GRASMERE has been called the heart of the Lake District, and not without good reason. As a centre for driving or walking it is ideal, for it is situated within an easy day’s march of nearly all the lakes. The summits of most of the higher mountains can be attained and Grasmere again be reached by nightfall.

In itself the vale of Grasmere, a happy mixture of beauty and domesticity, with its pretty little lake and surrounding mountains dotted here and there with farmsteads, cottages and villas, has strong claims upon the tourist. In addition to its innate beauty, it possesses the distinction of being the home of Lakeland’s richest literary associations. Not a nook or corner in it but breathes the memory of the Lake Poets, for it was here that the greatest of them lived, worshipped and died. William Wordsworth chose this spot for his home. First at the cottage at Town End, then at Allan Bank and ultimately at Rydal Mount, but a very short distance away, he “communed with solitude” and gave to the world the beautiful poems which have done so much to immortalize both Lakeland and himself.

To the tourist who passes through on the main road in the day’s excursion, Grasmere and Rydal are beautiful—perhaps delectable is a better word—but to see them properly and rightly to appreciate them, it is necessary to stroll along the fellsides by which they are overlooked. At the northern end of Rydal a wooden bridge crosses the stream—Rothay Beck, which joins Grasmere and Rydal—and gives access to a path known as Loughrigg Terrace. This was one of Wordsworth’s favourite walks, and as we follow along the breast of Loughrigg Fell and gaze down upon Grasmere, with its rich cordon of mountains and woods, we can easily realize the influences which chained a man of his temperament to this vale. Away at the far end of the lake is the little village with its square-towered church, in whose God’s Acre he is laid to rest. Beyond and above it is the gap in the mountains called Dunmail Raise, the entrance to Grasmere from the north. To the right of it rise the bare shoulders of Helvellyn and Seat Sandal; to the left Helm Crag—with its shattered rock summit—and further round the wildly secluded valley of Easedale, bounded by the wooded slopes of Silverhow. Truly a scene of singular charm!

Grasmere Church is the chief object of attraction in the valley. A quaint old edifice, its once time-weathered beauty has now been greatly marred by a coating of cement, rendered necessary by the ravages of time and a congregation which prefers to worship in a dry building. The inside of the church is quite old-time, however, and Wordsworth’s lines are still true in every detail,

The rest of the description is in the fifth book of “The Excursion.” On the north side of the nave is a tablet to Wordsworth which contains a portrait by Woolner with an appreciative inscription underneath. Out from the gloomy church we pass into the sunshine and, whether we have read his poetry or not, visit the sheltered corner under the yew-trees where a simple slate slab bears the plain inscription, and nothing more, “William Wordsworth, 1850,” “Mary Wordsworth, 1858,”—a tombstone in keeping with his simplicity of character and freedom from all that pertained to artificiality. The yew-trees were brought

across the lake from Loughrigg Tarn and planted here under Wordsworth’s own directions. Hartley Coleridge, the genial-hearted and brilliant son of the author of “The Ancient Mariner,” is buried a few yards away under the more elaborate headstone with a circular top.

The picturesque hamlet itself contains little of interest beyond perhaps the fact that the palatial but comfortable Rothay Hotel was originally built by the late Lord Cadogan, and was his home for many years. After the church, no doubt Dove Cottage claims attention. It was here that Wordsworth lived from 1799 to 1808, and to it he brought his bride, Mary Hutchinson, in 1802. De Quincey also occupied it for many years after Wordsworth left it; indeed it may safely be said that no other cottage has been visited by so many brilliant literary and artistic people of bygone times. The names of Sir Walter Scott, the Coleridges, Southey, Charles Lamb, Humphrey Davy, Charles Lloyd, Ruskin, Christopher North, Matthew Arnold and many others rise unbidden to the mind as one stands at the back door and gazes upwards to the summer house above the little rock-garden which Wordsworth designed, aided by his gentle sister Dorothy. This little natural rock-garden has been immortalized in the following farewell lines, written when the poet was leaving it for an absence of two months—his honeymoon:—

Dove Cottage has now been purchased by a number of Wordsworth’s admirers and is preserved as a permanent memorial. The quaint rooms contain many priceless relics of the Lakes Poets; much of the furniture is as Wordsworth and his sister used it and, to a person with even the most superficial knowledge of their writings, a visit must prove of absorbing interest.

Dove Cottage is situated just off the main road, a few yards from the Prince of Wales Hotel, the name of which reminds one that Royalty has visited Grasmere. As quite a boy, our late King Edward VII. stayed at this magnificent and beautifully-situated hotel, and during his stay was rowed across to the Island. He wandered away from his attendants and happened upon some sheep grazing. Boylike, he collared one of them and treated himself to a ride, whereupon the old woman tending the sheep appeared round a corner, quickly collared His Royal Highness and gave him what she considered he richly deserved. Just then the attendants hove in sight and rescued the prince, explaining to the old woman the enormity of such an offence as thrashing the future King of England. With true rustic independence, she attached little importance to the exalted rank of her annoyer, and exclaimed, “King or nea King, he’s a badly browt up brat an’ if ah hed his mudder here ah’d tell her t’ seam!” Such is the incident as I had it the other day from one who knew well the old woman herself.

If we keep along past Dove Cottage and climb the hill between it and Rydal Water, we soon come to a gate in the wall on our right. This is Wordsworth’s “Wishing Gate” and from it Grasmere and Silverhow look their best. We must not linger here, however, but keep along the road until Rydal Water lies at our feet, with Nab Scar sweeping down to it on the left. This is the smallest of the lakes and at the same time one of the prettiest. “We admire great things, but love small ones”: this is one of the latter. Whether seen through the trees from the main road near Wordsworth’s Rock, or from its margin, the reedy foreshore and pretty islands, with gentle background of hills, give Rydal a place apart in Lakeland’s scheme of beauty. On the road

side near the Grasmere end of the lake is Nab Cottage, for many years the home of Hartley Coleridge—“Lile Hartley” of genial memory, loved by the dales-folk, a rare hand at a tale, and a “poet every inch o’ im,” as one of his local contemporaries voiced it to me the other day.

A couple of hundred yards further along on the road is a natural pedestal of rock with rough hewn steps leading to its top. This is supposed to have been used by Wordsworth as a view point and seat where he wrote many of his poems. What with the dust of motors and the hooting of their horns, and the rattling of char-a-bancs, one cannot help feeling that the poetry to-day would resolve itself into “a curse and a hasty descent.” However this may be, the hundred yards of main road on either side of the rock must surely be the most beautiful in all England to-day, and motorists and coaching-folk have as much right upon it, and perhaps enjoy it as much, as some of those who are so “down” on the wheeled traffic in Lakeland. The little village of Rydal, with its church, beech trees and old houses, leads us thence to Pelter Bridge and the walk through the beautiful park of Rothay.