The record-union. [volume] (Sacramento, Calif.) 1891-1903, 1893-04-15

Tiles OF the cottage roofs is curiousiy sur
mounted by separate tower and steeple,
the pIle SO gray, mellow and lvy-massed
as 10 lnvoluntarily suggest a gigantic
tree Topped of in its lower trunk, where
the huge battlemented tower stops, out OF
whose edge, where the steeple rises, has
sprouted a second slender tree. The ira
dltlon goes that two capricious maiden
sisters, DESTROYS of raising some sacred
memorial, agreed upon erecting upon
Ormsklrk a tower and steeple, yet, disa-
greeting as to uniting and connecting
their work, they finally expended all
thelr wealth and energy upon both, each
independent OF the other. The earliest of
the renowned Derbys and Stanleys are
buried here. Messy, lichened, slumber-
Gus, grave, the entire place is a wondrous
picture OF tender repose, and is but one of
scores of winsome Lancashire villages
blending, low-lying and hushed, in the
pleasant landscape between the thunder
GUS towns of mills.
What precious old bits of gray and sun
shine and green are the halt-deserted vii
lagos of Cockermouth and Hawkshead up
here in the English lake region, the for
mer in Cumberland, and the latter just
inside Lancashire where that county
pushes rugged arm among the scars,
Tells and pixies of the English a lps.
Cockermouth itself, where Wordsworth
was born, is but one of the many quaint
old Cum brian villages, which seem as an
Gent and messy as the rocks out of which
they were hewn. 1t is sweet, dim,
dreamful and songful old spot, for the
Derwent River sweeps melodiously by,
and the Cocker River, front which the
village derives its name, is emptied into
the Derwent at the village side.
Wordsworth's father, John Words
worth, was an attorney here, and law
agent to Sir James Lowther, afterwards
the Earl OF Lonsdale. The house where
the poet was born is long, two-storied,
hlpped-roof structure, standing at cor
ner OF Main street and a recessed alley,
and must have been regarded as stately
affair in its time. A tier of nine windows
In the second and eight in the first story
lace the street, which is shut oft by
massive stone wall with wide coping and
monumental projections at regular inter-
ValS ana at the corners. In the area be-
tween the street wall and the house are
several pertly-trimmed shade trees, and
the ample garden in the rear extends to
the banks OF the lovely Derwent.
Hawkshead lies midway between the
queen OF the English lakes, Windermere,
I'D Conlston Water, near which may be
found the home of John Ruskin, and
nestles prettily beside the beautiful Esth
waite Water. 1t is by far the most an
tlque village in the lake country. The
ola schoolhouse is standing just as Words
WI III lSlG IT, Ii Is no more Ilan Ilny
stone dungeon, with wide, low windows,
single, broad, low door, and white
washed schoolroom interior, where tall
ma would be in danger of humping the
ceiling beams with his head.
The schooiboy, Wordsworth, cut his
name into his desk, and the SCARED old
plank is accordingly priced as precious
relic. Every one Will remember the
good old dame, Anne Tyson, with whom
Wordsworth lived and who was so much
mother to him during his boyhood's days
at Hawkshead. Her cottage is still stand
ing, and
The snoS-white church upon the hill,'
made famous in the prelude" stands as
then in near field. Around it the sheep
and lambs are grazing. But the old life
went out OF Hawkshead with the hand
looms; you will never find more than a
score OF worshipers at service within it;
and the lncum bency is so reduced that
the village rector himself rings the chime
of bells which calls the dim old folk that
remain to this all but deserted shrine.
Here again are types of villages, one in
the North and another in the West Rid
ing OF Yorkshire, neither like the scores
OF sunny halnlets in tender Yorkshire
wales, but standing grimly and stoutly
against the shuddering moors, defiant Of
change and the tempesLs of centuries.
Come with me over dreary Stanemoor's
wilds and look down there upon dead old
Bowes.
There Ifes the sinuous shell of the an
Gent village-a winding, cobbled, grass
grown street of half a mile in length,
thanked by ruined houses, half of whose
matched roofs have fallen in. Far to the
east the eye catches a glimpse of the
classic domain of Rokeby. To the north
the dells and fells where flows the river
Tees. To the south the Glen OF Greta,
whore that river tumbles and sings. That
huge stone structure, the first at Bowes
from the Greta Bridge way, weird and
ghostly under huge sycanores, was for
merly another Dotheboys Hall. Rich
ard Golden once owned it and made it
his home.
Then the Unicorn Inn, with its acres of
outbulldlngs, empty and moss-grown.
opposite, another silent inn, the Rose
and Crown. Then, facing westward, a
little Norman church. Near it the ruins
OF Norman castle. Behind these ruins.
the ancient Roman station of Savatrae.
where are remains of baths and an aque-
duct Then, rooted and unroofed novels
on either side to the westward, where
you will see, still standing just as Dick.
ems described a verltable Dotheboys Hall
in his Nicholas NicKleby, "a long, cold
looking house, one-story high, with few
struggling outbuildings behind, and a
barn and stable adjoining
The other is Haworth. Seen at a dis
lance it seems a half-defined line of
ragged gray, cut in another line of gray
above which is the lofty, dreary Haworth
moor. There is but a single street; closes
sometimes extend for a house length
to the right and left. The yard-wide
| pavements are series of stone stairs and
| platforms. Beneath the latter are shad-
owy shops and living rooms. All stand
open. But few inhabitants are to be seen.
| Up, up, up, for half mile you plod. and
at last reach tiny open space. The
houses are set around it closely. Quaint
shops and ancient inns crowd it at all
sorts of curious angles. This is the head
of the village, geographically, in habita-
| lions and in arlStocracy.
Not for its attractiveness but because
it seems an outlet to somewhere, you pass
| into little court behind the Black Bull
Inn. 1t is maze OF angles and wynds.
Suddenly another tiny open space con-
fronts you. Here are an old, oblong,
| two-storied stone house. with a few wards
OF grassplot at its side; little stone
church, attached to, rather than extended
with, grim Norman tower; graveyard
| clustered with crumbling stone, the whole
| barely covering an acre of ground. These
were Haworth parsonage, church and
| churchyard; the earthly, and final.
home OF the Brontes, and their living
| eyes ever rested on HaWorth moor which
rises Immediately above the churchyard
| like wall of rounded stone.
Come to such as these in the summer
time only. Then tieecy clouds struggle
over and between the hills as if shadow
hosts were marshaling behind the hori-
| Zon. Here and there splatches of color
| lie against old walls and house fronts.
| The heather bushes from the undulant
| green of the moors. And one can then
I easily imagine bits of Apulian pastoral
| scenery here in the shepherds and their