And Josiah, who had been up on our lakes on a tower, sed that those lakes would make a pretty good waterin’ trough for American cattle; sez he, “There would be in each one of ’em as much as an ordinary Yankee cow would want to drink.”
I see the driver a-lookin’ on in deep surprise, and sez I, “Josiah Allen, remember you are a deacon; let it be known to once that you are talkin’ in parables.”
“Wall,” sez he, “I would want to be took in that way, but they’re dum small potatoes compared to our lakes.”
“But they’re beautiful,” sez I, “and are full of tender associations.” Sez I, “Look at the poets that have hallowed these sacred spots—Coleridge, and Southey, and Wordsworth, and Mrs. Hemans, and—”
“Wall,” sez Josiah, interruptin’ me, “on our lakes there is me, and—”
But I turned away in silent scorn, and looked out on the beauty of the seen. Lovely picters lay round us on every side—wooded shores, lovely islands, glowin’ waters—a paneramy of beauty never to be forgot.
Dove’s Nest, which wuz once the home of Mrs. Hemans, I looked on with a deep interest, for though Felishy and I didn’t think alike about little Casey Bianky, who “stood on the burnin’ deck,” and I should have approved of his runnin’ away before he got burnt up, still I respected her for quite a number of things, and as I meditated on the poets who had loved this beautiful place, and lived here and wrote their songs, I instinctively thought, in the words of Felishy—
“Where are these dreamers now?”
The biggest of these lakes are Windermere, Ullswater, Conoston and Durwentwater, but there are a good many others. And they are all, like our Niagara Falls and Thousand Islands, been turned into money-makin’ shows.
Wall, of course we wanted to see—