HOMELY TRAGEDY.
I.
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.