Daily Kennebec journal., 1913-10-01
ENGLAND'c LAKE COUNTRY.
Wordsworth, the Bishop of CarisIe's
Fingers, and Little Agnes Green.

/ came straight from Liverpool to
Grasmere on landing. How welcome
were the good green fields once more
and the silence of the hills, It is al
ways q question with me which is the
keener pleasure, II taste the thrill of
a new landscape. or to revisit Il region
already known and loved. Someone has
said that the whole purpose of travel
is the enjoyment of the first half hour
in n strange place. 1 quite see what
he means. and | partly agree. Yet old
friends are best, surely. and though
want just as many new ones as | can
gain, yet | rejoice more in the old. St
0swald's church by the Rothay, with
Wordsworths grave in the shadow of
the ehancel is far better than the new
splendor of Liverpool cathedral; and
tea in the lovely garden down by the
lake is ambrosial with memories
| confess Go not care to pencil mark
my Wordsworth, here in his ewn re-
gion. nor to waste my time in ident-
flying all the fanciful shapes he DISCERN
ed in the outlines OF mountain and
crag. Surely he would rather have us
see nature for ourselves than merely
as reflected in his pages. He may help
to oren our eyes: but we must look
for ourselves. Still, no one can visit
Wordsworths shrine without being af-
fected by the living power of Words
worth's poetry today: and surely we
need the simplicity of plain living and
high thinking now as much as two
generations ago. The lust for the NOR
bid, the grotesque, the abnormal, never
flowed more fiercely in the days of Ro-
man deeadence, or in the dark ages of
reborn paganism in Italy; and We must
hope for new Wordsworths, to bring
men back to the sweet serenity of open
spaces, eff hills and green valleys and
homely wild flowers. How much better
"a primrose by the rivers brim'' than
an outlandish orchid from the steamy
greenhouse.
l walked along the side of Lough-
rigg, the other afternoon, at sunset.
Westward was a steep field so thick
with foxglove that it hung like a glo-
rious purple curtain against the darker
braoken background. The little isle in
Grasmere looked as if it might shelter
very wise and fortunate hermit.
Pleasant sounds came from the farm
steads, and the CHEEKY pealing of
church bells across the water cleansed
the air of melancholy. And l wonder
ed. as / looked down. whether in all
the world was a scene fairer or more
essentially peaceful,
The whole Lake country is full of
charm. Ullswater. Derwentwater
(where on Lords Isle, lived the splen-
did martyr of loyalty, that Lord Der
wentwater beheaded in the affair of
1715), Windemere-all the lakes, large
and email, have their own beauties;
and you can hardly go amiss anywhere,
except that some famous places are
cvercrowded with noisy trippers from
the Lancashire mill towns The old
churches are small and simple, for the
most part, but all the better worth
seing in consequence, like that tiny
sanctuary, Wythburn, near the foot of
Helvellyn. I wish the present diocesan
eared more for the ancient landmarks,
in every sense. Someone entirely cred
ible told this tale of a confirmation ad-
dress by the bishop of Carlisle. Spread
ing out his hands on his knees, mis-
lordship began: "Now children, what
do my fingers look like Can't you see?
They look like 10 little pink sausages.
And who could believe that any grace
could come from putting 10 little pink
sausages on your heads?'
I named earlier. a much more inter-
esting person, videlicet, Agnes Green.
aged seven. Do you remember the
story Of the first Agnes Green, more
IA ntlit foil
it in his Lake School, and Wordsworth
made q ballad Of it. The father and
mother went away over the mountain
from Grasmere, one winter day. to at
tend an auction, leaving nine-years-old
Agnes to lock after the younger chill
drer and the cattle. A terrific snow
storm broke, jim which the parents
lost their lives, while the cottage of
the Greens was buried in isolation
"the tumultIous privacy of storm" But
this brave, small heroine did her duty
so well that when the neiShbors broke
way through, some time later they
found all well albeit orphaned. My lit
tie Agnes is her -grandniece, the
first TO bear the name since her day,
and to say that she has checks like
PINK roses, Il voice DutcHht III It's SOlt
intonations, manners unconsciouSly
graceful and modest, and stainless
"pinny." is not to do her adequate JUS
tice.
] wish you all might have seen the
rose fate at Ambleside, down in the
meadow by the Rothay. 1t was a real
folk festival of the village people; les
autrcs We're in the background, or mere
onlookers. All the school children had
voted who should be rose queen, and
had chosen a demure and delightful lit
tie person of II. Then the electors es-
eorted her round the towr in process
sion, themselves all suitably garbed-
such q line of red checked boys and
girls in fancy dress You never saw!