Monday, 25th January.— ... Wm. tired with composition....
Tuesday, 26th.— ... We are going to walk, and I am ready and waiting by the kitchen fire for Wm. We set forward intending to go into Easedale, but the wind being loudish, and blowing down Easedale, we walked under Silver How for a shelter. We went a little beyond the syke; then up to John's Grove, where the storm of Thursday has made sad ravages. Two of the finest trees are uprooted, one lying with the turf about its root, as if the whole together had been pared by a knife. The other is a larch. Several others are blown aside, one is snapped in two. We gathered together a faggot. Wm. had tired himself with working.... We received a letter from Mary with an account of C.'s arrival in London. I wrote to Mary before bedtime.... Wm. wrote out part of his poem, and endeavoured to alter it, and so made himself ill. I copied out the rest for him. We went late to bed. Wm. wrote to Annette.[46]
Wednesday, 27th.—A beautiful mild morning; the sun shone; the lake was still, and all the shores reflected in it. I finished my letter to Mary. Wm. wrote to Stuart. I copied sonnets for him. Mr. Olliff called and asked us to tea to-morrow. We stayed in the house till the sun shone more dimly and we thought the afternoon was closing in, but though the calmness of the Lake was gone with the bright sunshine, yet it was delightfully pleasant. We found no letter from Coleridge. One from Sara which we sate upon the wall to read; a sweet long letter, with a most interesting account of Mr. Patrick. We cooked no dinner. Sate a while by the fire, and then drank tea at Frank Raty's. As we went past the Nab I was surprised to see the youngest child amongst them running about by itself, with a canny round fat face, and rosy cheeks. I called in. They gave me some nuts. Everybody surprised that we should come over Grisdale. Paid £1: 3: 3 for letters come since December 1st. Paid also about 8 shillings at Penrith. The bees were humming about the hive. William raked a few stones off the garden, his first garden labour this year. I cut the shrubs. When we returned from Frank's, Wm. wasted his mind in the Magazines. I wrote to Coleridge, and Mrs. C., closed the letters up to Samson. Then we sate by the fire, and were happy, only our tender thoughts became painful.[47] Went to bed at ½ past 11.
Thursday, 28th.—A downright rain. A wet night. Wm. wrote an epitaph, and altered one that he wrote when he was a boy. It cleared up after dinner. We were both in miserable spirits, and very doubtful about keeping our engagements to the Olliffs. We walked first within view of Rydale then to Lowthwaite, then we went to Mr. Olliff. We talked a while. Wm. was tired. We then played at cards. Came home in the rain. Very dark. Came with a lantern. Wm. out of spirits and tired. He called at ¼ past 3 to know the hour.
Friday, 29th January.—Wm. was very unwell. Worn out with his bad night's rest. I read to him, to endeavour to make him sleep. Then I came into the other room, and I read the first book of Paradise Lost. After dinner we walked to Ambleside.... A heart-rending letter from Coleridge. We were sad as we could be. Wm. wrote to him. We talked about Wm.'s going to London. It was a mild afternoon. There was an unusual softness in the prospects as we went, a rich yellow upon the fields, and a soft grave purple on the waters. When we returned many stars were out, the clouds were moveless, and the sky soft purple, the lake of Rydale calm, Jupiter behind. Jupiter at least we call him, but William says we always call the largest star Jupiter. When we came home we both wrote to C. I was stupefied.
Saturday, January 30th.—A cold dark morning. William chopped wood. I brought it in a basket.... He asked me to set down the story of Barbara Wilkinson's turtle dove. Barbara is an old maid. She had two turtle doves. One of them died, the first year I think. The other continued to live alone in its cage for nine years, but for one whole year it had a companion and daily visitor—a little mouse, that used to come and feed with it; and the dove would carry it and cover it over with its wings, and make a loving noise to it. The mouse, though it did not testify equal delight in the dove's company, was yet at perfect ease. The poor mouse disappeared, and the dove was left solitary till its death. It died of a short sickness, and was buried under a tree, with funeral ceremony by Barbara and her maidens, and one or two others.
On Saturday, 30th, Wm. worked at The Pedlar all the morning. He kept the dinner waiting till four o'clock. He was much tired....
Sunday, 31st.—Wm. had slept very ill. He was tired. 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.[48] 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. William says it was much such a day as when Coleridge came with him. The sun shone out before we reached Grasmere. We sate by the roadside at the foot of the Lake, close to Mary's dear name, which she had cut herself upon the stone. Wm. cut at it with his knife to make it plainer.[49] We amused ourselves for a long time in watching the breezes, some as if they came from the bottom of the lake, spread in a circle, brushing along the surface of the water, and growing more delicate as it were thinner, and of a paler colour till they died away. Others spread out like a peacock's tail, and some went right forward this way and that in all directions. The lake was still where these breezes were not, but they made it all alive. I found a strawberry blossom in a rock. The little slender flower had more courage than the green leaves, for they were but half expanded and half grown, but the blossom was spread full out. I uprooted it rashly, and I felt as if I had been committing an outrage, so I planted it again. It will have but a stormy life of it, but let it live if it can. We found Calvert here. I brought a handkerchief full of mosses, which I placed on the chimneypiece when Calvert was gone. He dined with us, and carried away the encyclopædias. After they were gone, I spent some time in trying to reconcile myself to the change, and in rummaging out and arranging some other books in their places. One good thing is this—there is a nice elbow place for Wm., and he may sit for the picture of John Bunyan any day. Mr. Simpson drank tea with us. We paid our rent to Benson....
Monday, February 1st.—Wm. slept badly. I baked bread. William worked hard at The Pedlar, and tired himself.... There was a purplish light upon Mr. Olliff's house, which made me look to the other side of the vale, when I saw a strange stormy mist coming down the side of Silver How of a reddish purple colour. It soon came on a heavy rain.... A box with books came from London. I sate by W.'s bedside, and read in The Pleasures of Hope to him, which came in the box. He could not fall asleep.