The English Lakes

If you take a walk ashore, the various boatmen will embarrass you with offers of craft. “Fishing tackle? oh, I’ll lend you that with pleasure, and bait too.” Now this is all very well for the disciple of Walton who insists on having a competent person on board to select the fishing-ground. But the average man may be fairly warned by the following note: “Hired a boat for the day and set out to fish with six rods, plenty of bait, and a hopeful word of success from the boatman. We cast our lines right and left, back and front, but not a fish did we see. Whether the fish or the bait were enchanted we could not say, but concluded that the lines were lent to make people believe they could catch fish.” In answer I had to point out (my complainant knew sea and a quiet variety of river fishing well) that, under a blazing June sun, perch and trout were not likely to feed. There are times when the fishing is good—out of the tourist season mainly. Some anglers regularly come to Windermere for sport; but these swallows do not make a summer, and Windermere is far from being an angler’s paradise yet. The lapsus linguæ of the boatmen is perhaps excusable: others delude in less satisfactory fashion.

Turning again to the bay, with its view of Belle Isle, and the blue mountains peering over the bluffs of Furness, it strikes every visitor that the landing-place is exceedingly cramped. Thousands use the boats; were the rival proprietors less good-natured traffic would be impossible. Perennially there is a movement afoot to acquire additional frontage for the public use, but as perennially it fails. In the Diamond Jubilee year, many thought that an acquirement was coming at last. Negotiations were opened for land to the south of the bay, but the Vicar of Windermere could not meet the promoters.

Aboard the Swift again, we are borne into the upper basin. On Lady Holme was once a chapel, served by the monks of Segden Abbey, one of the Scotch monasteries. They were in possession so early as 1355, and till the Dissolution maintained two priests here. There is, in some old descriptions, a legend that one of these priests, to mortify his flesh, caused himself to be chained in the crag above Rawlinson’s Nab, and there he remained for thirty years or so, before death released him. Sweet in early May are the islets here with lily of the valley: at any time it is pleasant to land on them, for they are dry, their brakes are not tangled—an ideal place for a quiet afternoon. As the steamer goes on, the scene grows in grandeur. Over a vast plain of water the distant mountains seem to hang. There are misty indications of level meadows and woodlands next the water, but the charm lies in the craggy, shaggy braes and the uprising summits. The woods continue—larch! larch! planted in harsh geometrical lines on the Furness side; the opposite, though really covered with villas, presents a happy, confused forest of oak and ash, sycamore, elm, beech, interspersed with hollies and great patches of underwood. The white foam of hawthorn flecks these hills in early summer; later, patches of gorse, in wild, unconsidered corners, brighten up the heavy green. Then come the heather and the heather bell, empurpling the higher ground; till September’s chilly nights turn the leafage to glories of gold and crimson, the brackens to red and russet. We are now opposite Millerground; the lake near shore is shallow and tempting to the angler.

The hill jutting out above there is Orrest Head—the viewpoint of the Lake County. I have no wish to disparage other of our views: each has its merits. From Orrest you look up and down the river-lake, Winandermere, winding through a long valley. Round the head of its hollow are rugged masses of mountain, cut into by narrow glens and ghylls. The basins of Langdale, of Grasmere, with their tarns and lakes, are hidden in a maze of wildering rocks. Right opposite, the Furness fells, ridge beyond ridge, till, a grand barrier, Coniston Old Man heaves skyward, give no indication of two lakes and wide valleys embosomed beneath. There are two circumstances under which they who climb Orrest are especially well repaid: on a calm June morning, when the lake like a mirror reflects every detail of the hills, when the ruffle of a passing boat or steamer dies away on the dead calm; the other time is when light clouds are drifting across the sky and you can see dappled areas floating over water and wood and fell. There is little to choose between these and when the sun sinks in a bank of vapour behind the Langdale Pikes. Instantly a crimson light filters across the upper basin, picking out bay and islet in a halo of brilliance. For half an hour it becomes more glorious, then to purple and to grey the light declines. Yet, again, climb Orrest when thick snow covers the earth. The scene is awe-inspiring: if in moonlight, you see the terror and majesty of winter; in sunshine the air is filled with chill radiance, and the scene invites you not to despond but to work or play with a will. But this is not of the steam yacht and the lakeside.

Opposite us, with its big round chimneys, is Calgarth, the mansion of the Philipsons. There is nothing now to distinguish it from the Calvegarth it originally was. If the place was ever fortified, all traces of such, save its thick walls, have disappeared. The house has the reputation of being haunted, for the misdeeds of a Naboth. Desiring land in the possession of an old couple, he had them convicted for theft. The old woman, who had occult power, pronounced seven curses against the Philipsons. The couple were duly hung at Appleby, but their skulls came home to Calgarth ere morning light. And at Calgarth they have remained, though men have calcined them with lime, cast them into the lake, and buried them on the mountains. Horrible sounds were heard, groanings and shriekings and wild lament, after any tampering with the uncanny things; so, to prevent further trouble, they were built into the wall—and few now believe in their existence. There are other mysteries hereabout too. When grievous trouble is at hand, a spectral white horse passes over the lake from shore to shore. And occasionally the wanderer’s eye is caught by a faint iris on the water, rivalling in its clear tinges the very rainbow. Both phenomena are said to be well vouched for, which, I presume, has made it not essential for the present writer to witness them.

Above Calgarth is the great glen of Troutbeck, where many illustrious personages, from Hugh Bird, a giant of Henry III.’s time, downward, have lived. Hogarth, the weird painter of sordid life, was born here, and at one time the sign of the old Mortal Man inn was held to be his work: a very free drawing it was, of a burly man with vermilion nose, confronted by a thin, white-visaged stranger, with the couplets:

Till within the last half-century Troutbeck was a ’statesman dale, but few of the yeomen are now left. They were not noted fighters, like the men to northward, but in self-defence they manned a fort which an obscure generation had built in Thresthwaite Cove at the head of the valley. The last time was in 1745, when a small band of Scotch rebels were sent back “wi’ a flee in ther lugs.” The grey mansion in the park was built by Bishop Watson, of Llandaff. Westmorland-born, he loved his homeland, and during a forty years’ reign he ruled his bishopric from thence. There is but one mention in his Life and Letters of his going to Wales. Yet he preached strongly to those of his clergy who were absent too much from their livings!

The most prominent building now in sight is Wray Castle. This is not old. In one of his interesting colloquies on angling and things in general, Dr. John Davy, in a book published shortly after the building was completed, remarks:

“Wray Castle is altogether a modern building, and erected by its present proprietor and inhabitant, who has too much knowledge of sanitary conditions to surround himself with stagnant water, making an enemy to health where there is no fear of neighbouring hostility. As to the structure itself we need not criticise it; it is well placed, and at a distance may well pass for what you supposed it to be” (a moated stronghold), “and have the desired effect on the uninformed mind and the careless eye.”

Now the steamer approaches Lowwood, and the coppices of Wansfell sheer up in feathery grandeur as we sail inshore. The view from the hotel attracted Ruskin on his first visit as a child of ten, and in his rhyming diary he speaks of his impatience to be at the windows enjoying the glorious view. The lake is here at its widest and deepest; from shore to shore the distance is considerably over a mile, with a depth approaching two hundred feet. The boats out on the water are fishing for char with the cumbrous implement known as the plumb-line. Char feed at varying depths; to-day the shoal may be within ten feet of the surface, to-morrow near a hundred feet lower. The instrument used is made up of a long central line heavily weighted, to which tiers of smaller lines are attached at intervals. By this means the fish are tempted at all levels, but the implement is for the professional rather than the amateur. The tiers of hooks and baits are sure to foul one another if not dexterously handled.

As the steam yacht gets under way again, Dove Nest, once the abode of Mrs. Hemans, is seen peering through the woods climbing Wansfell. The poetess ever fondly remembered her sojourn here, and the friends she made among the Lakeland poets. Some of the finest contemporary appreciations, both of personalities and work, came from her pen.

Passing Hen Holme, a spine of rock sticking out into the lake—how the waves from the screw lash and dash against its ledges!—the yacht carries us into open lake again. What a panorama of mountains!

Wansfell rises to the right; beyond is the gap of the pass and Kirkstone fell. Red Screes presents its tamer slope, and looks not half so commanding as less lofty Scandale Pike. The long ridge of Fairfield, its ghylls raw with floods and winter storms, comes next, standing above Rydal park. Along this group, a century ago, wild red deer used to range; there was a herd on the Ullswater fells, as now, and also in the wildernesses about Eskdale and Ennerdale. The long slope bending downward to Nab Scar is Great Rigg. You can see only the head of the precipitous Scar, for the bracken-covered heights of Loughrigg climb to the skyline. At square with our course are the Langdale Pikes, their strange knotty summits showing up finely. Great Gable peeps from beyond Borrowdale; Great End, Scawfell Pike, and Scawfell glance through gaps in the rugged chain stretching from Bowfell to Wrynose pass. The country beneath these is the famous Langdales, land of tarns and ghylls, crags and screes. From Wetherlam westward is the Coniston range, haunt of the raven and other wild birds. The head of Windermere is particularly glorious: fir-crowned Fisher Crag sets off the levels where Brathay and Rothay sloom into the lake. The sharp spire of St. Katharine’s, according to Mrs. Hemans, was foundationed for a square tower. Ambleside creeps in rows and terraces up Wansfell, but the grey stone is harmonious and the red ridge-tiles at this distance invisible. To the left Fox Howe stands on its sentry-hill; the views from its lawns are fine: to northward into the heart of the mountains, and the wild forest of Rydal; southerly, green lowland and the silvern mass of Windermere right down to where islands close the view. The level next the river-mouth was at one time a Roman camp, but nothing to prove its name has yet been discovered. Medals and coins are sometimes, after heavy floods, cast up out of the mere. The Rothay was diverted somewhat by the camp builders, that the rectangle they favoured might be preserved. The camp was doubtless used as a caravansery for the traffic between Brougham on the Eamont and the seaport of Ravenglass. Both places are, if mountain roads have not altered for the worse, a good day’s journey away: one over the lofty passes of Wrynose and Hard Knott, the other over the elevated road along High Street. Cultivation has robbed the earthwork of distinctness, but enough remains to show dimly its angles and extent.

Now the quiet rumble of the screw stops; the yacht sails smoothly and accurately to her berth. Outside the pier a concourse of conveyances is in waiting, and we see our fellow passengers melt away by common ’bus or lordly pair to their respective destinations. The water here is crowded with craft, but there is not the terrible congestion we saw at Bowness bay. A long curve of shingle is open to the public, and forms a favourite promenade.

CHAPTER III
BY WORDSWORTH’S ROTHAY

Even during the height of summer there are dull days sometimes, when dense clouds simply stifle the dales in gloom. This is the more tantalising when one is at Ambleside in the midst of the beauties of Lakeland.

But after two o’clock the day became perceptibly brighter; Loughrigg discovered itself opposite our window, a kindly precipice of damp grey crags rearing through a forest of dwarf oaks and clinging ash, green plumed larches and verdant undergrowth, its long crest crowned with patches of heather and wide, quivering wastes of bracken. There is little to interest us in Ambleside: the sun is bursting his cloudy bonds, and we chafe at streets and houses! Out, then, on the Rydal road, past the old moss-grown mill and the bridge-house Ruskin sketched in his youth, past the Knoll where Harriet Martineau lived. Now we rejoice to see a riven cloud turn to gleaming silver at its edges, and through the gap a shaft of light strikes down to earth. It is lost! No, there it is again, kissing the rugged crest of Nab Scar, and hovering along its flank. The clouds above whirl together, and the welcome gleam is cut off. But the upper heavens are overpent with sunshine; glance after glance of glory dances down and melts away on Loughrigg fell. For half an hour gloom and coming sunshine wage unequal warfare, then the clouds to westward break up their solid phalanx, and wider and more frequent are the wheeling spokes of light. Here one blazons a scree-drifted hillside, there one peers and glances into a rocky ghyll. Broad streams of radiance flow into unseen abysms beyond the nearer mountain curtain, a flash of refreshing brilliance lights up acres of rugged scrub.

By the rivulet we see the usual patient angler. Men there are so entranced in seeking to lure the trout, that they brave rain or shine indifferently. Under the hazels, when booming gusts clash walls of rain against mountain and bosky meadow, they still angle on; under the hazels you find them when from a sky of staring blue the sun beats down on a drought-struck land. This brook from happy, lonely Scandale holds many a small brown trout; its bed is bright and shingly, with clean swirling pools and glinting, tinkling rapids. The road now enters Rydal park; miles of rough land stretch toward the lofty ridge from which a cloud is drifting slowly. The sun has now the victory, pouring a flood of joyous light on a scene of unparalleled beauty, and this fleecy, crawling monster is the rearguard of departed gloom.

Near a fir-crowned hillock we see a picturesque group of mountain ponies. The Le Flemings of the Hall have ever been upholders of these useful little animals, going to great trouble and expense to improve the breed. The well-selected Rydal stallions are admired in the dales for miles around. The farmers are not keen to part with their best stock, so the standard, though not yet entirely satisfactory, is creeping upward. Rydal beck hurries beneath the bridge, bank-full, its tiny surges shaking the plumy water-grass, whipping the too-pendant branches. The Rothay, close to our left, is a greater volume, but calmer, clear and shining where the sunlight dapples through the wych-elms, darkling in deep pools in the dense oak shade. The stream carries flakes of foam, and from ahead we hear the water purling down a rocky channel.

A few yards on, at Pelter bridge, a cross-road passes under Loughrigg. Looking up-stream, from the parapet, it is a lovely confusion: the beck, overhung with tall sycamores, ashes, and oaks, is split into tiny currents, each babbling its merry way down through a maze of boulders. Some of these are crowned with grass, over which in due season dangle the dainty blue harebell, the yellow-irised oxeyes, the crimson-spiked foxglove, or the blue-orbed sundew. In the margins goldilocks show dark tufts of leaves; when these are in bloom, the waterside is gay with brilliant yellow. Some of the river-stones are decked with moss—the gurgling, dashing streamlet occasionally tosses a tiny jet of spray to gem the glossy crowns. After a long spell of drought Rothay shrinks almost from view in this labyrinth of pool, wee cascade, and calmer channel. The riverside is almost too beautiful to lift the eyes from, but a sharp crag of Loughrigg sheers against a rosy cloud of eventide to our left, and on our right the great green mass of Nab Scar almost overhangs the cottage in front.

A cottage by Rothay! Wordsworth’s Rothay! In far-off climes and dusty, choking cities many pause in their eternal soul-grinding struggle and think of such sweet retirements, even when the scene is merely a figment conjured up by the poet’s craft. To such as know Rothay from its source in the craggy fells to slooming Winander, the feeling of envy is more acute. It is a glorious stretch of country, alike calm and beautiful, stormy and forbidding; in spring tinged with delicate green, in summer wreathed in blossom of pink and white and blue; in autumn shot with crimson and gold of dying leafage; in winter grey and dank with rain, or garmented in dazzling snow. But the cottage!—clung with the bines of creepers and eaved with glossy ivy; the lowly little cot where the tallest hollyhock peeps in at the chamber window; the old-fashioned garden laid out in neat beds of showy or sweet-scented flowers, with gay gladioli spikes of puce and white, and fuchsias red and outbending, with balsam and balm and the sweetest thyme; the rockery with green caressing films of parsley fern, the smooth tongues of scolopendrium, and the broad palmated fronds and upstanding brown “flowers” of the royal fern, with the wiry, graceful forms of oak and more robust-looking holly ferns; the wall-garden where white rocket, yellow musk, and a few hardy plants flourish, with rare mosses garnishing their fountains of bloom, and the half-wild turmoil of king-cups and “cross-buns” in the miniature pool of the Rothay. But the cottage!—with twisty oaken beams in the ceil of the parlour, with dark recesses and low windows, with a wide fireplace, to which, when winter’s roar and rain and snow run riot without, the chairs can be drawn and the many-houred evening drift away in happy talk and song and merriment. “Plain living and high thinking”—one could almost realise the ideal in such a home, where the fare is the humble, wholesome product of our mountain land; where thin haver-bread, tough, sweet cheese, and warm, pure milk might form the staple food; a home where the spinning-wheel might awaken from silence and dusty limbo, and give a perfect employment; where linen and wool might be worked up to thread and yarn in quiet hours. Such a prospect is fair beyond words, but few of us will ever dwell—save in our roseate dreams, by day or night—in a cottage by Wordsworth’s Rothay.

After a time spent beneath the trees and by the gushing waters, where viewpoints ever more fair allure us from one coign to another, we return to the road, here avenued by giant beeches. The western light touches a moving cloud, the damp, coppery leaves below catch the glow and throw it in a myriad little sparkles from twig to branch, and from branch to smooth bole. What is there in Nature more glorious than a group of well-grown trees?

Wordsworth’s connection with the hamlet of Rydal is well known. In his pretty cottage on the hill he lived a life apart from the dalesfolk, watching the seasons come and go over the beautiful glen. Through the little knot of houses, we shortly approach the mere. Right up to Silver Howe the basin is brimmed with light; mountain and wood and lake are at “the pride of day.” Evening, sweet and slow, is dropping nearer, its first sign the grey-blue mist hovering beyond the bordering hills. The crag on which the Laureate of the Fells often sat commands a good view of the lake, and of a huge gash in Loughrigg, whence comes the sound of tinkling slate, where the quarry thunders ring. This of course was not so prominent in Wordsworth’s day. The cottage at Nab where Hartley Coleridge lived, loved by the dalesman (as his master was almost shunned), comes next: here De Quincey afterwards resided some opium-cursed years. We wander by the reedy mere, noting the islet on which not so long ago herons used to nest among the tangled trees, then take the road again for home.

CHAPTER IV
RYDAL AND GRASMERE

It is unfortunate that so many see Lakeland from its main ways only. They realise its narrow bounds, but cannot justly appreciate its rare beauties. For a week or two such travel our macadam roads; they climb the most frequented mountains, visit ghylls and tarns and waterfalls, wander by the favourite lakes: then away they pass, believing doubtless that Lakeland offers nothing further. Could they but come again, and discover our wealth of bypaths! Why I, a native of and dweller upon the soil, have spent the leisure of a dozen years and more in exploring without wearying, and know that many corners remain unvisited. To those who have seen Lakeland in hurried guise, I would say come again, avoid the sights noted in prose and verse, go elsewhere where you will, and at the end you may feel, with me, that less-known scenes make the “cream” look not unlike the watery dregs of the milk-pail.

On a cloudy morning we came to Rydal and turned up the road to Wordsworth’s home in old age. At Rydal Mount he produced some of his most characteristic poetry—short pieces such as “The Clouds” and “The Mountain Echo”; at Dove Cottage “The Excursion” and “The Prelude” were penned. In Wordsworth’s day the road in the glen did not send up an almost ceaseless clatter, and seldom did the steam plume by Waterhead pier meet his sight. The poet had an aversion to the larch-tree, an exotic then being planted extensively in the dales, and did not care much for steam and the work of the engineer. The trees in stiff lines and squares make hideous the mountain slopes to-day; but see them growing in romantic irregularity, as by Thirlmere, and you will believe that Wordsworth might have conceded a beauty to the larch. And there are things more hideous than steam—for instance, the petrol motor. Rydal Mount is not a museum: its grounds are kept private. It is a simple dales dwelling in design—round chimneys, lead-glazed windows, grey walls without, low-ceiled, raftered rooms within: its well-planned gardens are the only characteristic to mark it from many other abode of “the bettermer mak” of yeoman folk. Enthusiasts often run up from the road to peep over its shrubs and gate, but most tourists go heedlessly by this retreat of the aged poet. From the garden where the poet composed his verses—“bumming and booing to hissel,” says one who recollects him clearly: “bum—bum—bum—bum, and at every bum he maid a step forrit, mebbe six or sebben steps; then roond he wad whirrel and gang back—bum, bum, bum,—happen just as many times. It didn’t matter to him whether he wor in his ane garden or on t’ fell or on t’ roo-ad,”—there is a grand view. Down the glen to the lake, darkling under the massed clouds, over the woods of Rydal and a corner of the mere, Loughrigg and, dimly seen through rolling mists, Crinkle Crags and Bowfell. Would that a gleam of sunshine would kindle the grey and brown and dull red of dale and fellside to silver and russet, crimson and gold! For it is late September, and the glory of autumn is about us.

I have read many “interviews” with the aged Wordsworth. Some writers have seen him in idealism; others in a matter-of-fact light. A third class, bent on decrying his worth, have conjured up overheated visions of an uncultivated, unmannered man, calling to question his genius, his mode of living, his person. But some humble scribe, long before the poet was removed by death, penned the following. He had no difficulty in reaching the Laureate; a request at the door of Rydal Mount for a short interview was answered by the poet himself. “He took me by the hand in a way that did me good. There was welcome in his words and looks as well as in the shake of his hand, and in less than five minutes he was taking me round his fairy dwelling-place and pointing out to me the most striking objects of the beautiful and glowing scenes around. He was rather tall and thin, with a countenance somewhat pale, and more thoughtful than joyous. Simple and courteous in his demeanour, and frank in his remarks, he made me feel at ease. He was just the man that I had imagined him to be from reading his ‘Excursion.’” The same writer, looking into an ivied and moss-grown unused quarry near White Moss, expressed his pleasure at the sight. “Sir,” was the poet’s response, “all might find these secluded temples of beauty, but all will not give themselves the trouble to seek them.” The path which cuts along the breast of Nab Scar turns to the left just above the poet’s home, between it and Hart Head, name reminiscent of days when its holder was forester on Rydal fells to Le Flemings of old. Looking ahead, we see a rough road climbing up to as wild a piece of fell land as we have. It is another haunt of the shepherd, a land bleak and wild—the ravines of Rydal Head and the great crags of Fairfield, fit home for wild red deer. Fit home too for the half-wild, little Herdwick, that atom of sturdiness fit to live in a land of storm. Two months hence there will be a day of days in wild Rydal, when the shepherds clear their heafs of the flocks. The work begins ere daybreak, and lasts sometimes into the night following. The sheep dogs, obedient to the calls of their masters, range the whole fellsides very completely, driving down the sheep as they are detected in ghyll or by bog. The work is arduous for both men and dogs, the exact equivalent of the work in miles and altitude ascended being often tremendous.

Our way, however, is smoother, easier than this. We skirt the grounds of Rydal Mount: from a higher bank we look over its round chimneys on to the green glen below, on to Windermere, the river-lake, winding away between bluffs bronzed with fading foliage, to be lost at last in the heart of them; we look along the rocky edge of Loughrigg, where the dying bracken shows the approach of autumn. We are walking in a forest of stumpy oak-trees, the twisted heads of which speak eloquently of the power of the winter gales on this exposed fell-end: below us, with its long, narrow, wooded islet almost dividing it into two portions, is Rydalmere. From the outlet in Rothay to swampish White Moss it is in full sight, and of a kindlier hue than was chill Winander, which a corner of Loughrigg has now shut from sight. The breaking mass of cloud over Langdale Pikes is letting in the full day. On the road beneath, even thus early, the mad race of vehicles has begun. No one seems to be able to go slowly by Rydalmere, save the lumbering carrier’s cart. Once all the ordinary passenger traffic of the country was carried on these slow conveyances—I can see a merit in the method now. The coaches sweep you along at a fast trot; one gasps at new things that are gone ere he comprehends their beauty. And now we have motor-traffic, a series of giant ’buses followed by so many pillars of dust as though they held out the rallying signals for a world of traffic; these excel all in soul-destroying haste.

Our path clears the woodlands; there is now an uninterrupted view of the lake. Above the farmstead where De Quincey and Hartley Coleridge lived, the folks are busy making hay. In our glens this, the only harvest, is of great importance: unless it is well secured the supplies of winter forage for the flocks are scant and often much suffering is caused. The flocks are kept on the lowlands till late May, so that the crop is not sufficiently grown to be cut until late August and sometimes September. At that period the weather is so apt to be unsettled that, when once the grass is mown, almost superhuman efforts have to be made to house it. A few hours lost may mean that the farmer has to watch his crop soaking and wasting for a fortnight or more. My Southron reader will hardly believe that not infrequently whole fields of hay cannot be gathered in and are utterly lost on account of foul weather; in wet 1903, the acres of Lakeland meadows which yielded no crops for this reason, to the writer’s knowledge numbered thousands; and instances of carting the hay on sunny days in November, December, and even January were woefully frequent.

A little way ahead the path passes into a wilder scene. The woods close in from below; above, the brackens sway over a maze of broken, downthrown stones. The foot of the cliff is not many feet above, a block of limestone broken into by narrow spits of grass and bleached tongues of scree. Among the rocks a few sheep are feeding; as we approach they rush away, picking their way accurately and neatly over the debris at a great pace. Hereabouts on a winter’s morning you may be fortunate enough to surprise a fox, blinking and slinking away to some deep hold in the mountain after a night’s marauding. Every score yards gives a fresh view, a new angle of vision to the glen, the lake, and Loughrigg scattered o’er with purple waste of stones. Here we come to White Moss of the three roads, from which Dr. Arnold took his famous political allegory. That way twisting up through the boulders, climbing steeply and ruggedly over the top of the hill, well-nigh impossible to wheeled traffic, was his Old Corruption. Here another route swings up the hill, on a level keel certainly, but it climbs a great height and is far from easy—that was his Bit-by-bit Reform. Along a bold terrace a third road sweeps; it surveys the knot in front, passes the foot of Old Corruption with a puzzled glance as to what manner of man prefers such tortuous ways, comes to Bit-by-bit Reform and has half a mind to go that way, then remembers its destiny to carry traffic without labour or danger, and curves into the pass, avoiding the knot altogether—Radical Reform—scotching the hill of Privilege and Abuse. The cottage on the hillside is the home of our most noted trail-hound trainer, Steve Walker. A word as to his craft is not amiss as we near Grasmere, the home of fell-head sports. True lovers of the hound genus, the dalesmen are not content to let them slip out of sight in the summer, so have evolved a mimic fox-chase with a scent of aniseed. The course is laid round a rough daleside, the hounds loosed. It would be impossible for the fleetest horse to live long with them over such terrific ground. A circuit of six miles is often covered in little over the half hour. To train the hounds to so great pace is a recognised craft, and Steve often has half a dozen hounds in his hands for different owners. It is not an unusual sight to see three of his charges running neck and neck for the blue riband of the sport at Grasmere. The training is severe; pace is required and also strength and staying power. The food given is plain and strong; several hours each day are devoted to outdoor exercise. The trainer with his leash of hounds is a frequent sight on the Lake Country byways. Twice or thrice a week the hounds are put over a short trial course and their progress noted with care. The sport has a fascination for the dalesman-born, and I must not dwell too much upon it.

Grasmere Lake will shortly be visible over the tree-tops, but we seek a more striking approach. Therefore, sinking the hillside, we cross White Moss, down to the footbridge spanning the prattling Rothay. It is an angler’s path we tread; this length of water should be famous, for white-headed rodsmen tell legends of mighty trout, up to twenty pounds weight, which used to come from Windermere and Rydalmere to spawn upon the beaches here. Shortly the wood is cleared, the sunlight is touching Helm Crag in steady blaze; it comes forward to Silver Howe, and in a few seconds the rushing rivulet by our side is sending out myriad sparkles of glory. The sky has cleared, and there is prospect of a fairer day. The lake of Grasmere lies in a perfect basin, and, though its sweet retirement is somewhat marred by too many buildings, yet the glen for a greater part of the year remains a pleasant nook. From the shingle we stand upon, the head of the Rothay ravine, there is a beautiful view. In front, Silver Howe, to its right Helm Crag, then Steel fell, the gap of Dunmail, Seat Sandal and the stony backs of Rydal fells; beneath them are many lower hills, cut into by tiny level glens and narrow watercourses. But this sunny autumn morn the eye takes in the atmosphere of the scene even more than its component features. Thus the peaks soaring into the gleaming air become less important than the glorious woods at their feet. Autumn’s gorgeous art is vivid on fell and wood and meadow. The beauty of the scene lies in Nature’s harmonious blendings, and one feels that only the poet’s imagery can describe the scene. Silver Howe is pictured in two-thirds the width of Grasmere; at our feet a feathery cloudlet sails in a second sky. So clear, so perfect, the counterfeit that even the charming mystery of height remains. The summit curving against autumnal blue, the purple crags, the screes, here grey, there blue, there a finer tinge where rock, grass, and heather meet, the turgid flood of colour where the bracken is dying, the solid green of the larch woods, the softer plumes of birch, the fiery oaks, the fading green meadows, are all in this peaceful mirror.

There is a chunking of oars, and shortly across our range of vision there swings a small boat; it grounds a few yards away, a boat from the hotel carrying a visitor to the Loughrigg side. We hail the boatman, and in a few seconds have hired him to take us out on to the lake awhile. What a splendid picture the glen makes from the island! The village church towers above a knot of grey buildings across the meadows; the hills around all seem to be higher; the feast of colour is even finer than that seen from the foot of the lake. Above the eastern shore the woods, a paradise of varied tints, lit up by the bright sun, rise to the Wishing Gate. Then back again we are rowed. There are plenty of brackens here to give a flush to the hillside, but we avoid their tangle. Among the boulders the hardy sheep are grazing; no other animal could nibble and thrive on the short, slippery grass of the uplands. As we turn, the lake seems to have narrowed; really more of the level valley is in sight, and the mountains are discovering themselves in their true magnitude. When Red Bank is reached, the view is at its widest; over the gap of Dunmail is seen a blue portion of Skiddaw forest. As a dalesman, it must be confessed that I am somewhat impatient with our “show” scenes; they tell me few stories, arouse few reminiscences. It is on a foxhunt that my memory pauses, when we streamed off over the rough slopes toward Silver Howe—a grey day of winter, not a morning in full autumn. One sees but little of the lake in descending to Grasmere village, just outside which is Pavement End, reminiscent of our “Sports.” Here for at least thirty years was held our great athletic festival—the “Derby of the Dales.” Here were seen our fell runners, our pole leapers, our trail hounds, our wrestlers in the true mountain style. The course of the old fell race was up the rough hillside, “that precipice,” as our Southron friends call it. Had I space I would say much on this topic; the sports are held on another field now, and—shades of the past, you giant athletes of Cumbria!—the race is now run on less difficult ground across the glen.

At Grasmere, beneath the yews of the kirk-garth, the poet Wordsworth is buried. Rothay murmurs near by. The church is not yet “restored,” and remains simple as in the days of Wordsworth. There is a pretty custom here (and in other dales) known as “the rush-bearing.” Many years ago our chapels were not floored with timber, the earth was merely pressed hard by the use of generations. Damp struck up on wet days, and chill in winter, which rendered worship uncomfortable. Rushes were therefore strewn on the floor at the approach of winter. Time went on, the earthen floor was superseded: instead of the old gathering of rushes for use a festival has been inaugurated. The children of the glen weave rushes into crosses and bouquets, go in procession to the church and lay their offerings by the altar there.

Grasmere is in itself without especial charm to the visitor. It is too busy to grow beautiful; romance has stayed away, commercialism reigns, and I for one do not care a fig for the place outside its connection with the poet, with its great possession, his grave and its grey-towered church. But Grasmere as a centre for rambles is unparalleled.

My last glimpse of Grasmere was in wintry weather, and from the Wishing Gate. No snow had fallen; the frost-rime covered the valley with white, though the southern facets of the uplands, on which the sun had spent its feeble power, were stiff bronze. The lake was partly frozen, the westering light gleamed on ice and the dark patches of water here and there. The woods, last seen glorious with autumn tints, were now sere and thin. The silence was divine: no rumbling car passed on the road beneath, no sound of voice broke the spell. And bending over the frosted bars of the gate I wished Grasmere’s peace and content—and mine own. Turning away at length to pass over to sweet Rydal Water,—oh! banished was the dream from my mind, for a house new-built on the moor-edge peeps curious eyes through the plantations at the sacred corner of the Wishing Gate. Truly it is a commanding site; perhaps the owner is proud of a choice which gives him views of Grasmere and Rydal, Loughrigg and the Wishing Gate—I cannot justly rail at him, but my unreason wishes his dwelling far hence. From the ridge, with the level sunbeams around you, leaving the hollows veiled in misty blue, you look down upon Rydalmere. Skimmed over with ice, except where busy rills keep open a few yards’ space, its levels steely hard, with a few skaters gliding among its islets, with brown coppice and white fields rising around, with the towering front of Nab Scar frowning at the softer slacks of Loughrigg, Rydal was a sight to remember. But its glory was all forgotten as I noticed the frost flowers in the roadside—are Nature’s largest or her smallest forms the loveliest? Is the spreading landscape as full of beauty as the flowers formed by frost rime round a casual sod in the wayside? I know not, nor care.

CHAPTER V
ESTHWAITE WATER AND OLD HAWKSHEAD

If, after a complete survey of our Lakes, one is asked which could be spared, there is little doubt that often Esthwaite Water would be the one selected: so uncharacteristic is it, so unlike the rest of the country. It is a lowland mere strayed into a district of crag and brae and foaming rivulet. I don’t wish to agree with such an opinion, for Esthwaite has its real beauties.

Esthwaite mere certainly possesses no bold scenery; its shores are regular, its bays sweep in smooth curves among the meadows. No ridges of rock jut into its waters, its shores are smooth and shingly. Esthwaite is the weediest, reediest of our Lakes, and at places absolutely the quietest, though a great main road runs close beside. But the vale of Esthwaite, with its old village of Hawkshead, is worth of notice. In no other case is there so much to be said about the locality and so little about the lake. High Furness has ever been wild and retired. After Domesday it was given to the Baron of Kendal as a chase for deer—possibly because the country was uninhabitable at that time. Then great Furness Abbey arose, and obtained a wide right over this country-side. The Old Hall at Hawkshead was the home of the monks when they came to collect their tithes and harvests. With the fall of the monastery the Sandys family leapt to ascendancy. One Sandys in King Edward VI.’s time became Archbishop of York, and used his interest to procure a market, by royal charter, for the town, which thereupon began to flourish considerably. This Sandys also gave the old grammar school its foundation. The church on the hillside, standing like a watchtower above the grey roofs, owes much to the Sandys’s beneficence, but its interior is to the casual observer somewhat dull. Its register, giving a list of Burials in Woollen, is very complete, that curious old law passed to aid the woollen industry being rigidly observed for long in these parts.

To deal with present-day Hawkshead, there is the old church on high, its God’s acre now spreading from the narrow promontory on to the swelling hillside behind, the grammar school where Wordsworth was educated, and many an old house built in a fashion now long abandoned. There are curious nooks here and there, particularly near the church. One house, built with its upper story protruding on stone pillars to form a sort of penthouse, tells that here in happier days the “garn” or yarn was displayed, within the hum of the busy spinning-wheels, to the intending purchaser. To picture Hawkshead in its prime of two centuries ago is not easy. Though land was plentiful and even lay waste, the rigours of manorial law made it impossible to spread out environs on the sumptuous scale we are accustomed to to-day, so the little community was herded into the least possible space. Houses were built as near together as possible, with narrow entries not two yards wide passing between the squares; the main street was hardly broad enough to enable a coach to be driven along without fear of fouling some outstanding wall. Sunlight and fresh air were strangers, sanitary arrangements were nil, roadways, of natural earth, had a powerful range of suction assimilating sooner or later the masses of garbage thrown from door and window. Within the houses, ceilings were low: a tall man could not stand erect in the loftiest chamber. Stairways and passages were troublesome things to build, said our forefathers; so, when building the penthouse over the shop, many left the upper portion open, to form a ladder-reached balcony from which the sleeping apartments could be attained. What the huge rounded chimneys were intended for is almost a puzzle. The open fires, with that immense draught at work, could hardly throw off much heat, and firelight was an illuminant not favoured by our forefathers. All cooking was done in pans hanging over the burning fuel. One real attribute the spacious chimney had, and has. Across its throat, from bars, could hang whole sheep to be cured by “smoking.” Hung mutton, from a chamber fed with smoke of wood or peat, is hardly unknown even now in our wilder dales. The roofs without were slated with thin slabs of soft stone, locally quarried, for the hard grey slate was not discovered for the purpose then. Down the streets and across them at various places babbled tiny streams which, in their courses from the hills, alighted on the town. To pass these in time of flood, footbridges were provided for men, but how the great coaches managed to drive across their deep channels is a mystery. Looked at from a distance then, even more than now, Hawkshead would look like a grey blotch in the landscape. Though its population was more than at present, the old town was hardly half the width of the present one. One must have walked through streets with huddled houses on either hand awhile, then at once and completely have emerged into God’s country. The houses were close, mouldy, filthy erections, and the ignorance of the people was so great that these were preferred. The idea that anything could be more healthy than those fœtid rooms, poisonous smells, and filthy drinking-water!