The village streets were quite narrow, and some as crooked as the letter S, but all scrupulously clean. There were no great brush heaps, chips, dirt-piles, or worn-out tin ware about any of these charming little cottages or their vicinity; the appearance is as if the place had just been thoroughly swept up and put in holiday trim. One reason for this is, I suppose, that everything here is utilized that a penny can be realized upon, and what we make a litter with about an American house of the kind, is here either sold, or turned to account in some other way; but certainly this air of extreme neatness, which I noticed in many English villages, must, in a degree, account for some of their tourists' disgust in America. I have not seen a man spit on the floor here since I set foot in England, and the floors even of the village ale-houses are a striking contrast to those of our New England country taverns: spitting appears to be an American national habit.
After a quiet rest at this charming spot, we chartered a "dog cart," and started on a ride of twenty-three miles, for Keswick; and of the charming drives I have had, this surpasses all. The road ran along Lake Windermere to Ambleside, Grassmere to Rydal Lake and Rydal Mount, Nab-Scar up Dunmail Rise, in sight of Helvellyn, and past Thirlemere.
The views were beautiful—high hills, with little green-shored lakes set in among them, like flashing brilliants; pretty little English villages, like those already described; country-seats; little rustic arched stone bridges, with dark, cool trout-streams running beneath them; grand country-seats, with their imposing entrances and porters' lodges; old ivy-clad churches, and here and there a tall grove of trees, with the rooks cawing in their branches. The bridges, walls, cottages, and churches, with their dark stone-work relieved by clustering ivy, had a softened and pleasing appearance to the eye, while the fields and meadows were a vivid green, and swarming with sheep and young lambs frisking about them, or on the lawns and hill-sides.
The road continually gave us long reaches of these views, such as I had never seen before, except in paintings, or in the better class of English illustrated books. We passed Dove's Nest, where Mrs. Hemans lived for a year; saw Miss Martineau's pleasant and picturesque residence, Wordsworth's house at Rydal Mount, and went to the little cottage on the borders of Grassmere Lake, where he dwelt when young, and wrote much of his best poetry; then to the humble cottage, not far from the lake shore, where De Quincey lived.
We drove to the churchyard in the little village of Grassmere, to visit Wordsworth's grave,—a charming spot,—the little church situated near a swift little stream, spanned by arched stone bridges, and surrounded by scenery of rustic beauty. The grave of the poet is marked by a plain stone, upon which are inscribed his own and his wife's name; and not far from it is the grave of Hartley Coleridge. The secluded and beautiful spot seemed a fitting resting-place for the poet; the gentle babble of the little stream, the peaceful rustle of the grass in the churchyard, and the modest little daisies that bloomed upon the graves, all seemed to lend a tranquil and dreamy calm to the place, that made it appear as if hallowed to the poet's repose.
Keswick, our next halting-place, is situated in a delightful vale, between Derwentwater, or Keswick Lake, and Bassenthailewater, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of hills. The elegant Keswick Hotel is situated in a charming position, just out of the town, and in the centre of the great circle of hills—one of the finest and best-kept houses of the kind in all England. From its great coffee-room, or, as we should call it, dining-room, which runs nearly half the length of one side of the house, and the promenade, or balustrade, which extends the whole length, is a most charming view, and the grounds of the house, which are quite extensive, are laid out quite handsomely. First came an elegant, close-shaven lawn, running one hundred feet from the hotel walk; then a green terrace, descended by ornamental stone steps; then a broad gravel walk, or mall, running round the estate; and from this another broad, green lawn, sloping gently down to the little Greta River, a stream of about twenty feet in width at this point, spanned, here and there, with arched stone bridges, and dashing off into several noisy little waterfalls.
From this little park of the hotel there is a pretty view of the village of Keswick, with its dark stone-work houses, and English church tower, rising above. Beyond, on every side in the huge circle, rise the lofty hill-tops, and here and there elegant country-seats and villas sit enthroned, midway as it were in the mountain's lap, and some high up towards the breezy peaks. The verdant sides of the hill are pencilled off, as it were, with hedges, marking the division lines of property, and a winding road occasionally throws its brown tracks out amid the green.
The Keswick Hotel is built of lighter colored stone than is generally used for houses there, and is finished off in such an expensive and ornamental style as to look quite like an English hall or country-seat. It is owned, I think, by the railroad company whose road passes here. The station is directly adjoining the house, and is reached by a glass-roofed walk, thirty or forty feet long. And here let me remark, that the excellent system, good management, and entire absence of noise, shrieking, puffing, blowing, whistling, and all sorts of disturbance that render a location near a railroad station in America so objectionable, were most striking. I never should have taken note of any arrival or departure of trains from any noise of them; for, save the distant whistle as they approached, there was nothing to indicate their presence.
The house is kept admirably. Such neatness, such thoroughness, and such courteous attention, and such an incomparable cuisine are, after one gets accustomed to English deliberation, most gratifying to the tourist. There can be but few better places for the American traveller to see and enjoy English country life, and beautiful English scenery, than Keswick, and at this beautiful house, in the month of May.
We rambled round through the quaint village of Keswick, and of a Sunday morning took our way over two little stone bridges, on through a deep, shady English lane, with the trees arching overhead, and the hedges green at its side, to Crossthwaite Church, built several hundred years ago, and with its rustic churchyard, beautiful and green, containing the graves of the poet Southey and his wife. I sat upon an old slab in the churchyard, and watched the pretty, rustic picture, as the bells sweetly chimed, and the villagers came to church; some up the green lane by twos and threes, others across the fields and over stiles, threading their way among the churchyard mounds to the rural church.