154 FRESH FIELDS 



it as they do this Yorkshire word "wold;" one 

 they get from Wordsworth, the other from Tennyson. 

 But when you have seen one of those still, inky 

 pools at the head of a silent, lonely Westmoreland 

 dale, you will not be apt to misapply the word in 

 future. Suddenly the serene shepherd mountain 

 opens this black, gleaming eye at your feet, and it 

 is all the more weird for having no eyebrow of 

 rocks, or fringe of rush or bush. The steep, encir- 

 cling slopes drop down and hem it about with the 

 most green and uniform turf. If its rim had been 

 modeled by human hands, it could not have been 

 more regular or gentle in outline. Beneath its 

 emerald coat the soil is black and peaty, which 

 accounts for the hue of the water and the dark line 

 that encircles it. 



" All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink 

 On its firm margin, even as from a well, 

 Or some stone basin, which the herdsman's hand 

 Had shaped for their refreshment." 



The path led across the outlet of the tarn, and then 

 divided, one branch going down into the head of 

 Grisedale, and the other mounting up the steep 

 flank of Helvellyn. Far up the green acclivity I 

 met a man and two young women making their way 

 slowly down. They had come from Glenridding 

 on Ulleswater, and were going to Grasmere. The 

 women looked cold, and said I would find it wintry 

 on the summit. 



Helvellyn has a broad flank and a long back, and 

 comes to a head very slowly and gently. You 



