On a most superb afternoon we took an open
carriage at Lowood Hotel, where we had been staying for several days,
and drove to Grasmere Hotel, where we left our luggage and then drove
back to Rydal Water. We alighted just at the commencement of the lake,
intending to loiter and enjoy it at leisure. The lake surprised me by
its extreme smallness,--in America we should never think of calling it
a lake; but it receives dignity from the lofty hills and mountains
that embosom it, and I thought it was irreverent in Mr. Hawthorne to
say he "could carry it all away in a porringer." It has several very
small islands in it, and one rather larger, which is a heronry. The
lake and all the parks and grounds around belong to Sir Richard le
Fleming, who is Lord of the Manor and of a very ancient family in
those regions. We presently came to a fine old crag by the shore, up
which were some friendly steps; and we were entirely sure that
Wordsworth had often gone up there and looked off upon his beloved
Rydal from the summit. We went up and sat down where we knew he must
have sat, and there I could have dreamed for many hours. The gleam,
the shadow, and the peace supreme were there, and I thought with an
infinite joy how human beings have the power to consecrate the earth
by genius, heroic deeds, and even homely virtues. The gorgeous
richness of the vegetation, the fresh verdure, the living green of the
lawns and woodlands, flooded and gilded by the sunshine, made me
wonder whether the Delectable Mountain could be much more beautiful,
and made me realize deeply the poetic rapture, the noble, sustained
enthusiasm of Wordsworth in his descriptions of natural scenery.
Pages:
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308