Before rising to go, I asked, 'Which roads were the favourites of the poet?'

'Well, well, he was ter❜ble fond of going along under Loughrigg and over by Redbank, but he was niver nowt of a mountaineer, always kep' upo' the road.'

This was a bit of news I had not expected, but we will bear it in mind and test its truth in future conversations with the poet's peasant contemporaries.

Our next talk shall be with one of the most wellinformed of the Westmoreland builders, and I am indebted to Wordsworth's love of skating for an introduction to him. For making inquiries as to this pastime of the poet, I had chanced to hear how that Wordsworth had gone on one occasion to figure a bit by himself upon the White Moss tarn. How that a predecessor of my friend the builder who lived near White Moss tarn had sent a boy to sweep the snow from the ice for him, and how that when the boy returned from his labour he had asked him, 'Well, did Mr Wudsworth gie ye owt?' and how that the boy with a grin of content from ear to ear had rejoined, ‘Na, but I seed him tummle though!'

I determined to seek out the builder and have the story first-hand, and was well repaid; for I heard something of the poet's gentle ways that was better than the grotesquely humorous answer of the boy who saw him fall.

The poet's skate had caught on a stone when he was in full swing, and he came with a crash on to the ice that starred the tarn, and the lad, who had thought the tummle' a fair exchange for no pay, had been impressed with the quiet way in which Wordsworth had borne his fall. 'He didn't swear nor say nowt, but he just sot up and said, 'Eh, boy, that was a bad fall, wasn't it?' And now we are walking along briskly towards Grisedale, with the recounter of the story: 'Kna Wudsworth! I kent him weel,-why, he taught

me and William Brown to skate.

He was a ter❜ble girt skater, was Wudsworth now; and he would put one hand i' his breast (he wore a frill shirt i' them days), and t'other hand i' his wäistband, same as shepherds does to keep their hands warm, and he would stand up straight and sway and swing away grandly.'

'Was he fond of any other pastime?' I asked.

'Nay, nay, he was over feckless i' his hands. I never seed him at feasts, or wrestling, he hadn't owt of Christopher Wilson in him. Nivver was on wheels in his life, and wud ratherly ha' been a tailor upon horseback happen, but he was a gay good un upon the ice, wonderful to see, could cut his name upon it, I've heard tell, but never seed him do it.'

So that the rapture of the time when as a boy on Esthwaite's frozen lake Wordsworth had

wheeled about,

Proud and exulting like an untired horse

That cares not for his home, all shod with steel,
Had hissed along the polished ice,

was continued into manhood's later day; and here was proof that the skill which the poet had gained, when

Not seldom from the uproar he retired,

Into a silent bay, or sportively

Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng

To cut across the reflex of a star,

was of such a kind as to astonish the natives among whom he dwelt.

My friend had known Wordsworth well, and what was better, knew his poems too. 'Here,' said he, 'is the very spot where Wudsworth saw Barbara feeding her pet lamb, you'll happen have read it i' the book. She telt me herself. I was mending up the cottage there at the time. Eh, she was a bonny lass! they were a fine family all the lot of Lewthwaites. She went lang sin and left, but she telt me

the spot wi' her own lips.' As I peered through the hedge upon the high-raised field at my right, I remembered that Barbara Lewthwaite's lips were for ever silent now, and recalled how I had heard from the pastor of a far-away parish that he had been asked by a very refined-looking handsome woman, on her deathbed, to read over to her and to her husband the poem of The Pet Lamb, and how she had said. at the end, 'That was written about me. Mr Wordsworth often spoke to me, and patted my head when I was a child,' and had added with a sigh, ‘Eh, but he was such a dear kind old man.' We passed on in silence till we were near 'Boon beck,' and opposite Greenhead ghyll. That,' said my companion, is a cottage as we used to ca' i' these parts Village Clock. One, I 'a' forgotten his name, a shep lived here, and i' winter days folks from far enough round would saay, "Is leet out i' shep's cottage? then you may wind the clock and cover the fire" (for you kna matches was scarce and coal to fetch in them days); and of a morning, "Is leet i' winder? is shep stirrin'? then you munna lig no longer," we used to saay.' My friend did not he called it, that

know that this too was in the book, as

Wordsworth had described 'the cottage on a spot of rising ground,'

And from its constant light, so regular
And so far seen, the House itself, by all

Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,

Both old and young, was named the Evening Star.

Onward we trudged, entered the pastures leading to the Grasmere Common that stretches up to the Grisedale Pass, there sat, and had a talk as follows, the Tongue Ghyll beck murmuring among the budding trees at our feet

Why, why, Wudsworth never said much to folk, quite different from li'le Hartley, as knawed the insides of cottages for miles round, and was welcome at 'em all. He was dis

tant, ye may saäy, varra distant.

He was not maade much

count of at first either in this country, but efter a time folks began to tak' his advice, ye kna, about trees, and plantin', and cuttin', and buildin' chimleys, and that sort o' thing, He had his saäy at most of the houses in these parts, and was very partic❜lar fond of round chimleys.'

It was delicious this description of the path to fame among his countrymen the poet had taken, but my friend explained himself as he went on :—

'Ye see, he was one as kept his head dan and eyes upo' the ground a deal, and mumbling to himself; but why, why, he 'ud never pass folks draining, or ditching, or walling a cottage, but what he'd stop and say, "Eh dear, but it's a pity to move that stoan, and doant ya think ya might leave that tree? "'* I 'member there was a walling chap just' going to shoot a girt stoan to bits wi' powder in the grounds at Rydal, and he came up and saaved it, and wrote summat on it.'

'But what was his reason,' I asked, 'for stopping the wallers or ditchers, or tree-cutters, at their work?'

'Well, well, he couldn't abear to see faäce o' things altered,* ye kna. It was all along of him that Grasmere folks have their Common open. Ye may ga now reet up to sky over Grisedale, wi'out laying leg to fence, and all through him. He said it was a pity to enclose it and run walls over it, and the quality backed him, and he won. Folks was angry enough, and wrote rhymes about it; but why, why, it's a deal pleasanter for them as walks up Grisedale, ye kna, let aloan rights of foddering and goosage for freemen in Grasmere.'

'But Mr Wordsworth was a great critic at trees.

I've

* Those who may chance to have read the letter Wordsworth wrote to the local paper, when he heard the news of the first railway invasion of the Lake district, will notice how accurately true this piece of testimony is.

seen him many a time lig o' his back for long eneuch to see whether a branch or a tree sud ga or not. I 'member weel I was building Kelbarrer for Miss S, and she telt me I must git to kna Wordsworth's 'pinion. So I went oop to him as he came i' t' waäy, and he said, "Ay, ay, building wad do, and site wad, but it's very bare, very bare."

'I mind another time I was building house aboon Town End, with a lock of trees and planting round, and he said to me, "Well, well, you're fifty years in advance here: he meant it was grawed up well.

'And I remember once upon a time at Hunting Stile thereaway he coomed up. "Now, Mr Wudsworth, how will it goa?" I said. He answered me, "It'll do; but where are the trees?" and I said, "Oh, it's weel enuff for trees, it nobbut wants its whiskers." 'How so?" said he. "Why, it's a young 'un," I said, "and we doant blame a young 'un for not having its hair upo' its faace." And he laughed, and he said, "Very good, a very good saying; very true, very true." But he was ter❜ble jealous of new buildings.'

'As for Mrs Wudsworth, why, why, she was a very plain woman, plainest i' these parts, and she was a manasher an' aw, and kep' accounts. For ye kna he never knowed about sich things, neither what he had nor what he spent.’

As we rose to continue our climb, my friend looked at the trees in the little stream-bed below us, and said, 'In my days there was a deal of wild fruit in these parts. We had toffee feasts i' winter, and cherry feasts i' summer,-quite big gatherings at cherry feasts.'

'Did you ever see Wordsworth at one?'

Niver, he only follered one amusement: that was skating, as I telt ye.'

'Had he any particular friends among the shepherds?' I asked.