If
there be any shadow of truth in the notion that "a
thing of beauty is a joy forever," we must have been
laying in a store of delight which may cheer many a
busy and many a lonely hour. Truly, as we have gazed
upon the glorious mountains; looked down from the
summit of Silver How, on the green vale of Grasmere,
and the far-off Windermere; looked with almost awful
feelings on the black shadowy rocks that encompass Easdale
Tarn, (all that yesterday,) and to-day, passed from
waterfall to waterfall, through the solemn and desolate
Langdales, under the twin mountain _Pikes_, "throned
among the hills," dived into the awful recess of Dungeon
Ghyll, where the rock, with scarcely a crack to
part it, stands high on each side of the foaming torrent,
which dashes perpendicularly down the gorge, then out
upon the sunny vale, and home through the brotherhood
of mountains to our quiet dwelling of Grasmere; surely
all this, and much, much more, has made the days very
precious for present enjoyment and for future recollections.
The moon is bright as ever I saw it, and we have
lately returned from the smooth, still Grasmere, where
there was hardly ripple enough to multiply its image;
and where we could have sat for hours, nourishing the
calm and solemn thoughts we had just brought from the
quiet corner of the churchyard where we had sat by
Wordsworth's grave.
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