Delaware gazette and state journal. (Wilmington, Del.) 1883-1902, 1894-01-11
THE BOGLD OF THE
WISHING GATE.
ny Edgar l. walseman.
rnr cnoAMNa or mn RAvnNs.


land, fair as dream of beauty and re-
pose, lie the vale, the lake and the ham,
let of Grasnlerc.
Towards the north trails the ever
ascending highway TO DuHmail Raise,
where more than thousand years ago
the first Edward crushed the kingdom |
Of Northumbria and buried the slaugh
tered monarch, Dunmail, beneath tho
rairn or Raise of pebbles which stands
as he left it to this day; while tho
etriding Edge Of lnrdly 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, cOne-like Langdale Pixies |
behind; and shutting in this vale Of |
peace in the east are the heights Of Seat |
Sandal, Fairfield and Nab Scar. The |
lake of Grasmere, blue and deep and |
still, and spccked by one emerald islet,
rests rippleess and shadowless between. |
Where its dreamfu waters curve 10
the south towards shimnleriug Rydal |
Water and Royal Windermere, ON the
hamlet side of the lake q round, high
half-mountain-which the peasants call
"the holt" provincial dialect for the
.'peaked hilr'-juts 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-embowered Ambleside,
which once with Umbrian stubbornness
pushed straight across the height, is still
worn bare, brown and smooth by valley
folk in haste, by cupid-teased SWANS
and blushing lasses, by wandering
artists and poets seeking the haunts OF
Wordsworth, Southey and Coleridge
and by all those tourists from far.of
lands who ever loved enough to love TO
dream again beside hallowed shrine of
love.
Just there at the top of the hill where
silence is soundless, whore the trees in
terlace above the old highway like the
massive arches of some splendid cathe-
dral nave, the sunshine floods in as
through an oriel window, through which
again, across meadow, mere, valley and
mountain 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 England's tenderest of all love
shrines, the ancient Umbrian Wishing
Gate.
At noontide of an August day next
before the day of its patron saint, Gras-
mere hamlet lay snug and sunny at the
head of the mere beside its most venera-
BILE of English parish churches, gray old
st. Oswald's. This good saints festal
day falls on the fifth of August. Almost
from the dawn of Christianity in Britain
il has been celebrated at Grasmere on
the Saturday nearest ST. Oswald's Day,
by that elsewhere nearly obsolete
ceremony, treasured by Umbrian folk
with something 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 smilingly half waking from
centuries of repose. The tiny church
windows stood open. There were wreaths
upon the graves of Wordsworth and
Hartley Coleridge. A whitehaired sex
ton, a beautiful young woman and u
stalwart young man were leaning over
the churchyard wall, as if listening To
the melodies OF the Rothay stream be.
low. A few mountain carts stood al
the doors of white cottages laden with
green rushes, 'sievesn the peasants cal
them, gathered from the breezy UPLAND
fells. A "vagromn crew with carts anC
vans had halted NJ the village edge anC
were whummeling their carts, lettering
their cattle, turning loose their frowsl
children, and disposing the ragged end
of Punch and Judy booth and
patched and splintered merry go-'round
Sweet slaves of hymns to st. Oswald
of rushbearing hymns and of choTa
even-songs were waited from unseeI
places. The little inns were bein
lazily put to rights. From some far an
smothered retreat tioated unrestrainabl
notes Of the village band, tuning ane,
the martial strains Of Jenny Dawson
Rushbearing March, which in olde
days leaped from the strings of Jemm
Dawson's fiddle; and full in the drows
sunlight, on the old Inn porch, wher
Southey, Wordsworth, Coeridge, ID
Quincy and Scott once sat in lovin
converse, the white-h haired ravens of th
ancient hamlet sat and sagely cave
ind croaked.
These we're Christopher, or Cursty
Harris, Jenny Railton, Willy Benn an
Tommy Bamthet; all serving men I
the Westmoreland country gentry i
their time, and now patriarchal Gras
mere cotlers who met at each other
ingle-neuks, at the public house, {
wherever the sun of village hospitalit
or of heaven shown warmest, there
plant upon the fashless present time
or to purr and Groom over the brave an
Draw old days that were.
Cursty Harris had Just Joined Ii
companions. He sat down petulantl
at the end of the stone bench II
shaggy brows were drawn tightly; an
his lips were grotesquely pGrsel; til
corners of the under lip being straint
by some unusual inner emotion almo
TO the bottom Of his chin. His old frien,
knew this was portentious omen, al
they kept silence for a time, interchan
ing sly nudges of mute and expecta
prophecy. Soon Willy Benn said softl
"rh' auld toun is toonin' up II bit n
"0h, aye; tn mornin's rushbearin'
yentured Johnny Railton.
AN st. Oaswuld's Meet" pip,
Tommy Bamtbet, with wink at je
and Will, lis boyle meet on tn holt
the Wush'n Geat. Whae'll maist
Cursty Harris holp Z lay tn ghaist
morrer neet?"
"Nabuddyp retorted Cursty so 50
agely that his three cronies gave Thu
sudden starts and uttered three 'Lans
marcies r. together.
"Nabuddyp' he repeated with vehe
ence. Ma mair o tn Wush'n CT
boyle for Cursty Harris. What's wa
deeath l kna nit; but III clap ees
MAR on ghaists i this leef, if l C
holp Itp
Every one in the lovely valley KIN,
OF the boyle, ghost or spirit, of I