the picture among the blossoms
OF Ambleside. Good Felicia Hemans, with
tinge Of sadness in her patient face, is
near Sunny-hearted. great-brained Prof.
Wilson christopher North), with his huge
frame and benign face, as If the very spirit
Of rhe lovely region shone from his kindly
eyes, makes the way SUMMER for his strong,
sure tread. With him see another one,
firm, calm, tender, noble, one who, through
his labor at Rugby, swept forever from the
British educational system the rule of
brutality and dread-noble DIR. Arnold.
And that one who is first aud last, whom
your eyes of fancy calls from the past to
confront you wherever your human eyes
may rest, is Wordsworth, interpreter of
nature to man,
The Old Town of Keswick.
Descending into old Keswick, this ever
recurring influence of Identification of every
thing connected with the lovely region with
this now silent though never voiceless host,
is strong upon you. They walk with you
through these quaint and narrow streets.
They lived, or lodged, or were guests, in the
many gabled, trellised and tiny-paned
houses you see. Men like Scott. Fitzgerald
and Tennyson have eaten at the same tables,
and dreamed of the nature, .glories here in
the same chambers where you find food and
rest. Through all this loving train ofre-
Election the pleasing recognition Of the Kes-
wick of to-day steals over you. 1t is not
much different than in the times when 500
pack ponies passed and repassed with their
Cumbrian mountain traffic. 1t is just bit
newer and brighter in places on account OF
the throngs that comet In summer. You will
find plenty Of houses, with legends, in iron
set In lintels, in carvings on !oaken ceiling
beams, or wrought in ancient stucco, that
tell of their building in the fifteenth, six
teenth and seventeenth centuries. Some of
the most curious old inn-yards OF England
are here.
As to old, old folk, I never saw 50 many
in any town, ancient or new. 1 sat upon the
coping of the Greta bridge with one, John
Rigg. He is two years older than this GEN.
tury. He had wandered, he said, when a
lad of II, with Southey and the first Cole
ridge, over all the fells and through all the
dales about Keswick, and had seen them all,
from Southey to Wordsworth, come and
sing and go-into the churchyards of
Crossthwaite and Grasmere OF away to other
lands, as anywhere away from Cumbrian
shadow and shine seemed to his dim old
thought.
The Home Of Southey.
Not more than stones throw from where
we sat, on gentle eminence in the northern
edge of Keswick, stands Greta Hall,
Southey's old home. 1t is dow occupied by
Mr.. John Kennedy, gentleman, and owned
by maiden lady of ripe age and wealth
named Gibson. Just 80 years ago Cole
ridge, who had then occupied Greta Hall,
wrote Southey inviting him to share his
home with him, describing the place as fol-
lows: sour house stands on low hill, the
whole front Of which is one field and an
enormous garden, nine-tenths of which is
nursery garden.
"Behind the house is an orchard and a
small wood on a steep slope, at the foot of
round and catches the evening light in front
Of the house. In front we have q giant
camp-an encamped army of tent-like
mountains which, by an inverted arch,
gives view Of another vale. On our right
the lovely vale and the wedge-shaped lake
of Bassentwhsite; and on our lett Derwent-
water and Iodore (the falls afterwards made
famous by Southey's playful rhyme for his
children) full in view, and the fantastic
mountalns Of Borrowdale. Behind is the
massive Skiddaw, smooth, green, high,
with two chasams and q tent-like ridge in
the larger" This description is now as
true Of Greta Hall and its scenic surround-
ings as when it was written. The beeches
surrounding the mansion are more majestic;
the quaint square, two-storied, bow-win-
dowed old place may be triae grayer; but
the rocks clamor and cav about the over
archlng trees; the Greta sings over its grace
ful bend Of shadows; and one can almost
imagine that up there in that famous Sec
library some one must stand by
the broad panes Of the high bow-window
and drink in the glory Of the prospect to re-
veal it again to men.
One Of England's Oldest Churches.
Turning from the old home Of Southey,
the eve follows q winding, struggling half
village, half country street, and Is arrested
by the huge square tower and the low wide
walls of one Of the oldest churches in En-
gland. It is nearly mile from Keswick
town, but the heart and feet turn instinct
lively to 1t. Crossthwaite Church it is called,
because its patron, Saint Kentigern, here
first set up the Cross on this very spot, then
q "thwaite" or wood-clearing OF Derwent
vale, in the year 553. That was nearly 1340
years ago. Portions Of its walls are more
than 200 years old. 1t Is rich in consecra-
tion crosses, in wonderful font given for
the rest of the soul of Sir Thomas of Esk-
head, in quaint old traceries. in efigies and
brasses.
A great Earl lies beneath its chancel
floor. and ''knight whose foot was never
out of his stirrup" sleeps within its walls.
Its choir has 50'members; its vicar Rawns-
ley is poet; its octogenerian verger, good
old John Beckett, can recall to you more
pleasant memories of Coleridge, of whom he
says, "Tf t on'y kept aw right, he waur
cleverest O. lotP' of Southey, of Shelley and
Of Wordsworth himself, than can be found
within the lids of books; and it is visited
often by the royal family. But for all these
things none OF US are pilgrims here. With
in its hushed aisles. in marble, lies, and be-
side its gray old walls is the grave of Bob
ert Southey, that poet whose
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