"How does the water come down at Lodore?"

My little boy asked me thus, once on a time, Moreover, he task'd me to tell him in rhyme; Anon at the word there first came one daughter.

And then came another to second and third The request of their brother, and hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, with its rush and its roar, As many a time they had seen it before.

So I told them in rhyme, for of rhymes I had store.

And 'twas my vocation that thus I should sing.

Because I was laureate to them and the king.

Visitors to the Lake District, who might chance to find fine weather there, would be disappointed if they expected the falls to be equal to the poet's description, since heavy rains are essential to produce all the results described in his poem. But seen as we saw them, a torrential flood of water rushing and roaring, the different streams of which they were composed dashing into each other over the perpendicular cliffs on every side, they presented a sight of grandeur and magnificence never to be forgotten, while the trees around and above seemed to look on the turmoil beneath them as if powerless, except to lend enchantment to the impressive scene.

And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing-- And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever are blending.

All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar-- And this way the water comes down at Lodore!

The water rolled in great volumes down the crags, the spray rising in clouds, and no doubt we saw the falls at their best despite the absence of the sun. Near Lodore, and about 150 yards from the sh.o.r.e of Derwent.w.a.ter, was a floating island which at regular intervals of a few years rises from the bottom exposing sometimes nearly an acre in extent, and at others only a few perches. This island was composed of a ma.s.s of decayed weeds and earthy matter, nearly six feet in thickness, covered with vegetation, and full of air bubbles, which, it was supposed, penetrated the whole ma.s.s and caused it to rise to the surface.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HEAD OF DERWENt.w.a.tER. "So we journeyed on in the rain alongside the pretty lake of Derwent.w.a.ter; ... with its nicely wooded islands dotting its surface it recalled memories of Loch Lomond."]

By this time we had become quite accustomed to being out in the rain and getting wet to the skin, but the temperature was gradually falling, and we had to be more careful lest we should catch cold. It was very provoking that we had to pa.s.s through the Lake District without seeing it, but from the occasional glimpses we got between the showers we certainly thought we were pa.s.sing through the prettiest country in all our travels. In Scotland the mountains were higher and the lakes, or lochs, much larger, but the profiles of the hills here, at least of those we saw, were prettier. About two miles from the Falls of Lodore we arrived at the famous Bowder Stone. We had pa.s.sed many crags and through bewitching scenery, but we were absolutely astonished at the size of this great stone, which Wordsworth has described as being like a stranded ship:

Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground, A ma.s.s of rock, resembling, as it lay Right at the foot of that moist precipice, A stranded ship with keel upturned, that rests Careless of winds and waves.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE BOWDER STONE.]

The most modest estimate of the weight of the Bowder Stone was 1,771 tons, and we measured it as being 21 yards long and 12 yards high. This immense ma.s.s of rock had evidently fallen from the hills above. We climbed up the great stone by means of a ladder or flight of wooden steps erected against it to enable visitors to reach the top. But the strangest thing about it was the narrow base on which the stone rested, consisting merely of a few narrow ledges of rock. We were told that fifty horses could shelter under it, and that we could shake hands with each other under the bottom of the stone, and although we could not test the accuracy of the statement with regard to the number of horses it could shelter, we certainly shook hands underneath it. To do this we had to lie down, and it was not without a feeling of danger that we did so, with so many hundreds of tons of rock above our heads, and the thought that if the rock had given way a few inches we should have been reduced to a mangled ma.s.s of blood and bones. Our friendly greeting was not of long duration, and we were pleased when the ceremony was over. There is a legend that in ancient times the natives of Borrowdale endeavoured to wall in the cuckoo so that they might have perpetual spring, but the story relates that in this they were not entirely successful, for the cuckoo just managed to get over the wall. We now continued our journey to find the famous Yew Trees of Borrowdale, which Wordsworth describes in one of his pastorates as "those fraternal four of Borrowdale":

But worthier still of note Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved; Nor uniformed with Phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane; a pillared shade, From whose gra.s.sless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially--beneath whose sable roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked With unrejoicing berries--ghostly shapes May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton, And Time the Shadow; there to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BORROWDALE AND SEATHWAITE]

It was a lonely place where the four yew trees stood, though not far from the old black lead works which at one time produced the finest plumbago for lead pencils in the world. As the rain was falling heavily, we lit a fire under the largest of the four trees, which measured about twenty-one feet in circ.u.mference at four feet from the ground, and sheltered under its venerable shade for about an hour, watching a much-swollen streamlet as it rolled down the side of a mountain.

Near the yew trees there was a stream which we had to cross, as our next stage was over the fells to Grasmere; but when we came to its swollen waters, which we supposed came from "Glaramara's inmost Caves," they were not "murmuring" as Wordsworth described them, but coming with a rush and a roar, and to our dismay we found the bridge broken down and portions of it lying in the bed of the torrent. We thought of a stanza in a long-forgotten ballad:

London Bridge is broken down!

Derry derry down, derry derry down!

Luckily we found a footbridge lower down the stream. It was now necessary to inquire our way at one of the isolated farms in the neighbourhood of Borrowdale, where the people knew very little of what was going on in the world outside their own immediate environs. We heard a story relating to the middle of the eighteenth century, when in the absence of roads goods had to be carried on horseback. A rustic, who had been sent for a bag of lime, the properties of which were unknown in remote places, placed the bag on the back of his horse, and while he was returning up the hills the rain came on, soaking the bag so that the lime began to swell and smoke. The youth thought that it was on fire, so, jumping off his horse, he filled his hat with water from the stream and threw it on the bag. This only made matters worse, for the lime began smoking more than ever; so he lifted it from the horse's back and placed it in the water at the edge of the stream, where, in addition to smoking, it began to boil and to make a hissing sound, which so frightened the young man that he rode home in terror, feeling sure that it was the Devil who had sneaked inside the bag!

We made our way to a farmhouse which we could see in the distance, but the farmer advised us not to attempt to cross the fells, as it was misty and not likely to clear up that day. So we turned back, and in about two miles met a countryman, who told us we could get to Grasmere over what he called the "Green Nip," a mountain whose base he pointed out to us.

We returned towards the hills, but we had anything but an easy walk, for we could find no proper road, and walked on for hours in a "go as you please" manner. Our whereabouts we did not know, since we could only see a few yards before us. We walked a long way up hill, and finally landed in some very boggy places, and when the shades of evening began to come on we became a little alarmed, and decided to follow the running water, as we had done on a very much worse occasion in the north of Scotland.

Presently we heard the rippling of a small stream, which we followed, though with some difficulty, as it sometimes disappeared into the rocks, until just at nightfall we came to a gate at the foot of the fells, and through the open door of a cottage beheld the blaze of a tire burning brightly inside. We climbed over the gate, and saw standing in the garden a man who stared so hard at us, and with such a look of astonishment, that we could not have helped speaking to him in any case, even had he not been the first human being we had seen for many hours. When we told him where we had come from, he said we might think ourselves lucky in coming safely over the bogs on such a misty day, and told us a story of a gentleman from Bradford who had sunk so deeply in one of the bogs that only with the greatest difficulty had he been rescued.

He told us it was his custom each evening to come out of his cottage for a short time before retiring to rest, and that about a month before our visit he had been out one night as usual after his neighbours had gone to bed, and, standing at his cottage door, he thought he heard a faint cry. He listened again: yes, he could distinctly hear a cry for help. He woke up his neighbours, and they and his son, going in the direction from which the cries came, found a gentleman fast in the rocks. He had been on a visit to Grasmere, and had gone out for an afternoon's walk on the fells, when the mist came on and he lost his way. As night fell he tried to get between some rocks, when he slipped into a crevice and jammed himself fast between them--fortunately for himself as it afterwards proved, for when the rescuing party arrived, they found him in such a dangerous position that, if he had succeeded in getting through the rocks the way he intended, he would inevitably have fallen down the precipice and been killed.

After hearing these stories, we felt very thankful we were safely off the fells. Without knowing it, we had pa.s.sed the scene of the Battle of Dunmail Raise, where Dunmail, the last King of c.u.mbria, an old British kingdom, was said to have been killed in 945 fighting against Edmund, King of England.

The place we had stumbled upon after reaching the foot of the fells was Wythburn, at the head of Thirlmere Lake, quite near Amboth Hall, with its strange legends and a.s.sociations. The mansion was said to be haunted by supernatural visitors, midnight illuminations, and a nocturnal marriage with a murdered bride. The most remarkable feature of the story, however, was that of the two skulls from Calgarth Hall, near Windermere, which came and joined in these orgies at Amboth Hall. These skulls formerly occupied a niche in Calgarth Hall, from which it was found impossible to dislodge them. They were said to have been buried, burned, ground to powder, dispersed by the wind, sunk in a well, and thrown into the lake, but all to no purpose, for they invariably appeared again in their favourite niche until some one thought of walling them up, which proved effectual, and there they still remain.

The rain had now ceased, and the moon, only three days old, was already visible and helped to light us on our four-mile walk to Grasmere. On our way we overtook a gentleman visitor, to whom we related our adventure, and who kindly offered us a drink from his flask. We did not drink anything stronger than tea or coffee, so we could not accept the whisky, but we were glad to accept his guidance to the best inn at Grasmere, where we soon relieved the cravings of our pedestrian appet.i.tes, which, as might be imagined, had grown strongly upon us.

(_Distance walked twenty-two miles_.)

_Tuesday, October 17th._

GRASMERE. Our first duty in the morning was to call at the post office for our letters from home, and then to fortify ourselves with a good breakfast; our next was to see the graves of the poets in the picturesque and quiet churchyard. We expected to find some ma.s.sive monuments, but found only plain stone flags marking their quiet resting-places, particularly that of Wordsworth, which was inscribed:

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 1850 MARY WORDSWORTH 1859.

The grave of Hartley Coleridge, his great friend, who was buried in 1849, was also there. There are few who do not know his wonderful poem, "The Ancient Mariner," said to have been based on an old ma.n.u.script story of a sailor preserved in the Bristol Library. Strange to say, not far from his grave was that of Sir John Richardson, a physician and arctic explorer, who brought home the relics of Sir John Franklin's ill-fated and final voyage to the Arctic regions to discover the North-West Pa.s.sage. This brought to our minds all the details of that sorrowful story which had been repeatedly told to us in our early childhood, and was, to our youthful minds, quite as weird as that of "The Ancient Mariner."

[Ill.u.s.tration: GRASMERE CHURCH.]

Sir John Franklin was born in 1786. Intended by his parents for the Church, but bent on going to sea, he joined the Royal Navy when he was fourteen years of age, and served as a midshipman on the _Bellerophon_ at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, afterwards taking part in Captain Flinders' voyage of discovery along the coast of Australia. His first voyage to the Arctic Regions was in 1818, and after a long and eventful career he was created Governor of Van Diemen's Land in 1837, whither criminals convicted of grave offences involving transportation for life were sent from England, where he did much for the improvement and well-being of the colony.

On May 19th, 1845, he left England with the two ships _Erebus_ and _Terror_, having on board 28 officers and 111 men--in all 134 souls--on a voyage to the Arctic Regions in the hope of discovering the North-West Pa.s.sage. They reached Stromness, in the Orkneys, on July 1st, and were afterwards seen and spoken to in the North Sea by the whaler _Prince of Wales_, belonging to Hull. After that all was blank.

Lady Franklin did not expect to receive any early news from her husband, but when two years pa.s.sed away without her hearing from him, she became anxious, and offered a large reward for any tidings of him. In 1848 old explorers went out to search for him, but without result. Still believing he was alive, she sent out other expeditions, and one was even dispatched from America. All England was roused, and the sympathy of the entire nation was extended to Lady Franklin.

Nine long years pa.s.sed away, but still no news, until intelligence arrived that an Eskimo had been found wearing on his head a gold cap-band which he said he had picked up where "the dead white men were."

Lady Franklin then made a final effort, and on July 1st, 1857, Captain McClintock sailed from England in the _Fox_. In course of time the matter was cleared up. It was proved that the whole of the expedition had perished, Sir John Franklin having died on June 11th, 1847. Many relics were found and brought back to England.

[Ill.u.s.tration: DOVE COTTAGE.]

Lady Franklin, who died in 1875, was still alive at the time we pa.s.sed through Grasmere. One of her last acts was to erect a marble monument to Sir John Franklin in Westminster Abbey, and it was her great wish to write the epitaph herself, but as she died before this was accomplished, it was written by Alfred Tennyson, a nephew of Sir John by marriage, and read as follows:

Not here! the white North hath thy bones, and thou Heroic Sailor Soul!

Art pa.s.sing on thy happier voyage now Towards no earthly pole.

Dean Stanley added a note to the effect that the monument was "Erected by his widow, who, after long waiting and sending many in search of him, herself departed to seek and to find him in the realms of light, 18th July, 1875, aged eighty-three years."

But to return to Grasmere. Wordsworth lived there from 1803 to 1809 at the Dove Cottage, of which, in the first canto of "The Waggoner," he wrote:

For at the bottom of the brow Where once the "Dove and Olive-Bough"

Offered a greeting of good ale To all who entered Grasmere Vale; And called on him who must depart To leave it with a jovial heart; There, where the "Dove and Olive-Bough"

Once hung, a poet harbours now, A simple water-drinking Bard.

When Wordsworth moved to Rydal Mount, this cottage, which had formerly been a public-house, was taken by that master of English prose, Thomas de Quincey, author of the _Confessions of an English Opium Eater_.

[Ill.u.s.tration: RYDAL MOUNT.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE POET'S SEAT, RYDAL WATER.]

Wordsworth had the habit of reciting his poetry aloud as he went along the road, and on that account the inhabitants thought he was not quite sane. When Hartley Coleridge, his great friend, asked an old man who was breaking stones on the road if he had any news, he answered, "Why, nowte varry partic'lar; only awd Wordsworth's brokken lowse ageean!" (had another fit of madness). On another occasion, a lady visitor asked a woman in the village whether Wordsworth made himself agreeable among them. "Well," she said, "he sometimes goes booin' his pottery about t'rooads an' t'fields an' tak's na nooatish o' neabody, but at udder times he'll say 'Good morning, Dolly,' as sensible as owder you or me."

The annual sports held at Grasmere were of more than local interest, and the Rush-bearing was still kept up, but not quite in the manner prevalent in earlier centuries. When heating apparatus was unknown in churches, the rushes were gathered, loaded in a cart, and taken to the church, where they were placed on the floor and in the pews to keep the feet of the worshippers warm while they were in the church, being removed and replenished each year when the rush-bearing festival came round again. One of our earliest recollections was sitting amongst the rushes on the floor of a pew in the ancient country church at Lymm in Cheshire.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WORDSWORTH'S GRAVE.]

An item in the Church Book at Grasmere, dating from the seventeenth century, recorded the cost of "Ye ale bestowed on ye Rush Bearers,"

while in 1830 gingerbread appeared to have been subst.i.tuted or added as a luxury to "ye ale."