Let the cottage be a real cottage, in fact (for I must abide by the actual scene), a white cottage, embowered with flowering shrubs, so chosen as to unfold a succession of flowers upon the walls, and clustering round the windows through all months of spring, summer, and autumn--beginning, in fact, with May roses, and ending with jasmine. [Illustration: DOVE COTTAGE, GRASMERE] GRASMERE There are many descriptions in Dorothy Wordsworth's journal of Grasmere and Rydal Waters of which the following extracts are typical:-- SATURDAY, 26th (December 1801).... We walked to Rydale. Grasmere Lake a beautiful image of stillness, clear as glass, reflecting all things. The wind was up, and the waters sounding. The lake of a rich purple, the fields a soft yellow, the island yellowish-green, the copses red-brown, the mountains purple, the church and buildings how quiet they were! Sunday, 31st (January 1802).... We walked round the two lakes. Grasmere was very soft, and Rydale was extremely beautiful from the western side. Nab Scar was just topped by a cloud which, cutting it off as high as it could be cut off, made the mountain look uncommonly lofty. We sate down a long time with different plans. I always love to walk that way, because it is the way I first came to Rydale and Grasmere, and because our dear Coleridge did also. When I came with Wm., 6 and ½ years ago, it was just at sunset. There was a rich yellow light on the waters, and the islands were reflected there. To-day it was grave and soft but not perfectly calm. [Illustration: GRASMERE--EVENING SUN.] GRASMERE CHURCH In the churchyard are the graves of Wordsworth, his wife, son, daughter, and two children who died in infancy, as well as of his sister Dorothy. The old rude church, with bare, bald tower, is here; Beneath its shadow high-born Rotha flows; Rotha, remembering well who slumbers near, And with cool murmur lulling his repose. Rotha, remembering well who slumbers near. His hills, his lakes, his streams are with him yet. Surely the heart that reads her own heart clear Nature forgets not soon: 'tis we forget. _Wordsworth's Grave_, WILLIAM WATSON. Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, O Rotha, with thy living wave, Sing him thy best! for few or none Hear thy voice right, now he is gone. _Memorial Verses_, MATTHEW ARNOLD. [Illustration: GRASMERE CHURCH.] A LAKELAND WALK