The record-union. [volume] (Sacramento, Calif.) 1891-1903, 1891-05-03

the pretty toy, the Claude Lorraine glass
in hand, in the autumn of 1859, wandered
past Skiddaw in his tour of discovery,
which first opened the eyes of England to
the beauties of the Cumbrian Lakes, and
made il possible for all the host that fol-
lowed to know their inspiration. Here,
at your feet in old Keswick town, dwelt,
sang and lies buried in Crossthwaite
Church-yard near the murmurings of the
River Greta he SO loved, that high-souled
poet Of pensive remembrance and medi-
tative calm, Robert Southey. Here, too,
the unhappy Coleridge passed the most
fruitful, though still the most miserable,
years of his Paleful slavery to deadly
drug. Beside him, in this wrath process
sion OF intellectual genii of the lake re-
glon, appears that one who of all English
men of letters existed in the dream-life
madness of opium, Thomas De Quincy.
Down there in one of Keswick's cottages,
Shelly passed, with his girl-wife Har-
riet, the only happy hours Of his unfortu-
nate life. Sturdy, iconoclastic, yet true
and Christian, if hereto, Harriet Martin
eau stands bright and clear in the pict-
ure among the blossoms of Ambleside.
Good Felicia Hemans, with tinge of sad
ness in her patient face, is near. Sunny
hearted, great-brained Professor Wilson
christopher North) with his huge frame
and benign face, as if the very spirit of
eyes, makes the way SUMMER for his
strong, sure tread. With him 1 see an
other one, firm calm, tender, noble, one
who, through his labor at Rugby, swept
forever from the British educational sys-
tenn the rule of brutality and dread, no
bic DIR. Arnold. And that one who is first
and last, whom your eyes of fancy calls
from the past to confront you wherever
your human eyes may rest, Is Words
worth, interpreter of nature to man.
Descending into old Keswick, this ev-
er recurring influence of identification of
everything connected with the lovely re-
gion with this now silent, though never
Yoiceless 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 tlny-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 of reflection the pleas
ing recognition of the Keswick 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 come in summer. You will
find plenty of houses, with legends, in
ceiling beams, or wrought in ancient
stucco, that tell Of their building in the
fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centu-
ries. Some of the most curious old inn
yards of England are here. And as to
old, old folk, never saw so many in
any town, ancient or new. / sat upon the
coping of the Greta Bridge with one
John Rigg. he is two years older than
this century. He had wandered, he said.
when lad of u, with Southey, and the
first Coleridge, 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, or away to other lands, as
anywhere away from Cumbrian shadow
and shine seemed to his dim old thought
Not more than stones throw from
where we sat, on gentle eminence in
the northern edge of Keswick, stands
now occupied by John Kennedy, gentle
man, and owned by "a maiden lady of ripe
age and wealth named Gibson. Just
ninety years ago Coleridge, who had then
occupied Greta Hall, wrote Southey, in
viting him to share his home with him,
describing his place as follows: "Our
house stands on a low hill, the whole
front Of which is one field and an enor-
nous garden, nine-tenths of which is
nursery garden. Behind the house is an
orchard and q small wood on a steep
slope, at the foot of which is the River
Greta, which winds round and catches
the evening light in front of the house.
In front we have giant camp-an en-
camped army of tent-like mountains
which, by an inverted arch, gives a view
of another vale. On our right the lovely
vale and the wedge-shaped Lake of Bas-
senthwaite, and on our left DerwentWa-
ter and Lodore (the falls afterwards made
famous by Southey's playful rhyme for
his children full in view, and the fantas-
tic mountains of Borrowdale. Behind is
the massive Skiddaw, smooth. green,
high, with two chasms and a tent-like
ridge in the larger" This description is
now as true OF Greta Hall and its scenic
surroundings as when it was written.
The beeches surrounding the mansion
are more majestic; the quaint square, two
storied, bow-windowed old place may be
tritie grayer; but the rocks clamor and
cav about the overarching trees the
Greta sings over its graceful bend of
shadows, and one can almost imagine
that up there in that famous second-story
library some one must stand by the
broad pane5 of the high bow window and
drink in the glory of the prospect to re-
veal 1t again to men; just as then.
Turning from the old home of Southey
the eye follows a winding, struggling half
village, half country street, and is ar
rested by the huge square tower and the
low wide walls of one of the oldest
churches in England. 1t is nearly mile
from Keswick Town, but the heart and
feet turn instinctively to it. Crossth-
waite Church it is called, because its
patron, Saint Kentigern, here first set up
the cross on this very spot, then
'thwaite" or wood-clearing of Derwent
Vale, in the year 553. That was nearly
1910 years ago. Portions OF its walls are
more than 1,G00 years old. 1t is rich in
conservation crosses, in wonderful font
given for the rest of the soul of Sir Thomas
of Eskhead, in quaint old traceries, liz
ettigies and memorial brasSes. 4 great
Earl lies beneath its chancel floor, and
knight whose foot was never out of his
stirTup" sleeps within its walls. It's
choir has fifty members; its vicar Raws-
ley is a poet; its Octogenerian verger,
good old John Beckett, can recall to you
more pleasant memories of Coleridge, of
whom he says: IF T. only kept aw
right, he waur cleverest o. lotr' Of South
ey, of Shelley and OF Wordsworth him
self, 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. Within its
hushed aisles, in marble, lies, and beside
its gray old walls is the grave OF Robert
Southey, that poet whose
Life to heaven was vowed
Through long life and pure.n
EDGAR l.. WAKEMAN.
WITHIN AND WITHOUT.