The record-union., 1894-01-06
THE BOGLE OF THE WISHING GATE.
Copyright, 1894. All rights reserved.l
rHE cRoAKINa oF rHE RAvENs.

/.
THE CROAKING OF THE RAVENS.
In the heart of that loveliest and grand
est region of England, the Lake District
of Cumberland and Westm moreland, fair
SIS dream of beauty and repose, lie
the vale, the lake and the hamlet of Gras-
mere.
Towards the north trails the ever as
cending highway to Dunmail Raise.
where more than a thousand years ago
the first Edward crushed the Kingdom
of Northumbria and buried the slaugh-
tered monarch, Dunmail, beneath the
cairn or Raise of pebbles which stands as
he left it to this day. " hile the Striding
Edge of lordly Helvellyn rises dark and
fierce beyond.
To the west wind the lofty, serrated
edges of Steel Fell and Helm Crag, like
half-ruined mighty castle walls. with
the black, crone-like Langdale Pixies be-
hind. and shutting in this vale of peace
in the east are the nights of Seat Sandal,
Fairfield and Nab Scar. The Lake OF
Grasmere, blue and deep and still, and
specked by one emerald islet, rests rip
pleless and shadowless between.
Where its dreamless waters curve to
the south towards shimmering Rydal
Water and Royal Windermere, on the
hamlet side of the lake a round, high
half mountain-Which the peasants call
''the holt" provincial dialect for the
tpeaked hill-iuts out boldly from Nab
Scar. 1t is forest-crOwned and dark with
centuries-old trees. The coach road now
winds around and below it beside the
lake. The ancient highway to rose en-
powered Ambleside, which once with
Umbrian stubbornness pushed straight
across the hight, is still worn bare, brown
and smooth by valley folk in haste, by
Cupid-teased swains and blushing lasses
by wandering artists and poets seeking
the haunts Of W Wordsworth, SOuthey and
Coleridge and by all those tourists from
1ar-oft lands who ever loved enough to
love 10 dream again beside a halloWed
shrine Of Love.
just there, at the top of the hill, where
silence is sOundless, where the trees in
terlace above the old highway like the
massive arches OF some splendid cathedral
nave, the sunshine floods in as through
an oriel window, through which again,
across meadow, mere, valley and mount
ain sides, in uttermost longings with the
tenderest visions OF human eyes, the very
peaks OF heaven, through centuries, have
been seen. For there, famous in legend,
romance and song, stands Englands ten
brian Wishing Gate.
At noontide Of an August day next be-
fore the day Of It's patron saint, Grasmere
Hamlet lay snug and sunny at the head
of the mere beside its most venerable of
English parish churches, gray old St.
Oswald's. This good saints 1estal day
tails ON the fifth OF August. Almost from
the dawn of Christianity in Britain it has
been celebrated at Grasmere on the Sat
urday nearest st. Oswald's Day, by that
elsewhere nearly obsolete ceremony,
treasured by Unbrian folk with some
thing akin to fierce affection from even
pagan times, OF rushbearing, or strewing
their sacred temples with rushes and
with flowers.
This MONDAY the ancient village seemed
snilingly half waking from centuries of
repose. The tiny church windows stood
open There were wreathS upon the
graves Of Wordsworth and Hartley Cole
ridge white-haired sexton, beauti-
full young woman and stalwart young
man, were leaning over the churchyard
wall as if listening TO the melodies OF the
Rothray stream below. a few mountain
carts stood at the doors Of white cottages
laden with green rusheS-'' 'Sievesn the
peasants cali them-gathered from the
breezy upland fells. a ''vagrom" crew,
with carts and vans, had halted at the
village edge and were Whummeling their
their frowsy children and disposing the
ragged ends of a Punch and Judy booth
and a patched and splintered merry-gO-
'round Sweet slaves OF hymns to st.
Oswald, Of rnshbearing hymns and of
choral even-songs were waited from un-
seen places. The little inns were being
laZily put TO rights. From some far ana
smothered retreat fioated understandable
notes of the village band, tuning anew
the martial strains of Jenny Dawson S
Rushbearing March, which, in olden
days. leaped from the strings Of Jenny
Dawson's fiddle, and full in the drowsy
sunlight, on the old inn porch, where
Southey, Wordsworth, Coleridge, De
Ouincey and Scott once sat in loving con-
verse, the white haired ravens OF the an
cient hamlet sat and sagely cawed and
croaked.
These were Christopher, or Cursty,
Harris, Jenny Railton, Willy Benn and
Tommy Bamthet, all serving men to the
Westmoreland colntry gentry in their
time, and now patriarchaI Grasmere cot
ters who met at each others lngle-neuks,
ct the public house, or wherever the sun
of village hospitality or OF heaven shone
warmest, there 10 plaint upon the fash
less present times or TO purr and Groom
over the brave and Draw old days that
were.
Cursty Harris had just joined his COM
panlons. lie sat down petulantIy at the
end OF, the stone bench. His shaggy
brows were drawn tightly, and his lips
we're grotesquely pursed, the corners oi
the under lip being strained by some un-
usual inner emotion almost 10 the bottom
cf his chin. His friends knew this was q
portentious omen, and they kept silence
Tor a time, interchanging sly nudges OF
mute and expectant prophecy. Soon
Willy Benn said softly:
.'Th' auld toun is toonin' up bit?r
"Oh. aye: tn mornin's rushbearin', -
ventnred Johnny Railton.
..An, St. Oaswuld's Meet" piped Tom
nv Bamthet, with Il wink at Jem and
3piu lis boyle meet on tn holt by the
zvnsh,n Geat. " hae'Il Master Curstv
Harris holp T. lay tn ghaist th' morrer
..NabuGdy," retorted Cursty SO saw
aaply that his three cronies gave three
sudden starts and uttered three "Lans-a-
nlarciesr together.
"Nabuddy," he repeated with vehe-
uence. INA mair o. th' Wush'n Geai
hooIe for Cursty Harris. What's 'yani
death / kna nit, but I'll clap ees ma maiI
on ghaists i this leef, if l can holp it."
Every one in the lovely valley knew Of
tbe bogle. ghost or spirit, Of the Wishing
cate. It had appeared every rushbear-
inc night for quarter Of a century. The
snnarition was that of white-halred.
white-bearded old man, Enthusiastically gar