In our summer fishings, one of the spots to which we used to resort was a quaint cottage in the vale of Duddon—the Duddon that Wordsworth has immortalised in his series of sonnets. The cottage stood hard by the stream, and in it lived a widow woman, the daughter of a hill "statesman." During trout-time the house was embowered in greenery. Deliciously cool was its whitewashed porch and clean sanded floor, a great tree standing over all. In the grate of her parlour in summer, where Mr. Wordsworth often used to sit, she invariably had a thick sod of purple heather in full bloom. To the stream many anglers came, and drew from their holds the pink-spotted trout. The dipper and kingfisher darted by the door, and those who drank in the quiet and pastoral peace of Duddon never forgot it. The woman of the cottage, by great industry and exertion, had reared and settled comfortably in life a large family. She was respected by all about her. Out of her small means she gave away almost as much food and home-brewed ale as was sold by any inn of the country-side. For one in so limited a sphere in life hers was almost an ideal one; and yet her end was terribly tragic. She left home one wintry afternoon to visit a sick relation in Eskdale. At this time "pedlars"—of whom the Wanderer of "The Excursion" is a type—were common in remote country districts; and one of these offered to convey her in his gig to her destination over the Birk-Moor road. At the end of this he was to take her up at a stated time. It happened that she was too late for the traveller, but walked onward, supposing that he was behind and would overtake her. On the sixth day after this, the clergyman's daughter from Eskdale casually called at the poor woman's cottage. It then became known that she had not been seen at Eskdale, and a band of dalesfolk at once set out to search the Fells. The body of the poor creature was found only forty yards from the road, her hands and knees terribly lacerated and her dress torn. These showed that after losing the power of walking she had struggled on, no one knows how far, upon her hands and knees. She had taken out her spectacles, as was thought, to assist her in seeing her way through the blinding mists. These had prevailed for a week, and to them must be attributed the fact that her body lay so long undiscovered on the mountain road. Some sweetmeats tied in a handkerchief, which she had carried for her grandchildren, were found near the spot where she died.

None but those who have been caught in them can form any idea of how terrible are mountain snowstorms. Blinding and bewildering, both men and animals quickly succumb to them. Clouds and banks of snow rush hither and thither in opaque masses; the bitter hail and sleet seem to drive through you. A few moments after the storm breaks every wrap is soaked through; the cold is intense, and a sense of numbness soon takes possession of the entire body. Twice has the writer narrowly escaped death on the northern mountains in winter, deliverance upon one occasion being made barely in time by a search-party of shepherds.

Easdale is one of the most picturesque glens among the Cumbrian mountains—"a spot made by nature for herself." With its tarn, its ghyll-contained waterfall, and the fact of its being placed among the splintery peaks of the Borrowdale series, it constitutes a wildly charming spot at every season. Here upon the snow, many years ago, was played a cruel tragedy indeed. A poor hard-working peasant and his wife, named Green, were returning from Langdale late on a wintry evening to their home in Easdale. A terrible storm overtook them on the way, and, becoming exhausted, both died in it. Meanwhile six children were snow-bound in their cottage, where, without help, they remained several days. Fully appreciating their situation, but as yet ignorant of the fate which had befallen their parents, a little lass of nine assumed command and exhibited unusual forethought and care in meeting the home wants of her brothers and sisters. After some days she made her escape from the cottage, and told the hill shepherds how her father and mother had failed to return. A search party was organised; and after some time the bodies were discovered upon the hills at a short distance from each other.

II.

The wheatears love to haunt the old wall, and in summer are never far from it. In one of its niches they have their pale blue eggs. The wall runs by the side of the fells. The grass on its side is green as the water runs down them from the crags. The wall has a fauna and a flora all its own. In the interstices of the stones spleenwort and the parsley-fern grow; there are mosses and lichens too, and stone-crop. A few grasses wave airily on the scant mound at the top. A foxglove with its purple fingers grows solitary. Two species of shelled snail take harbour in the wall—one of them the beautiful Helix nemoralis. There are insects innumerable, bronze and gilded flies, and spiders that hang out their golden webs to the dews of morning. These are festooned from stone to stone, and are productions of the night. Weasels love the old wall, mice hide beneath it, and from it in spring the hedgehog rolls, its spines covered with dead oak leaves. Sometimes the fox, as it leaves its green "benk" in the crags, runs along its summit. Harebells nod at its foot, as do green-smelling brackens. Mountain blackbirds perch upon it, and stonechats and pipits.

Half-way down the wall, on its near side, is a sad green spot. Beside it we have thrown up a loose, lone cairn. It happened in winter when the fells were white. The snows had fallen thickly for many days; all the deep holes were filled up, and the mountain road was no longer to be seen. The wall tops stood as white ridges on the otherwise smooth surface. Only the crags hung in shaggy, snowy masses, black seams and scars picking out the dread ravines. Nature was sombre and still. It seemed as though her pulse had ceased to beat. The softly winnowed snowflakes still fell, and not even the wing of a bird of prey wafted the cold, thin air. It had gone hard with the sheep. Hundreds were buried in the snow, and would have to be dug out. They sought the site of the old wall, and fell into the deepest drifts. Only the hardy goatlike herdwicks instinctively climbed to the bleak and exposed fell tops. In this was their safety. To relieve the sheep that had as yet escaped, hay was carried to the Fells. Each shepherd had a loose bundle upon his back. It was thus, with the three dogs, that we toiled up the gorge, by an undefined route, parallel to the buried fence. Soon it commenced to snow heavily, and the sky suddenly darkened. The dogs that were in front stopped before some object. They whined, ran towards us, and gave out short, sharp barks. With a kind of instinctive dread we followed them. They led us on to a granite boulder; on its lee side lay something starkly outlined against the snow. Dead! we whispered to each other. There was no trace of pain—nothing but quiet peace. The icy fingers grasped a pencil, and on the snow lay a scrap of paper. It contained only two words—"This day"—nothing more.

It was Christmas. In silent benediction the snow-flakes fell upon him, and as these formed a pure white shroud, his face seemed touched with the light of ineffable love. We buried him next day in the little mountain cemetery. Whence he came, or whither he went, none ever knew. A few belongings—paltry enough—are thrust in a hole in the old barn for her. How precious, too, God knows, if ever she should come that way.

This cold, still, dead thing, is a sad association,—but it will remain.

III.

A green mountain slope, with red outcroppings here and there, had originally suggested untold treasure in the shape of rich iron ore. This had produced, as the hill-side abundantly showed, the various stages of mining enthusiasm. But the ordinary processes of nature would, in this case, seem to have been reversed; and so it came about that the wildest dreams of the prospectors were never to be realised. The rich red rock which showed at the top degenerated in quality in exact ratio as it gained in depth. And this fact it was that cost the original holders so many thousands of pounds. Never had speculation seemed less speculative. But, instead of being buried in the inmost recesses of the mountain, the absolutely pure ironstone cropped up among the brackens, picking out their tender green with its deep earthy stains. Nuggets knocked from the "leads" were dense and heavy to the hand, and mutely asked but to be worked to be transmuted into gold. It needed but little persuasion for men to embark in this undertaking, and that little was furnished by the mining engineers. Their reports were as glowing as the red ironstone itself. Then active operations were commenced. Every one concerned threw himself vigorously into the work, and a valley previously unknown became as active as an invaded ant-hill. Stalwart miners came there with "kit" and tools, men skilled in their work, who had disembowelled the mountains of Cumberland and Cornwall. These men occupied the wooden "shanties" that had been hastily erected for them; and, as they took the sun among the birch and hazel bushes on Sundays, dreamt over the dreams of the sanguine proprietors.

It were well, however, to draw a veil over all subsequent proceedings. Nature, for her part, has already done so. The torn and abraded hill-sides have lost their harsh outlines, and a veil of kindly mantling green has spread itself over all. True, as in other similar enterprises, there are still traces of the useless essay—the dull prosaic record of half-finished ditches, purposeless shafts, untenable pits, abandoned engines, and meaningless disruptions of the soil upon the mountain—and a railway.

This last was one of the details of the original enterprise, and cost £100,000. It is still in operation, runs for no one in particular, and but for few folk in general. Its way lies along a beautiful valley hemmed in by the mountains where the line ends. There is no way out of the vale except by walking over the hills, and only a few straggling tourists ever invade it. We take the train at its junction with an insignificant loop-line, and accompany it to its destination. We are booked by an all-important official, who is a compound of many individuals. He issues tickets, is guard, porter, station master, and signalman in one. These offices apply not to one station alone, but to four. In addition he is general superintendent, and directs the lad who drives the engine. We have said that the route of the line is up a narrow gorge-like valley; and this has a decided incline over the dozen miles of its sinuous course. Here everything is primitive, and there is no great necessity to conform to conventional rules. The carriages, even the "first-class" ones, are hardly constructed with a view to comfort; and, when you get tired of the jolting of these, the factotum alluded to has no objection to stopping the train so that you may get out and walk. Even if you stop to gather wild flowers—and the valley here is a wild-flower paradise—you may soon, by a sharp trot, catch the train again, even if it be going at its lightning express speed, so to speak. Daily the goatlike herdwicks stray on to the line from the neighbouring knolls; and occasionally you are asked to throw stones at the little mountain sheep, so that the train may speed on its way. Mr. General Superintendent will give you permission to shoot rabbits from the moving train. It was while thus engaged that the whole thing came to a sudden stop. Upon looking out to learn why, we saw a couple of dalesfolk walking leisurely towards us, and wanting to know, "What o'clock it might be—by the day." At another point along the line we stopped to replenish the engine with water. This was done from a disused grocery box, into which the tricklings from the hill-side were directed by a bit of wood hollowed in the form of a spout. The engine-boy sat upon the box, whistling through the process, which occupied an unconscionable time. He was a lad with a pleasant face, who amused himself when the train was in progress by pelting the birds and sheep with bits of coal from the tender.

Before long, I take it, all trace of the White Quartz Valley Railway will have vanished. Its plant is decaying, and soon will fall away. Swallows have built beneath the rafters of the miners' sheds, at evening bats fly in and out at the open doors, and a pair of screech-owls that have taken up their abode declare the place as desolate. There is only one person in the country-side who has yet any lingering faith in the railway, the mine, or the mountain. This is an old miner, himself like a nugget of iron ore. He has infinite faith in a deep compensating future, and bides his time. When mellowed by ale and the soothing fumes of a short black pipe, he assures you that he will stand by the mountain through fair weather or foul. And if you evince any interest in his oft-told tale and have gained his confidence, he will take down an old gunpowder canister and reveal to you the substance of his faith.

"Them there shares, as was give to me by Lord L—— hissel', is worth a matter o' £2,000 o' solid gold if ever them mines should yield. That's the valley on 'em, as is writ in black and white inside. Two hundred shares at £10 apiece is £2,000. I've reckoned it times and again. Me lord gev' em to me wi' 'is own 'ands, and he says, says he, 'Mould' some day, maybe, ye'll become a rich man."

But Mould never did become rich; and this is how it came about.

For months we had been under the unbroken dominion of ice and snow. Many of those who had attained to a garrulous old age lamented the cessation of what they called "old-fashioned" winters for the last time. The snow fell thickly, and as it came through a thin, biting air it was frozen ere it reached the ground. Neither man nor beast nor bird could break through the hard, glistening crust. As many of the stone fences as were not completely buried, were scalloped and fluted in most fantastic fashion. Everywhere was one wide, white expanse; and a silence that might be felt covered the land. The hill districts were terrible in their loneliness; and every frost seemed to deepen the desolation. But at the end of six silent weeks there came a great change. A soft, warm wind set in from the south, bringing heavy rain-clouds. First the snow of the lower lands became honeycombed, then was dissolved by the night rains. Black seams and scars picked out the dread ravines of the hills; and the fell becks tore down the slopes bearing tons of loose dÉbris. The valleys became river-beds, and masses of brown water rushed off to the sea. In thirty-six hours the transformation was complete, and striking beyond description. The burst of life and the babel of sounds were almost bewildering. The air was filled with the flutter of wings and voices of birds. In short, by sea or by land, never was there a more sudden change. A new element was in the air, and the older farmers averred that there had been a "ground thaw"—an event as rare, according to them, as a lunar rainbow.

One of the results of the transformation was that great masses of crag had fallen, and a mightier mass than all hung trembling in a black abyss. As soon as the sky had cleared Old Mould was abroad on the mountain, his bleared eyes greedily fixed on the loosened crag. His tottering mind saw in the wet, glowing ironstone the realisation of his life-dream. The ruined speculators, the engineers, the miners—all were wrong. His faith in the mountain was fulfilled. As he looked, a cold perspiration broke over his body. He steadied himself as he sank on a boulder, and then in imagination took up two great handfuls of glistening gold, and let the bright coins run through his bony fingers. The parchment in the powder canister, ay, and more, more were his!

A shepherd and his dog passed close by, but Mould never saw them. He thought a while longer, then went down to his hut. He would blast the crag from the breast that held it, and if only the heart of the mountain confirmed what he suspected, then he was rich, rich indeed!

As the short afternoon fell he started off to cry "Open Sesame." A barrel of gunpowder lay on his bare shoulder; and wrapped in his rough frieze coat was a delicate straw-stem fuse. These would solve the mystery!

They solved two mysteries,—a greater and a less.

The powder and fuse were placed in position. A flint and steel supplied a spark, and Mould's shambling legs carried him off over the rugged boulders. Then he watched,—watched for a red glare to tear the sky, and a thundering sound to shake the mountain. But neither came. Save for the hoarse croak of a raven and the bark of a fox, nothing broke the stillness.

One hour, two, three.

The fuse must have failed, or the powder have become damp; and as the moon and stars lit up the crags, Mould made as though to examine the spot. He gained it.

Precisely what happened next is not known. Suddenly it seemed as though the mountain had exploded. There was a terrible glare, something like an earthquake shook the ground, and thousands of tons of rock and dÉbris rushed down into the White Quartz Valley.

That was all. The great, green mountain had taken Mould to her broader bosom, and the night wanderings of the old man had led him in the way of the Delectable Mountains whence there is no return.

IV.

After an hour's hard climbing we gain one of the topmost outliers, whence we command an extensive map-like view of the circumjacent mountains. A final struggle for the last ridge, and then along its crest. We are at an angle formed by the vales of Grasmere, Legberthwaite, and Patterdale, when a magnificent effect is produced as the sun suddenly pierces the clouds. A golden mass of molten sea stretches eastward. Bright sunny patches light up the landscape below; and a billowy sea of mountains rolls away, with every wave a name. Purple pavilions of hills stretch far and beyond on every side. Now we are among the clouds, and look down on all things mundane.

We "rush" the last slope, and at last stand three thousand feet above sea level—upon the topmost jag of the mighty Helvellyn!

The grandeur of a mountain is always enhanced by a storm; and as by the wave of a wizard's wand the sun is suddenly shut out by black, inky clouds. A couple of ominous ravens rise slowly uttering a dismal croak, croak, croak; and a merlin rushes past on the wings of the storm. Mists gather, roll up the mountain-side, and far-off mutterings are heard in the hills. As a cold plash strikes the face, we seek a cairn, drawing closer our wraps. Suddenly the storm bursts. In a moment we are soaked with blinding mist and chilled to the marrow. The storm lashes itself to a fury, and for a moment the grandeur is terrible and fascinating. It spends itself, passes as quickly as it came, and a glorious transformation is at hand.

Quivering lines of light shoot from the heavens, the sun bursts in all its strength, and Nature is a flood of dripping gold. The gauzy vapours disperse, and every grass-blade is draped and glowing with resplendent gems. A blue, foam-flushed sky displaces the sullen clouds, and the storm miracle is complete. Then we emerge from the dripping cairn to look abroad. That far, silvery streak, lying shimmering and blue, is Windermere. Directly south Esthwaite Water, whilst Coniston, with its pine-clad slopes, lies to the west. Ulleswater is at our feet, and Red Tarn, black and silent, below. Striding Edge is the spot where young Gough was killed. To its north-west is Swirrel Edge. That is Catchedecam. Betwixt the last-named and Saddle-back a bit of the Solway is seen; while the skyline beyond is formed by the Scotch mountains. The ravines and precipices of the sides of Helvellyn exemplify in a striking manner the possible power of those elements whose ordinary effects are trivial and unnoticed.

A mountain storm in summer is terrible enough if long continued; but the same phenomenon in winter is grander and more terrible still. The crags of the English mountains claim a long list of victims; but for tragic interest the following is perhaps the saddest of all. The subject of it was a young man of great promise, who in early life had been educated for the Church. Just as he was ripe for college, his father, who was at the head of a great mercantile concern, died. This event made it imperative that the young scholar should immediately embark in trade—an undertaking as uncongenial as imperative. The fortunes of his family were threatened, and the only hope of his mother and sisters was that the son should successfully carry on what the father had commenced. A student of books rather than of men, he was ill fitted for the unequal fight, and after struggling for ten years was only liberated by ruin. His brother it is said, made him a bankrupt. "The din of populous cities had long stunned his brain, and his soul had sickened in the presence of the money-hunting eyes of selfish men, all madly pursuing their multifarious machinations in the great mart of commerce. The very sheeted masts of ships, bearing the flags of foreign countries, in all their pomp and beauty sailing homeward or outward bound, had become hateful to his spirit—for what were they but the floating enginery of Mammon? Truth, integrity, honour, were all recklessly sacrificed to gain by the friends he loved and had respected most—sacrificed without shame and without remorse—repentance being with them a repentance only over ill-laid schemes of villainy—plans for the ruination of widows and orphans—blasted in the bud of their iniquity." Following upon the loss of worldly fortune Gough's mother died, and had it not been for a legacy which came to him about this time he would have been absolutely penniless. A relative had died abroad—almost his only one, and the last of his name. Upon his small means he determined to seek an asylum among the northern mountains, where he might study nature and daily stand face to face with her most majestic forms and moods. He left the city which had wrought his ruin at midnight, the last definite object which his eyes rested upon being his mother's grave. The graveyard which contained it lay hard by one of the great arteries of life, and the roar of its myriad sounds was absent neither night nor day. A myriad graves were matted and massed together—a dank, unlovely sight, and one which invested death only with its worst and darkest attributes.

As late winter passed into spring, Gough took up his abode with the family of a northern yeoman in a Westmorland cottage. The majesty of the mountains on this first spring day deeply impressed the city-bred man, and his solitary life among the hills was begun with much heartfelt meditation. The mighty Helvellyn stood out boldly, its crest sharply etched against the sky. Even in this remote spot the wanderer wished to withdraw himself for a time wholly from the eyes of men; and as he gazed upon the passionless peak he thought that there he should be alone—there find solitude. As the short afternoon fell he started to make the rugged ascent. Every shoulder of the mountain gained put him farther beyond human aid, and each look at the peaceful valley below was nearer his last. Still he progressed. The keen air, the first deep inspiration of a purer joy—these lured him on. The face of the sky changed, but he saw it not. Its little lot of stars came out over the mountain, and, oblivious of the fact that night was at hand, he hurried on. The crescent moon rose and floated over its reflection in Red Tarn; and now the wanderer has reached the topmost, silent peak. Steeped in softest moonlight, he looked on the wondrous world below, and saw an English sight such as man has rarely seen. In the delirium of a new bliss the mountain "looked lovelier than dreamland in the reflected glimmer of the snow; and thus had midnight found him, in a place so utterly lonesome in its remoteness from all habitations, that even in summer no stranger sought it without the guidance of some shepherd."

Rising from the stone on which he sat, a flake of snow touched his face, then another, and another. He ran rapidly down the first slope, struck the path, and hurried on. The light was quickly fading. The moon was hidden, and the tarn, which but a moment before lay at his feet, had gone out. Neither road nor path was now visible, and the poor pilgrim of nature, utterly bewildered, plunged blindly into the almost inextricable passes of the mountains. The snow fell thicker and thicker, and as the storm rose it was swept hither and thither in blinding banks and opaque masses until every familiar object was hidden. Although almost overcome with the lashing and fury of the storm the traveller in wildest desperation staggered on, until an awful precipice for ever put a cruel end to his wanderings….

Snow-lines are sketched along the fences of the fells, but this is all that remains. Everything out of doors testifies to the coming of spring, and green grass-shoots are everywhere. The foaming fell "becks" sparkle in the sun, and the sheep are sprinkled over the crags. A breadth of blue is overhead, and the feeding flock is steadily turned towards the skyline. This is the first token of the short summer, and all the sheep on all the hills rejoice. It is at this season that the shepherds most keenly scan their flocks and note the ravages of winter. By the torrent side, by the leas of the boulders, along the rock ledges—everywhere is dotted a white fleece.

It was upon such an occasion, the snow having melted, that a shepherd on his rounds came suddenly upon a dog which emerged from a bracken- and boulder-strewn brae. The poor creature was reduced almost to a skeleton, and upon the man following, it whined and ran forward. It stopped over a weathered corpse—the body of young Gough, beside which it had kept watch and ward for months. It would allow no one to come near, though it was noticed that its collar bore a name—the name of its master, and that which established his identity. In the absence of the dog on its food forays the hill foxes, ravens, and buzzards had done their carnage on the body. This was taken by a party of yeomen and shepherds and interred in the burial ground of the Friends' Meeting House at Tirrel.

Both Scott and Wordsworth have fittingly commemorated the incident, though the lines are too well known to be quoted here.