170 IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY. 



green, pastoral voluptuousness, so smooth and full 

 are they with thick turf. At other points the rock 

 has fretted through the verdant carpet. St. Sunday's 

 Crag to the west, across Grisedale, is a steep acclivity 

 covered with small, loose stones, as if they had been 

 dumped over the top, and were slowly sliding down ; 

 but nowhere do I see great bowlders strewn about. 

 Patches of black peat are here and there. The little 

 rills, near and far, are white as milk, so swiftly do 

 they run. On the more precipitous sides the grass 

 and moss are lodged, and hold like snow, and are as 

 tender in hue as the first April blades. A multitude 

 of lakes are in view, and Morecambe Bay to the 

 south. There are sheep everywhere, loosely scat- 

 tered, with their lambs ; occasionally I hear them 

 bleat. No other sound is heard but the chirp of the 

 mountain pipit. I see the wheat-ear flitting here and 

 there. One mountain now lies in full sunshine, as 

 fat as a seal, wrinkled and dimpled where it turns 

 to the west like a fat animal when it bends to lick 

 itself. What a spectacle is now before me ! all 

 the near mountains in shadow, and the distant in 

 strong sunlight ; I shall not see the like of that again. 

 On some of the mountains the green vestments are 

 in tatters and rags, so to speak, and barely cling to 

 them. No heather in view. Toward Windermere 

 the high peaks and crests are much more jagged and 

 rocky. The air is filled with the same white, mo- 

 tionless vapor as in Scotland. "When the sun breaks 

 through, 



