It would have been much easier to do all that than to make a reputation either in literature or painting,—easier, I mean, for a man starting in life with so many good cards in his hand as I had.
I have been sometimes represented as an unsuccessful painter who took to writing because he had failed as an artist. It is, of course, easy to state the matter so, but the exact truth is that a very moderate success in either literature or art would have been equally acceptable to me, so that there has been no other failure in my life than the usual one of not being able to catch two hares at the same time. Very few dogs have ever been able to do that.
I decided to try to be a painter and to try to be an author, and see what came of both attempts. My guardian always thought I should end by being an author, and though she had no prejudice against painting, she looked upon it as a pursuit likely to be very tedious, at times, to those who practise it, in which she was quite right. It is generally a hard struggle, requiring infinite patience, even in the clever and successful.
One of the first things I did was to go on horseback to the English Lake district in the summer of 1852, with the intention of continuing the journey, still on horseback, into the mountainous regions of Scotland. Unfortunately this project could not be executed with the horse I then possessed, the most dangerous, sulky, resolute, and cunning brute I ever mounted. I rode him as far as Keswick, where a horse-breaker tried him and said his temper was incurable, recommending me to have him shot. The advice was excellent, but I could not find it in my heart to destroy such a fine-looking animal, so I left him in grass at Penrith, and went on to Scotland by the usual means of travelling,—a change that I regret to this day.
I had materials with me for painting studies in oil, and painted at Windermere and Derwentwater. It was an inexpressible pleasure to see these lakes, and a mental torment not to be able to paint them better.
My first sight of Windermere (or of any natural lake, for I had hitherto seen nothing but fish-ponds and reservoirs) was enjoyed under peculiarly impressive circumstances. I had been riding alone or walking by the side of my horse during the night, and arrived at the lake shore by the guidance of a star. I wrote down my first impression next day, and have kept the words.
"I could not find the way to the little harbor of Bowness, and so went on for a considerable distance till I came to a gate which, as I knew, from the position of the north star, would lead directly to the lake across the fields. There was a small and scarcely traceable footpath, and a board to warn trespassers. However, I fastened the horse to the gate and proceeded. I soon arrived at the shore, and was overawed by a scene of overpowering magnificence. The day was just dawning. The water mirrored the isles, except where the mist floated on its surface and wreathed round their bases. The trees were massed by it into domes and towers that seemed to float on the cloudy lake as if by enchantment. The stars were growing pale in the yellowing east; the distant hills were coldly blue, till far away lake and hill and sky melted into cloud.
"Opposite, I saw the dark form of an island rising between me and the other shores, strongly relieved against the mist which crept along the base of the opposite mountain and almost clambered to its dark summit. The reflection of the dark upper part of the mountain (which rose clear of the mist) fell on the lake in such a manner as to enclose that of the island. In another direction an island was gradually throwing off its white robe of mist, and the light showed through the interstices of the foliage that I had taken for a crag.
"I had a pistol with me, and tried the echo, though it seemed wrong to disturb a silence so sublime. I fired, and had time to regret that there was no echo before a peal of musketry came from the nearer hills and then a fainter peal from the distance, followed by an audible rejoinder."
This is the kind of travel for the enjoyment of natural beauty. One should be either quite alone, or have a single companion of the same tastes, and one should be above all commonplace considerations about hours. Samuel Palmer often walked the whole night alone, for the pleasure of observing the beautiful changes between sunset and sunrise.