Peeps at Many Lands: England

The road is freely used by the dalesfolk, save when winter snowdrifts block the passage, when it becomes too dangerous even for them. Snow is a terrible enemy on these bleak heights if it makes its appearance in earnest. The great snowstorm of January, 1895, will long be remembered, for it "blocked the roads between Wensleydale and Swaledale until nearly the middle of March. Roads were cut out, with walls of snow on either side from 10 to 15 feet in height, but the wind and fresh falls blocked the passages soon after they had been cut. The difficulties of the dales-folk in the farms and cottages were extraordinary, for they were faced with starvation owing to the difficulty of getting in provisions. They cut ways through the drifts as high as themselves in the direction of the likeliest places to obtain food, while in Swaledale they built sledges."

Buttertubs Pass leads us to Hawes, a quiet little town lying among splendid hill scenery; and not far from Hawes is Semmerwater, the only piece of water in Yorkshire that really deserves to be called a lake. There is an old Yorkshire legend which gives Semmerwater a miraculous origin.

"Where the water now covers the land," says the story, "there used to stand a small town, and to it there once came an angel disguised as a poor and ill-clad beggar. The old man slowly made his way along the street from one house to another asking for food, but at each door he was sent empty away. He went on, therefore, until he came to a poor little cottage outside the town. Although the couple who lived there were almost as old and as poor as himself, the beggar asked for something to eat, as he had done at the other houses. The old folks at once asked him in, and, giving him bread, milk, and cheese, urged him to pass the night under their roof. Then, in the morning, when the old man was about to take his departure, came the awful doom upon the inhospitable town, for the beggar held up his hands, and said:

"'Semmerwater, rise! Semmerwater, sink!
And swallow the town, all save this house,
Where they gave me meat and drink.'"

Of course, the waters obeyed the disguised angel; and, for proof, have we not the existence of the lake, and is there not also pointed out an ancient little cottage standing alone at the lower end of the lake?"

THE PLAYGROUND OF ENGLAND – I

In the far north-west of our land stands a group of bold rocky mountains known as the Cumbrian Group. Here rise well-known peaks, the highest land in England – Scafell, Helvellyn, Skiddaw – and among the peaks lie many most beautiful lakes.

This lovely stretch of country is called the Lake District, and every year great numbers of people go to climb the rugged, broken heights, or to wander beside the shores of these pleasant stretches of water in this playground of England.

The great charm of the countryside lies in the wonderful variety of its scenery, and all the scenes so beautiful. The traveller passing through the land by coach or motor traverses, perhaps, a frowning pass, where huge bare rocks rise in gloomy grandeur, and the scene is one of savage desolation. He gets a glimpse of a still wilder nook as he passes the mouth of some "ghyll" (a cleft in the rocks), from whose dark recesses a "force" (a wild, rushing torrent) is madly pouring. Then he whirls round a corner, rolls down a slope, and the scene is changed as if by magic. He enters a quiet vale shut in by the hills, its level floor covered with sweet verdant meadows where the cattle feed, its face dotted with the quaint grey stone houses of shepherds and cottagers, and the "force," now a quiet, shining brook, winding its silver links over the face of the tiny valley.

On rolls the coach, and now a vaster prospect opens out – a prospect almost filled by a wide sheet of clear bright water, one of the great lakes of the country, and the road runs along the shore, skirting bays, crossing tributary streams, passing under shade of the pleasant woods that fringe the shore, and bringing to view at every turn some fresh beauty in the ever-changing scene.

The largest of all the lakes is Windermere, a splendid sheet of water about eleven miles long and one mile wide. It may be seen admirably from the deck of a lake steamer which runs from end to end. On a summer day the great lake is a picture of beauty: its bosom is dotted with white-sailed yachts, while pleasure-boats glide from island to island or from shore to shore. Like a great river the lake winds between its banks till northwards it is shut in by lofty hills, which spring from the water's edge. The lakeside is dotted with pretty houses, peeping from amidst groves of trees, with grey old farms lying among meadows and cornfields.

At a point where the road from the town of Kendal runs down to the waterside there is a ferry across the lake. From time immemorial the dalesmen and market-folk have crossed Windermere at this point, and it is known as The Ferry.

"There are legends to tell of this Ferry. The most sinister is of an awful voice which on wild nights began to peal across the turmoil, 'Boat!' Once a bold ferry-man answered the call, put off his boat, and rowed into the storm and darkness. Half an hour later he returned with boat swamping and without a passenger. The boatman's face was ashen with terror; he was dumb. Next day he died. No boatman, after this incident, could be prevailed to put off in darkness, so a priest was summoned from the Holy Holme. With bell and book he raised the skulking demon. At mid-day there was the voice of storm in the air, though, mindful of the call of the Master on Galilee, the waters fell calm. Voices argued with the priest, whose cross, firmly planted by the edge of the lake, was surrounded by terror-struck lake-men. At the end of a long altercation the demon released from thrall the soul of the boatman, and craved for mercy. For its peace, the priest laid the evil thing in the depths, there to remain until 'dry-shod men walk on Winander [the lake] and trot their ponies through the solid crags.'"

As we advance into the northern basin of the great lake, 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 voyage is ended at Ambleside, on the northern shore, where we take coach along the Rydal road to see some of the best-known parts of Lakeland, famous not only for their beauty, but also because the great poet Wordsworth lived there, and wrote of the lovely scenes which surrounded his home. Our way will take us by Rydal Water into lovely Grasmere, a sweet valley dotted with tiny lakes and ringed about by wild and lofty heights.

We pass Rydal Mount, where Wordsworth lived in old age, speed by Rydal Water, and on into Grasmere, where Wordsworth's grave lies beside the church, and the Rothay, his favourite stream, murmurs near by.

Beyond Grasmere we toil up the steep Pass of Dunmail, a wild, desolate, rock-strewn piece of country. At the head of the pass stands a pile of stones – the Cairn of Dunmail – telling of

"Old unhappy far-off things
And battles long ago."

In far-off days Dunmail was the last King of Cumbria, whose people then were Picts. Edgar the Saxon came against him to seize the crown, and of this crown of Cumbria a strange legend is told.

The crown of Dunmail was charmed, and whoever could seize it was certain to gain the kingdom. So Edgar the Saxon was eager to get it into his hands. Now, there was a wizard in those days who lived in a cave among the hills, and he held a master-charm which would make the magic power of the crown useless. Dunmail sought the cave of the wizard to slay him, and thus make himself safe in the possession of the magic crown.

But to reach the magician was no easy thing. His cave was guarded by a ring of wild wolves, who watched their master. Further, the wizard had the power to make himself invisible, save for one moment, and that at the break of day. But one morning, at peep of dawn, Dunmail burst through the ring of wolves and dashed into the cave, sword in hand. The magician leapt to his feet to utter a curse on the King, and he had called out the words, "Where river runs north or south with the storm," when the sword fell, and he was slain at a single stroke.

When Edgar the Saxon heard of this, he sent spies to find out the place of which the magician had spoken, and they found out that the words were true of Dunmail Raise. And they are true to this day. In times of storm the torrent on Dunmail will set north or south with the wind in most uncertain fashion.

In the pass the two armies met, and there was a fierce battle. At first the Picts under Dunmail held the upper hand, and the Saxons were beaten back again and again. But some of the chiefs who followed Dunmail were traitors, and they turned on their King and slew him, and gave the day to the Saxons.

As Dunmail fell, he tore off his magic crown and gave it to a faithful follower. "Bear my crown away!" he cried; "let not the Saxon ever wear it." He was obeyed. A few loyal chiefs burst their way through the foe, the crown among them, and escaped in a great cloud of mist. They fled across the hills, and came to a deep tarn. Here they flung the crown into its depths, leaving it there "till Dunmail come again to lead us."

And legend says that every year the faithful warriors come back, draw up the magic circlet from the depths of the tarn, and carry it to the pile where their King lies in his age-long sleep. They knock with his spear on the topmost stone of the cairn, and from its heart comes a voice – "Not yet, not yet; wait awhile, my warriors."

THE PLAYGROUND OF ENGLAND – II

Over the top of Dunmail Raise we go, and soon Thirlmere comes into sight – a long, lonely lake with never a farmhouse or cottage to break the silence of its shores. Why so lonely? Because Thirlmere is at once a lake and a reservoir. Its clear waters form the drinking-supply of busy, mill-packed Manchester, and through ninety miles of mountain and moorland and meadow runs a huge iron pipe, which conveys these clear waters to the houses of the far-off town.

To secure the lake from pollution, the whole of the ground around it has been purchased and cleared of its scanty population, and now clear brooks pour their water, undefiled by any use, into the great basin.

Seen from the main road – for nearer approach is forbidden – Thirlmere is a scene of great beauty. The placid lake lies sleeping in its hollow, and beyond, up springs the noble mass of the mighty Helvellyn, furrowed with watercourses, jagged with scaurs and grey outcrops of rock, with wide stretches of bracken and sweeps of green grass. Then, again, in full sight, are Saddleback and, away to the north, Skiddaw; the latter has a fleecy cloud streaming from its summit, much, we fancy, as the smoke must have streamed away on that famous Armada night when

"Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile,
And the red glare of Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle."

Some distance farther we pause to climb up to the Justice Stone, a huge flat-topped boulder, a famous landmark, and a stone around which many stories have gathered. It is said that in plague times this was a spot to which came people from the plague-ridden town of Keswick, a few miles ahead. They brought money in their hands and laid it on the Justice Stone, and retired; then the pedlars and dealers, bringing goods from the outside world, came up to the stone, laid down the goods, and took up the money. In this way business was done, and yet the outsiders did not come into contact with the plague-stricken citizens. The Justice Stone was also the gathering-place for the shepherds of the neighbouring valleys. Here they met to exchange strayed sheep, and deal fairly with each other, and thus the name sprung up. The stone was used for this purpose until almost within living memory.

On we go to Keswick, and here we are in the country of Derwentwater, a splendid sheet which many hail as Queen of the Lakes. It is a most picturesque lake, dotted with beautiful islands and encircled by mountain heights. Its islands are real islands – not mere snags of rock thrusting themselves above the water, but sweeps of level, well-wooded land. On one of them, Lord's Isle, once dwelt the Earls of Derwentwater. The last Earl was one of the Jacobite leaders of "the Fifteen" when in 1715 the Old Pretender tried to regain the Stuart crown. The rebellion failed, and the Earl was beheaded on Tower Hill. His lands were seized, his mansion fell into ruins, and his family became extinct.

Not far from Lord's Isle are the famous Falls of Lodore, sung by the poet Southey. His description does not hold in dry weather, but after a great fall of rain his words prove to have no exaggeration about them. Down from the moorland the stream comes rushing and leaping from ledge to ledge of rock with clouds of spray, a tumultuous thundering of leaping water, and all the force and fury painted in the well-known poem.

The head of Derwentwater is so overgrown by weed that a path has been cut to allow boats to row up to Lodore, and not far away is the Floating Island, anchored to the bottom by long cables of weed-growth. It is formed by a great mat of vegetable fibre, which usually lies on the lake-bed; but at times this fibre becomes filled with natural gas, and then it rises in a mass and floats on the surface as an island.

Near this point the River Derwent enters the lake from the narrow glen of Borrowdale, famous for its "Bowder Stone," a vast boulder which has fallen from the crags above. The remarkable thing about this huge stone – some 2,000 tons in weight – is that it has fallen, as it were, on its point and remained there. It has settled in some wonderful fashion on so narrow a base that people on opposite sides of it may shake hands through a hole under it.

Borrowdale enjoys another distinction, too – that of being the wettest place in England. At Seathwaite, near the head of the glen, 180 inches of rain have been known to fall in a single year, four or five times the average rainfall for the country in general.

Not far from Derwentwater is the pretty lake of Bassenthwaite. Between them is a low-lying strip of grassy land. And it happens at times when Borrowdale pours down its teeming floods that this strip sinks below the rising water, and the lakes mingle and form one great stretch from end to end.

But there is one other lake we must glance at before we leave this land of beauty, and this is Coniston Water.

Coniston Water is a noble lake embosomed in a mass of mountains, of which the finest is Coniston Old Man, a famous peak. It is noted as the home of char, that mysterious and beautiful fish of the Lake Country. Very little is known of this fish, for, as a rule, during the fishing season they keep at the bottom of deep water, and very rarely are they captured with the fly. Sometimes they are taken by the net, or by a long line weighted with lead. Potted char is a famous delicacy in Lakeland, and commands high prices, and in old recipes mention is found of char-pie.

On the shores of Coniston Water stands Brantwood, where John Ruskin lived, and Tennyson and other famous men have had houses beside this beautiful lake.

The craggy hills around Coniston are, in their most solitary recesses, the haunt of wild goats. The goats were introduced a long time ago to keep the hill-sheep from the most dangerous places, for a goat will walk and browse calmly upon cliffs where a sheep would become giddy, fall, and be dashed to pieces. Sheep will not feed where goats have been, and thus they are kept from these dangerous places. The goats are very wild and shy, and never seen save when winter's snow drives them down from the rugged heights in search of food.

Such are a few – a very few – of the beauty-spots of this lovely region. We have not spoken of other lakes, such as Ullswater, home of beauty, or soft Loweswater, or wild Wastwater, and many another mere or tarn, all beautiful, all worthy of a place in the hearts of those who love the romantic and the picturesque.

HEROES OF THE STORM

England has many workers, but none braver than the toilers of the sea. Her coasts are dotted with hamlets, each with its little quay or open beach, where her fishermen hoist their brown sails and set off, as evening falls, to reap the harvest of the waters.

It is a hard and perilous life. A fishing-boat puts off in the quiet evening calm, as the lights shine out from the cottages along the shore, but the men on board are never sure that they will see those lights of home again. A sudden storm springs up; the heavy waves overwhelm the tiny craft, and perhaps its brave crew are swallowed up in the sea. A broken thwart or spar washed ashore may give a hint of their fate, but they are never seen again among living men.

But the facing of these perils breeds the finest and hardiest race of boatmen in the world. This is seen to the full when a call is made for the services of the lifeboat. Let us fancy that we are walking through the single street of a fishing village on a winter day, when a tremendous storm is lashing the coast. The street is empty save for ourselves, and every door is fast shut against the bitter wind. The boats are all home from sea, and are dragged high up on the shingle, out of reach of the great breakers which thunder on the shore and send their surf swirling in masses of snowy foam along the beach. We make our way inch by inch in the teeth of the terrific wind, and are thankful for the smallest shelter in which to pause and draw a breath.

Suddenly a man comes racing up from the little quay. He pauses at the door of a building which stands alone; he seizes a rope and begins to pull, and the loud clanging of a bell mingles with the shrieks of the storm.

Ah! what a change! The silent, deserted village becomes a scene of the busiest life and animation. Doors burst open on every hand, and out rush men, and race head down against the wind for the building where the bell is ringing. After them stream women and children; all run as if running for a wager. What prize do those stalwart fellows race to gain? The prize of risking their lives to help their fellow-creatures. There is a wreck off shore, and the bell is calling volunteers to man the lifeboat. The first men to gain the house form the crew, and these at once begin to jump into oilskins and fasten huge cork belts round their bodies, while the great boat is run out and hurried down to the beach.