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About The courier. (Lincoln, Neb.) 1894-1903 | View Entire Issue (April 20, 1895)
THE COURIER ON THE OTHER SIDE. (Written for The Coubieb by C. Y. Smith.) II. SLOWLY and languidly dragged on the time. On Friday night the sixth day out from Now York, being a little more alert than usual I overheard a remark that brought joy within. Fastnet light was to be seen from the port bow. I arose from tho steamer chair in which I had been carefully reclining, cast my blankets indifferently to one side, stepped my way firmly to the bow, and theromingling with the eager passengers, scanned the pen ding gloom of night in search of the welcome light which first tells the traveller of tha approach to the shores of "Ould Ireland." The lighthouse is built on a lonely rock, off tho south western coast of Ireland. It was not then visible to the naked eye, but every now and then some one would say "There it is, there it is, don't you see it?" and all would rush to that point fiom whence emanated the sound, but nothing was to be seen but tho rolling waters beneath and the darkness beyond. I remained here long into the night. The great ship reared and plunged as she swiftly forged her way ahead. It must have been about 12 o'clock when I saw far off in the distance the faint glimmer of a light; but it disap peared almost instantly. In a few moments it reappeared, but only for a second. Every minute brought us nearer and nearer; the light became brighter and brighter until the shining signal sent out its rays of welcome to the Etruria with her freight of one thousand souls. Wo veered our courso a little to the starboard and as we came abreast of the light I reluctantly turned my face downward to make my final descent to tho infernal regions below. At three o'clock we were to reach Queensland where many of the passengers would disembark, in order to take a tour or Ireland. In the morn ing the movements of the steamer were not so vibratory and I felt 60 happy that I sought the promenade deck and discovered Ireland in the dim distance. In the afternoon we reached the famous docks of Liverpool cover ing two hundred and thirty acres with seven miles of quays. There is business done here. Passing through the custom house wo entered a 'bus and were soon at tho steps of the Lime Street Station. I never saw so many ragged little brats in a community before. All shapes and sizes. The boys blacking boots and tho girls selling matches at a penny a box. One little fellow I remember well He could play the most fascinating tune you ever heard by knocking his two brushes together. He took quite a shine to me which cost me threepence. Liverpool is a dirty place, but not-devoid of interest. Our stay there was short and we were soon on the way to Windi mere in a private car. Small but comfortable and plenty of window space to enable us to see tho country as wo passed along as well as the numerous soap signs which appeared at every hand. Fences were made of them, trunks of trees were covered with them and in fact no space was lost in which to hang up some advertise ment of soap. If signs are a criterion soap is very abundant in England. About 11:30 p. m. we arrived at Windimere. It was almost as light as day. It semeed like twilight. A short walk from the sta tion brought us to the Riggs hotel situated on a hillside overlook ing the town and the beautiful lake beyond. A hot cup of chocolate and to bed. When I awoke in the morning a gentle mist was falling and the little valley below was enshrouded in a halo through which the sun was making an earnest endeavor to shine. Windimere is delightful. The general appearance of the place as seen from Orrest Head hill is not unlike a beautiful park with winding walks amid straggling flowers which grow in pleasing confusion. The streets covered with crushed stone firmly rolled and as clean as the driven snow extend in graceful curves lined on either side by high ragged stone walls half hidden with creeping vines and ivy gates are Been roses and poppies scattered among numberless varities of fragrant flowers within the open walls. Of the many towns of England, I recall none bo complete in neat ness and inviting in general aspect as Windimere. I shall always remember it, not alone for its attractive appearance and scenic sur roundings but because it was here that I was first initiated into the beauties of England. 'Tis the gateway to the garden of the English poet, a paradise indeed. June 26. All aboard the coach and away we go over hill and dale. A moment's stop at Doves Nest, the home of Mrs. Hemans. Here "--is the knoll where Harriet Martineau lived; a terrace garden full of honeysuckle, ivy and rhododendrons. Next the winding ' lanes of Ambleside and we halt for a moment at Rydal.Mount and live with Wordsworth. To the right is the rude rocky throne,t.with rough hewn steps. The driver said this was "Muster Wordsworth'sfavorite seat. Mado a deal of po'try there." We near the great ash and sycamores that overshadow the road in front of "Nab Cottage." Hartley Coleridge comes in mind. On wo go 'tis a magnificent ride, by Doves Cottage; Wordsworth's home at Grassmere. We would linger here and muse at the spring by the border of the grove behind the cottage. We stand for a moment at his grave near the litt! church of St. Oswald. A simple slab of grey slate marked "W. Wordsworth 1830" tells ub all. Above spread the boughs of the oak. At Withburn a short stop is made to see the smallest church in England. The eaves can be touched by the outstretched hand. To tho right rears the crest of Mount Helvellyn. Now we pass Lake Thirlmere and enter the "Veil of St. John" where thousands of tiny silver streams wend their way down the hill 6ides. The stage stops at Keswick at the head of Derwentwater. Where in all England is to be found so delightful a ride? 'Tis too quickly over. From lake Windemer to beautiful Loughrigg the eye wanders towards the Pike o' Blisco. Crinkle Craig the solemn Bowfel and the Langdalfc Pikes across the Brathay bridge through the haunts of England's poets, the far famed district of tho English lakes. From Keswick we took the train to Carlisle and entered the sombre interior of Carslisle cathedral and stood on the spot where Walter Scott took to himself a wife in 1792. William Rufus built a castle in Carlisle, in which "Bloody Mary" was imprisoned. To Glasgow by rail. June 27. Glasgow is comparatively a modern city with little of historic interest. Groups of dirty children are seen playing in squalled courts and mixing up in the dirt, which has been said to be nothing but matter in the wrong place. Tho following sign which appeard in a window may be of interest. . . : Pror. Camerom, the celebrated violinist and musical : director, attends balls, parties and dinners. " : P. S. Boilers carefully scraped, cleaned and repaired. ; June 23. Wo left Glasgow in the morning by train for Ballock Pier at the head of Loch Lomond. A little steamer bears us down the lake, Scotland's fairy waters; skirting first along tho shjre, then between little isles now made into deer parks owned by dukes and counts. At tho foot of "Ben Lomond's' shades wo get a glimpse of Rob Roy's Prison, tho Scottish bandit and beyond is Faries Loch, the haunt of the faries. It needs but little immagination to see them flirting about the woods and groves. So entrancing are the sur roundings oi.e forgets his own presence. When our little steamer has taken us twenty-one miles on Scotland's pride "Loch Lomond" we stop at Inversnaid and change from steamer to stage, one of those great high affairs drawn by six or eight horses, with parties of twenty or more passengers. Away we go. Tell me, those who. have been there, has the sport an equal? Has not our laughter the true ring? Is it not here that "one touch of nature make the whole world akin." Gallop on ye coac' and six. We are in your care unmindful of our destination. The past has gone, there "b no future, the present is our only thought. Look away yonder down the vale' The little hut there you see to the right nestling close to the hill amongst the heather was the home of Helen MacGregor. Ask Rob Roy if he remembers the place. Three thousand one hundred and fifty feet high rises the peak of Benvoirlich and soon we see Glengyle, tho seat of the clan MacGregor. But here we are at Strouachlac'ar. Let's partake of a lunch of steakpie and cheese. Tis all there is in that beautiful country. We take what we can and are thankful for that. Again on the water of Lock Katrine. Near tho lower end we pass Ellen's Isle, a little island in a small la'je, covered with trees and flowers, possessing little beauty but interesting from the associa tion of Helen MacGregor and Rob Roy tho Scottish bandit. Again tho coach and six for a ride through The Trossachs and we are at Callander where the train is taken for Stirling. (To be continued next week.) . x C3&?" -fiLrf- 2cf- "