The record-union., 1891-05-10

attention. From the Enclosures on either
side huge beech trees and sycamores push
tremendous arms across the walls and
completaly cover the way. 1t is as
have passed a score of rods up this high
arched natures aisle until the sounds
from the highway-the rumbling of the
stages, the laughter of gay tourists, and
even the notes of the coach horns-are
stilled. In summer the place is thronged
with birds, Even these irreverent Choir
listers seem as if subdued and ruminative
here. In autumn your feet sink in
feathery masses of pale golden leaves. 1t
seems a long time that you have been
traversing these few rods; all is so hushed
and still. Ascending little farther, there
is a break in the foliage to your right.
Some huge gates are seen. A lodge stands
just beyond, and suddenly the splendid
facades of Rydal Hall, the seat of the lie
Flemings, appear above the luxuriant
shrubbery of its splendid park. Higher
still you climb, and where the dark road
way seems to make a final circle over the
brow of the hill to the left, you pause to
listen. Something like low and hesitant
organ notes is murmuring in minor
chords, while a gay and joyous treble
plays in exultant tones above. All you
remember. These are the voices of the
two cascades of Rydal. Their songs were
sung to one poet for forty happy years.
A step further, and the bright sunshine
leaps along and through the tree tops, as
if impatient to floods its effulgence upon
one little spot. On that spot stands an
ivy-covered old house, two stories in
hight, with all manner of angles and
patches; with huge chimneys and won
drous gables: with windows cut here and
there at random, or pushed outward in
bows and bays; with doors entering as
though made for convenience and not ap-
pearance; and the whole with a general
air Of having been done at different Pc
riods by various masters, each of whom
labored leiSurely in fond and whimsical
mood. In front is the tiniest Of grass
mounds, and wide steps Of rough hewn
stone lead this way and that, as if to in
grass mound, steps, half disclosed ter
races, and the mansion itself facing the
south squarely-there was never more
winsome picture set in framing Of laurel,
yew, beech and fir; and never will you
see another home where the very spirit of
peace seems so embodied in outward ma
terial things, giving rapt and radiant well
come to the endless threnodies of waters
and throbbings of q loving sun.
This is Rydal Mount, the former home
of Wordsworth. Rydal Water, to the
north, and the long, dreamful reach of
Windermere can be seen from the grass
mound in the little inclosure. From ev-
cry upper window, mountain, valley and
lake smile back from glorious prospective
upon the beholder. With the poets long,
happy and fruitful life at Rydal, every
reader of English literature is familiar.
But 1t seems to me precious thing for
the wanderer here to identify and become
acquainted with Wordsworth's best-loved
haunts. Two lines of road, with innu-
mr. h IaHo
into all manner of sublime or witching
scenes, knew him best, just as around the
two villages and lakes of Rydal and Gras-
mere the memories of the poet are most
thickly strewn. One of these roads is the
great central highway of the lake region,
and winds all the way from Bowness
through thevillages of fWindermere, Rydal
and Grasmere. over weird Dunmail Raise,
past huge Helvellyn over into Keswick,
where COleridge and Shelly were. The
other is the grand old road from Amble-
side northeasterly, past the roar Of Stock
Ghyll Force, through Kirkstone Pass to
Patterdale, Grisdale, Glenridding and all
the glorious fells and glens that lie along
somber Ullswater between the heart Of
the lake region and the ancient town of
Penrith. Probably the personal enjoy
ment of the road was greater along the
former way, although the territory be-
yOnd KirkstOne, particularly around the
greater number of poetic illusions.
The value of st. John, at the foot of Hell
vellyn, was never-ending feast to him.
He fingered times without number around
Wythburn church. Thirlmere, to which
the city of Manchester has tunneled for
what will prove the finest water supply in
the world, and against the consummation
of which Mr.. Ruskin, with more regard
for selfish enjoyment of the lake region
than the needs Of hosts of human beings,
fought long and bitterly, was an almost
constant haunt. Here Wordsworth, in
company with his wife and his sister Do
rothy, almost daily came in summer. In
the earlier days COleridge would come
over from Keswick and meet the three
friends from Grasmere. The ladies
brought their sewing and lunch, and the
two poets furnished the soul ambrosia.
Commemorative of these golden hours
the poets had their names cut upon the
Rock Of Names at Thirlmere, and it was
TO this rock that Wordsworth addressed
the apostrophe,
go thought of pain,
That would impair it or profaner'
No fear Of that; but the great walls Man
chester is building at the lower end of
Thirlmere, to increase it's depth, will
cause the Rock of Names to be perma-
nently submerged. Some future Schlie-
mann will find it.
On Inc way IrOLn UraSnere 10 Ihlrl-
mere, spot forming the northwestern
boundary of Grasmere was undoubtedly
Wordsworth's most frequented and pas
sionately loved resort. This is Easdale,
1t is one of the most accessible though
least visited places in the lake region. 1t
runs far into the northern hills on the
western side of Helm Crag. In its upper
reach is bittern-haunted, shadowy tarn,
which is discharged through the foaming
Sour Milk Ghyll not a mile from the
highway of Grasmere. Wordsworth
loved to claim Easdale as all his own, and
he was jealous of intrusion here. When
residing at Grasmere, a half hours walk
would enable him to penetrate its depths;
and he so grew to the place that when he
had removed to Rydal, three miles TO the
south, nearly every day, rain or shine.
found him seeking the companionship of
its tender solitudes. The loftiest passages
of the Excursion" were written here;
and it was the very essence of the poets
life to brood by Easdale tarn, with an in
tensity of passion, on those images of ma
ture which his noble fancy brought from
near and afar, and nodded into fadeless
forms for the measureless world of poetic
thought EDGAR l.. WAKEMAN.
LOUIS KRUTzERS SNAKE
After Sleeping One Hundred Years 1t
l., 0..A