The gardener gave J----- a cone from the summer-house, which had fallen
on the seat, and S----- got some mignonette, and leaves of laurel and ivy,
and we wended our way back to the hotel. Wordsworth was not the owner of
this house; it being the property of Lady Fleming. Mrs. Wordsworth still
lives there, and is now at home.
Five o'clock.---All day it has been cloudy and showery, with thunder now
and then; the mists hang low on the surrounding hills, adown which, at
various points, we can see the snow-white fall of little streamlets
("forces" they call them here) swollen by the rain. An overcast day is
not so gloomy in the hill-country as in the lowlands; there are more
breaks, more transfusion of skylight through the gloom, as has been the
case to-day, and as I found in Lenox; we get better acquainted with
clouds by seeing at what height they be on the hillsides, and find that
the difference betwixt a fair day and a cloudy and rainy one is very
superficial, after all. Nevertheless, rain is rain, and wets a man just
as much among the mountains as anywhere else; so we have been kept within
doors all day, till an hour or so ago, when J----- and I went down to the
village in quest of the post-office.
We took a path that leads from the hotel across the fields, and, coming
into a wood, crosses the Rothay by a one-arched bridge and passes the
village church. The Rothay is very swift and turbulent to-day, and
hurries along with foam-specks on its surface, filling its banks from
brim to brim,--a stream perhaps twenty feet wide, perhaps more; for I am
willing that the good little river should have all it can fairly claim.
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