162 IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. 



One can hardly appreciate the extent to which the 

 latter poet has absorbed and reproduced the spirit of 

 the Westmoreland scenery until he has visited that 

 region. I paused there a few days in early June, on 

 my way south, and again on my return late in July. 

 I walked up from Windermere to Grasmere, where, 

 on the second visit, I took up my abode at the his- 

 toric Swan Inn, where Scott used to go surreptitiously 

 to get his mug of beer when he was stopping with 

 Wordsworth. 



The call of the cuckoo came to me from over Ry- 

 dal Water as I passed along ; I plucked my first fox- 

 glove by the road-side ; paused and listened to the 

 voice of the mountain torre^*, ; heard 



" The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; " 



caught many a glimpse of green, unpeopled hills, urn- 

 shaped dells, treeless heights, rocky promontories, 

 secluded valleys, and clear, swift-running streams. 

 The scenery was sombre ; there were but two colors, 

 green and brown, verging on black; wherever the 

 rock cropped out of the green turf on the mountain- 

 sides, or in the vale, it showed a dark face. But the 

 tenderness and freshness of the green tints were 

 something to remember, the hue of the first spring- 

 ing April grass, massed and wide -spread in mid- 

 summer. 



Then there was a quiet splendor, almost grandeur, 

 about Grasmere vale, such as I had not seen else- 

 where, a kind of monumental beauty and dignity 



