Dorothy Wordsworth Grasmere Journal 1801-1803 (Part 3)

Saturday, 10th October 1801._–Coleridge went to Keswick, after we had built Sara’s seat.

Note: Below is a possible route to Keswick. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Thursday, 15th._– … Coleridge came in to Mr. Luff’s while we were at dinner. William and I walked up Loughrigg Fell, then by the waterside…

Note: Below is a possible route to Loughrigg Fell. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Saturday, 24th._–Attempted Fairfield, but misty, and we went no further than Green Head Gill to the sheepfold; mild, misty, beautifully soft. Wm. and Tom put out the boat…

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Sunday, 25th._–Rode to Legberthwaite with Tom, expecting Mary…. Went upon Helvellyn. Glorious sights. The sea at Cartmel. The Scotch mountains beyond the sea to the right. Whiteside large, and round, and very soft, and green, behind us. Mists above and below, and close to us, with the sun amongst them. They shot down to the coves. Left John Stanley’s [37] at 10 minutes past 12. Returned thither 1/4 past 4, drank tea, ate heartily. Before we went on Helvellyn we got bread and cheese. Paid 4/ for the whole. Reached home at nine o’clock. A soft grey evening; the light of the moon, but she did not shine on us. Mary and I sate in C.’s room a while.

• Footnote 37: The landlord of Wytheburn Inn.

Note: Below is a possible route to Legberthwaite. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Tuesday, 10th.–Poor C. left us, and we came home together. We left Keswick at 2 o’clock and did not arrive at Grasmere till 9 o’clock. I burnt myself with Coleridge’s aquafortis. C. had a sweet day for his ride. Every sight and every sound reminded me of him–dear, dear fellow, of his many talks to us, by day and by night, of all dear things. I was melancholy, and could not talk, but at last I eased my heart by weeping–nervous blubbering says William. It is not so. O! how many, many reasons have I to be anxious for him.

Note: Below is a possible route from Keswick to Dove Cottage. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday, 11th._– … Put aside dearest C.’s letters, and now, at about 7 o’clock, we are all sitting by a nice fire. Wm. with his book and a candle, and Mary writing to Sara.

November 16th._– … Wm. is now, at 7 o’clock, reading Spenser. Mary is writing beside me. The little syke [38] murmurs.[39a] We are quiet and happy, but poor Peggy Ashburner coughs, as if she would cough her life away. I am going to write to Coleridge and Sara. Poor C.! I hope he was in London yesterday….

• Footnote 38: A Cumberland word for a rillet.
• Footnote 39a: Probably some of the lines afterwards included in “The Excursion.”

Tuesday, 17th._–A very rainy morning. We walked into Easedale before dinner. The coppices a beautiful brown. The oaks many, a very fine leafy shade. We stood a long time to look at the corner birch tree. The wind was among the light thin twigs, and they yielded to it, this way and that.

Note: Below is a possible route to Easedale. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday, 18th._–We sate in the house in the morning reading Spenser. Wm. and Mary walked to Rydale. Very pleasant moonlight. The lakes beautiful. The church an image of peace. Wm. wrote some lines upon it. [40] Mary and I walked as far as the Wishing Gate before supper. We stood there a long time, the whole scene impressive. The mountains indistinct, the Lake calm and partly ruffled. A sweet sound of water falling into the quiet Lake.[39] A storm was gathering in Easedale, so we returned; but the moon came out, and opened to us the church and village. Helm Crag in shade, the larger mountains dappled like a sky. We stood long upon the bridge. Wished for Wm…

• Footnote 39: Compare “To a Highland Girl”, 1. 8– A murmur near the silent lake.
• Footnote 40: Probably some of the lines afterwards included in “The Excursion.”

Note: Below is a possible route to the Wishing Gate House. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Friday, 20th._–We walked in the morning to Easedale. In the evening we had cheerful letters from Coleridge and Sara.

Note: Below is a possible route to Easedale Tarn. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Saturday, 21st._–We walked in the morning, and paid one pound and 4d. for letters. William out of spirits. We had a pleasant walk and spent a pleasant evening. There was a furious wind and cold at night. Mr. Simpson drank tea with us, and helped William out with the boat. Wm. and Mary walked to the Swan, homewards, with him. A keen clear frosty night. I went into the orchard while they were out.

Sunday, 22nd._–We wrote to Coleridge.

Tuesday, 24th._– … It was very windy, and we heard the wind everywhere about us as we went along the lane, but the walls sheltered us. John Green’s house looked pretty under Silver How. As we were going along we were stopped at once, at the distance perhaps of 50 yards from our favourite birch tree. It was yielding to the gusty wind with all its tender twigs. The sun shone upon it, and it glanced in the wind like a flying sunshiny shower. It was a tree in shape, with stem and branches, but it was like a spirit of water. The sun went in, and it resumed its purplish appearance, the twigs still yielding to the wind, but not so visibly to us. The other birch trees that were near it looked bright and cheerful, but it was a creature by its own self among them…. We went through the wood. It became fair. There was a rainbow which spanned the lake from the island-house to the foot of Bainriggs. The village looked populous and beautiful. Catkins are coming out; palm trees budding; the alder, with its plum-coloured buds. We came home over the stepping-stones. The lake was foamy with white waves. I saw a solitary butter-flower in the wood…. Reached home at dinner time. Sent Peggy Ashburner some goose. She sent me some honey, with a thousand thanks. “Alas! the gratitude of men has,” etc.[41] I went in to set her right about this, and sate a while with her. She talked about Thomas’s having sold his land. “I,” says she, “said many a time he’s not come fra London to buy our land, however.” Then she told me with what pains and industry they had made up their taxes, interest, etc. etc., how they all got up at 5 o’clock in the morning to spin and Thomas carded, and that they had paid off a hundred pounds of the interest. She said she used to take much pleasure in the cattle and sheep. “O how pleased I used to be when they fetched them down, and when I had been a bit poorly I would gang out upon a hill and look over’t fields and see them, and it used to do me so much good you cannot think.” Molly said to me when I came in, “Poor body! she’s very ill, but one does not know how long she may last. Many a fair face may gang before her.” We sate by the fire without work for some time, then Mary read a poem of Daniel…. Wm. read Spenser, now and then, a little aloud to us. We were making his waistcoat. We had a note from Mrs. C., with bad news from poor C.–very ill. William went to John’s Grove. I went to find him. Moonlight, but it rained…. He had been surprised, and terrified, by a sudden rushing of winds, which seemed to bring earth, sky, and lake together, as if the whole were going to enclose him in. He was glad he was in a high road.

• Footnote 41: See, in the “Poetical Works,” Simon Lee,” II. 95, 96, vol. i. p. 268.

In speaking of our walk on Sunday evening, the 22nd November, I forgot to notice one most impressive sight. It was the moon and the moonlight seen through hurrying driving clouds immediately behind the Stone-Man upon the top of the hill, on the forest side. Every tooth and every edge of rock was visible, and the Man stood like a giant watching from the roof of a lofty castle. The hill seemed perpendicular from the darkness below it. It was a sight that I could call to mind at any time, it was so distinct.

Note: Below is a possible route to Bainriggs. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday, 25th November._–It was a showery morning and threatened to be a wettish day, but the sun shone once or twice. We were engaged to Mr. Lloyd’s and Wm. and Mary were determined to go that it might be over. I accompanied them to the thorn beside Rydale water. I parted from them first at the top of the hill, and they called me back. It rained a little, and rained afterwards all the afternoon. I baked bread, and wrote to Sara Hutchinson and Coleridge. I passed a pleasant evening, but the wind roared so, and it was such a storm that I was afraid for them. They came in at nine o’clock, no worse for their walk, and cheerful, blooming, and happy.

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal Water. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Thursday, 26th._–Mr. Olliff called before Wm. was up to say that they would drink tea with us this afternoon. We walked into Easedale, to gather mosses, and to fetch cream. I went for the cream, and they sate under a wall. It was piercing cold.

Note: Below is a possible route to Easedale. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Thursday, 3rd December 1801._–Wm. walked into Easedale. Hail and snow…. I wrote a little bit of my letter to Coleridge…

Note: Below is a possible route to Easedale. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Friday, 4th._– … Wm. translating “The Prioress’s Tale.” William and Mary walked after tea to Rydale. I finished the letter to Coleridge, and we received a letter from him and Sara. C.’s letter written in good spirits. A letter of Lamb’s about George Dyer with it.[42]

• Footnote 42: An unprinted letter.

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Saturday, 5th._– … Wm. finished “The Prioress’s Tale,” and after tea Mary and he wrote it out…. 

Sunday, 6th._–A very fine beautiful sunshiny morning. Wm. worked a while at Chaucer, then we set forward to walk into Easedale…. We walked backwards and forwards in the flat field, which makes the second course of Easedale, with that beautiful rock in the field beside us, and all the rocks and the woods and the mountains enclosing us round. The sun was shining among them, the snow thinly scattered upon the tops of the mountains. In the afternoon we sate by the fire: I read Chaucer aloud, and Mary read the first canto of “The Fairy Queen”. After tea Mary and I walked to Ambleside for letters…. It was a sober starlight evening. The stars not shining as it were with all their brightness when they were visible, and sometimes hiding themselves behind small greying clouds, that passed soberly along. We opened C.’s letter at Wilcock’s door. We thought we saw that he wrote in good spirits, so we came happily homewards where we arrived 2 hours after we left home. It was a sad melancholy letter, and prevented us all from sleeping.

Note: Below is a possible route to Easedale. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Monday Morning, 7th._–We rose by candlelight. A showery unpleasant morning, after a downright rainy night. We determined, however, to go to Keswick if possible, and we set off a little after 9 o’clock. When we were upon the Raise, it snowed very much; and the whole prospect closed in upon us, like a moorland valley, upon a moor very wild. But when we were at the top of the Raise we saw the mountains before us. The sun shone upon them, here and there; and Wytheburn vale, though wild, looked soft. The day went on cheerfully and pleasantly. Now and then a hail shower attacked us; but we kept up a good heart, for Mary is a famous jockey…. We reached Greta Hall at about one o’clock. Met Mrs. C. in the field. Derwent in the cradle asleep. Hartley at his dinner. Derwent the image of his father. Hartley well. We wrote to C. Mrs. C. left us at 1/2 past 2. We drank tea by ourselves, the children playing about us. Mary said to Hartley, “Shall I take Derwent with me?” “No,” says H., “I cannot spare my little brother,” in the sweetest tone possible, “and he can’t do without his mamma.” “Well,” says Mary, “why can’t I be his mamma? Can’t he have more mammas than one?” “No,” says H. “What for?” “Because they do not love, and mothers do.” “What is the difference between mothers and mammas?” Looking at his sleeves, “Mothers wear sleeves like this, pulling his own tight down, and mammas” (pulling them up, and making a bustle about his shoulders) “so.” We parted from them at 4 o’clock. It was a little of the dusk when we set off. Cotton mills lighted up. The first star at Nadel Fell, but it was never dark. We rode very briskly. Snow upon the Raise. Reached home at seven o’clock. William at work with Chaucer, “The God of Love.” Sate latish. I wrote a letter to Coleridge.

Monday, 14th December._–Wm. and Mary walked to Ambleside in the morning to buy mouse-traps…. I wrote to Coleridge a very long letter while they were absent. Sate by the fire in the evening reading.

Note: Below is a possible route to Ambleside. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Thursday, 17th._–Snow in the night and still snowing…. Ambleside looked excessively beautiful as we came out–like a village in another country; and the light cheerful mountains were seen, in the long distance, as bright and as clear as at mid-day, with the blue sky above them. We heard waterfowl calling out by the lake side. Jupiter was very glorious above the Ambleside hills, and one large star hung over the corner of the hills on the opposite side of Rydale water.

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Friday, 18th December 1801._–Mary and Wm. walked round the two lakes. I staid at home to make bread. I afterwards went to meet them, and I met Wm. Mary had gone to look at Langdale Pikes. It was a cheerful glorious day. The birches and all trees beautiful, hips bright red, mosses green. I wrote to Coleridge.

Note: Below is a possible route to Langdale Pikes. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Sunday, 20th December._–It snowed all day. It was a very deep snow. The brooms were very beautiful, arched feathers with wiry stalks pointed to the end, smaller and smaller. They waved gently with the weight of the snow.

Monday 21st_ being the shortest day, Mary walked to Ambleside for letters. It was a wearisome walk, for the snow lay deep upon the roads and it was beginning to thaw. I stayed at home. Wm. sate beside me, and read “The Pedlar.” He was in good spirits, and full of hope of what he should do with it. He went to meet Mary, and they brought four letters–two from Coleridge, one from Sara, and one from France. Coleridge’s were melancholy letters. He had been very ill. We were made very unhappy. Wm. wrote to him, and directed the letter into Somersetshire. I finished it after tea. In the afternoon Mary and I ironed.

Tuesday, 22nd._– … Wm. composed a few lines of “The Pedlar.” We talked about Lamb’s tragedy as we went down the White Moss. We stopped a long time in going to watch a little bird with a salmon-coloured breast, a white cross or T upon its wings, and a brownish back with faint stripes…. It began to pick upon the road at the distance of four yards from us, and advanced nearer and nearer till it came within the length of W.’s stick, without any apparent fear of us. As we came up the White Moss, we met an old man, who I saw was a beggar by his two bags hanging over his shoulder; but, from half laziness, half indifference, and wanting to _try_ him, if he would speak, I let him pass. He said nothing, and my heart smote me. I turned back, and said, “You are begging?” “Ay,” says he. I gave him something. William, judging from his appearance, joined in, “I suppose you were a sailor?” “Ay,” he replied, “I have been 57 years at sea, 12 of them on board a man-of-war under Sir Hugh Palmer.” “Why have you not a pension?” “I have no pension, but I could have got into Greenwich hospital, but all my officers are dead.” He was 75 years of age, had a freshish colour in his cheeks, grey hair, a decent hat with a binding round the edge, the hat worn brown and glossy, his shoes were small thin shoes low in the quarters, pretty good. They had belonged to a gentleman. His coat was frock shaped, coming over his thighs. It had been joined up at the seams behind with paler blue, to let it out, and there were three bell-shaped patches of darker blue behind, where the buttons had been. His breeches were either of fustian, or grey cloth, with strings hanging down, whole and tight. He had a checked shirt on, and a small coloured handkerchief tied round his neck. His bags were hung over each shoulder, and lay on each side of him, below his breast. One was brownish and of coarse stuff, the other was white with meal on the outside, and his blue waistcoat was whitened with meal.

We overtook old Fleming at Rydale, leading his little Dutchman-like grandchild along the slippery road. The same face seemed to be natural to them both–the old man and the little child–and they went hand in hand, the grandfather cautious, yet looking proud of his charge. He had two patches of new cloth at the shoulder-blades of his faded claret-coloured coat, like eyes at each shoulder, not worn elsewhere. I found Mary at home in her riding-habit, all her clothes being put up. We were very sad about Coleridge…. We stopped to look at the stone seat at the top of the hill. There was a white cushion upon it, round at the edge like a cushion, and the rock behind looked soft as velvet, of a vivid green, and so tempting! The snow too looked as soft as a down cushion. A young foxglove, like a star, in the centre. There were a few green lichens about it, and a few withered brackens of fern here and there upon the ground near, all else was a thick snow; no footmark to it, not the foot of a sheep…. We sate snugly round the fire. I read to them the Tale of Constance and the Syrian monarch, in the “Man of Lawe’s Tale”, also some of the “Prologue”…

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday, 23rd._– … Mary wrote out the Tales from Chaucer for Coleridge. William worked at “The Ruined Cottage” and made himself very ill…. A broken soldier came to beg in the morning. Afterwards a tall woman, dressed somewhat in a tawdry style, with a long checked muslin apron, a beaver hat, and throughout what are called good clothes. Her daughter had gone before, with a soldier and his wife. She had buried her husband at Whitehaven, and was going back into Cheshire.

Thursday, 24th._–Still a thaw. Wm., Mary, and I sate comfortably round the fire in the evening, and read Chaucer. Thoughts of last year. I took out my old Journal.

Friday, 25th._–“Christmas Day.” We received a letter from Coleridge. His letter made us uneasy about him. I was glad I was not by myself when I received it.

Saturday, 26th._– … 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! Poor Coleridge, Sara, and dear little Derwent here last year at this time. After tea we sate by the fire comfortably. I read aloud “The Miller’s Tale.” Wrote to Coleridge… Wm. wrote part of the poem to Coleridge.[43]

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Sunday, 27th._–A fine soft beautiful mild day, with gleams of sunshine. William went to take in his boat. I sate in John’s Grove a little while. Mary came home. Mary wrote some lines of the third part of his poem, which he brought to read to us, when we came home…

Monday, 28th of December._–William, Mary, and I set off on foot to Keswick. We carried some cold mutton in our pockets, and dined at John Stanley’s, where they were making Christmas pies. The sun shone, but it was coldish. We parted from Wm. upon the Raise. He joined us opposite Sara’s rock. He was busy in composition, and sate down upon the wall. We did not see him again till we arrived at John Stanley’s. There we roasted apples in the room. After we had left John Stanley’s, Wm. discovered that he had lost his gloves. He turned back, but they were gone. Wm. rested often. Once he left his Spenser, and Mary turned back for it, and found it upon the bank, where we had last rested… We reached Greta Hall at about 1/2 past 5 o’clock. The children and Mrs. C. well. After tea, message came from Wilkinson, who had passed us on the road, inviting Wm. to sup at the Oak. He went. Met a young man (a predestined Marquis) called Johnston. He spoke to him familiarly of the L. B. He had seen a copy presented by the Queen to Mrs. Harcourt. Said he saw them everywhere, and wondered they did not sell. We all went weary to bed…. 

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Tuesday, 29th._–A fine morning. A thin fog upon the hills which soon disappeared. The sun shone. Wilkinson went with us to the top of the hill. We turned out of the road at the second mile stone, and passed a pretty cluster of houses at the foot of St. John’s Vale. The houses were among tall trees, partly of Scotch fir, and some naked forest trees. We crossed a bridge just below these houses, and the river winded sweetly along the meadows. Our road soon led us along the sides of dreary bare hills, but we had a glorious prospect to the left of Saddleback, half-way covered with snow, and underneath the comfortable white houses and the village of Threlkeld. These houses and the village want trees about them. Skiddaw was behind us, and dear Coleridge’s desert home. As we ascended the hills it grew very cold and slippery. Luckily, the wind was at our backs, and helped us on. A sharp hail shower gathered at the head of Martindale, and the view upwards was very grand–wild cottages, seen through the hurrying hail-shower. The wind drove, and eddied about and about, and the hills looked large and swelling through the storm. We thought of Coleridge. O! the bonny nooks, and windings, and curlings of the beck, down at the bottom of the steep green mossy banks. We dined at the public-house on porridge, with a second course of Christmas pies. We were well received by the landlady, and her little Jewish daughter was glad to see us again. The husband a very handsome man. While we were eating our dinner a traveller came in. He had walked over Kirkstone, that morning. We were much amused by the curiosity of the landlord and landlady to learn who he was, and by his mysterious manner of letting out a little bit of his errand, and yet telling nothing. He had business further up in the vale. He left them with this piece of information to work upon, and I doubt not they discovered who he was and all his business before the next day at that hour. The woman told us of the riches of a Mr. Walker, formerly of Grasmere. We said, “What, does he do nothing for his relations? He has a sickly sister at Grasmere.” “Why,” said the man, “I daresay if they had any sons to put forward he would do it for them, but he has children of his own.”

(N.B.–His fortune is above £60,000, and he has two children!!)

The landlord went about a mile and a half with us to put us in the right way. The road was often very slippery, the wind high, and it was nearly dark before we got into the right road. I was often obliged to crawl on all fours, and Mary fell many a time. A stout young man whom we met on the hills, and who knew Mr. Clarkson, very kindly set us into the right road, and we inquired again near some houses and were directed, by a miserable, poverty-struck, looking woman, who had been fetching water, to go down a miry lane. We soon got into the main road and reached Mr. Clarkson’s at tea time. Mary H. spent the next day with us, and we walked on Dunmallet before dinner, but it snowed a little. The day following, being New Year’s Eve, we accompanied Mary to Howtown Bridge.

New Year’s Day._–We walked, Wm. and I, towards Martindale.

January 2nd._–It snowed all day. We walked near to Dalemain in the snow.

January 3rd._–Sunday. Mary brought us letters from Sara and Coleridge and we went with her homewards to … Parted at the stile on the Pooley side. Thomas Wilkinson dined with us and stayed supper.

On Thursday 6th, C. returned, and on Friday, the 7th, he and Sara went to Keswick. W. accompanied them to the foot of Wytheburn…. It was a gentle day, and when William and I returned home just before sunset, it was a heavenly evening. A soft sky was among the hills, and a summer sunshine above, and blending with this sky, for it was more like sky than clouds; the turf looked warm and soft.

Note: Below is a possible route to Wytheburn. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

On Sunday the 17th we went to meet Mary. It was a mild gentle thaw. She stayed with us till Friday, 22nd January. On Thursday we dined at Mr. Myers’s, and on Friday, 22nd, we parted from Mary. Before our parting we sate under a wall in the sun near a cottage above Stainton Bridge. The field in which we sate sloped downwards to a nearly level meadow, round which the Emont flowed in a small half-circle as at Lochleven.[44] The opposite bank is woody, steep as a wall, but not high, and above that bank the fields slope gently, and irregularly down to it. These fields are surrounded by tall hedges, with trees among them, and there are clumps or grovelets of tall trees here and there. Sheep and cattle were in the fields. Dear Mary! there we parted from her. I daresay as often as she passes that road she will turn in at the gate to look at this sweet prospect. There was a barn and I think two or three cottages to be seen among the trees, and slips of lawn and irregular fields. During our stay at Mr. Clarkson’s we walked every day, except that stormy Thursday. We dined at Thomas Wilkinson’s on Friday the 15th, and walked to Penrith for Mary. The trees were covered with hoar-frost–grasses, and trees, and hedges beautiful; a glorious sunset; frost keener than ever. Next day thaw. Mrs. Clarkson amused us with many stories of her family and of persons whom she had known. I wish I had set them down as I heard them, when they were fresh in my memory…. Mrs. Clarkson knew a clergyman and his wife who brought up ten children upon a curacy, sent two sons to college, and he left £1000 when he died. The wife was very generous, gave food and drink to all poor people. She had a passion for feeding animals. She killed a pig with feeding it over much. When it was dead she said, “To be sure it’s a great loss, but I thank God it did not die “clemmed” (the Cheshire word for starved). Her husband was very fond of playing back-gammon, and used to play whenever he could get anybody to play with him. She had played much in her youth, and was an excellent player; but her husband knew nothing of this, till one day she said to him, “You’re fond of back-gammon, come play with me.” He was surprised. She told him she had kept it to herself, while she had a young family to attend to, but that now she would play with him! So they began to play, and played every night. Mr. C. told us many pleasant stories. His journey from London to Wisbeck on foot when a schoolboy, knife and stick, postboy, etc., the white horse sleeping at the turnpike gate snoring, the turnpike man’s clock ticking, the burring story, the story of the mastiff, bull-baiting by men at Wisbeck.

• Footnote 44: This refers probably to Loch Leven in Argyll, but its point is not obvious, and Dorothy Wordsworth had not then been in Scotland.

Saturday, January 23rd, we left Eusemere at 10 o’clock in the morning, I behind Wm. Mr. Clarkson on his Galloway.[45] The morning not very promising, the wind cold. The mountains large and dark, but only thinly streaked with snow; a strong wind. We dined in Grisdale on ham, bread, and milk. We parted from Mr. C. at one o’clock. It rained all the way home. We struggled with the wind, and often rested as we went along. A hail shower met us before we reached the Tarn, and the way often was difficult over the snow; but at the Tarn the view closed in. We saw nothing but mists and snow: and at first the ice on the Tarn below us cracked and split, yet without water, a dull grey white. We lost our path, and could see the Tarn no longer. We made our way out with difficulty, guided by a heap of stones which we well remembered. We were afraid of being bewildered in the mists, till the darkness should overtake us. We were long before we knew that we were in the right track, but thanks to William’s skill we knew it long before we could see our way before us. There was no footmark upon the snow either of man or beast. We saw four sheep before we had left the snow region. The vale of Grasmere, when the mists broke away, looked soft and grave, of a yellow hue. It was dark before we reached home. O how happy and comfortable we felt ourselves, sitting by our own fire, when we had got off our wet clothes. We talked about the Lake of Como, read the description, looked about us, and felt that we were happy…

• Footnote 45: A Galloway pony.

Sunday, 24th._–We went into the orchard as soon as breakfast was over. Laid out the situation for our new room, and sauntered a while. Wm. walked in the morning. I wrote to Coleridge…. 

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]

• Footnote 46: See the “Poetical Works,” vol. ii. p. 335.

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 1/2 past 11.

• Footnote 47: Compare, in “Lines written in Early Spring,” vol. i.p. 269

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 1/4 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.

Note: Below is a possible route to Ambleside. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

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 1/2 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 encyclopedias. 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…

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

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.

Tuesday, 2nd February.– … Wm. went into the orchard after breakfast, to chop wood. We walked into Easedale… Walked backwards and forwards between Goody Bridge and Butterlip How. William wished to break off composition, but was unable, and so did himself harm. The sun shone, but it was cold. William worked at “The Pedlar.” After tea I read aloud the eleventh book of “Paradise Lost.” We were much impressed, and also melted into tears. The papers came in soon after I had laid aside the book–a good thing for my Wm…

Note: Below is a possible route to Easedale. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday, 3rd. A rainy morning. We walked to Rydale for letters. Found one from Mrs. Cookson and Mary H. It snowed upon the hills. We sate down on the wall at the foot of White Moss. Sate by the fire in the evening. Wm. tired, and did not compose. He went to bed soon, and could not sleep. I wrote to Mary H. Sent off the letter by Fletcher. Wrote also to Coleridge. Read Wm. to sleep after dinner, and read to him in bed till 1/2 past one.

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Thursday, 4th._– … Wm. thought a little about “The Pedlar.” Read Smollet’s life.

Friday, 5th._–A cold snowy morning. Snow and hail showers. We did not walk. Wm. cut wood a little. Sate up late at “The Pedlar.”

Saturday, 6th February._– … Two very affecting letters from Coleridge; resolved to try another climate. I was stopped in my writing, and made ill by the letters…. Wrote again after tea, and translated two or three of Lessing’s “Fables.”

Sunday, 7th._–A fine clear frosty morning. The eaves drop with the heat of the sun all day long. The ground thinly covered with snow. The road black, rocks black. Before night the island was quite green. The sun had melted all the snow. Wm. working at his poem. We sate by the fire, and did not walk, but read “The Pedlar,” thinking it done; but W. could find fault with one part of it. It was uninteresting, and must be altered. Poor Wm.!

Monday Morning, 8th February 1802. –It was very windy and rained hard all the morning. William worked at his poem and I read a little in Lessing and the grammar. A chaise came past.

Monday Morning, 8th February 1802. –It was very windy and rained hard all the morning. William worked at his poem and I read a little in Lessing and the grammar. A chaise came past.

After dinner (i.e. we set off at about 1/2 past 4) we went towards Rydale for letters. It was a “cauld clash.” The rain had been so cold that it hardly melted the snow. We stopped at Park’s to get some straw round Wm.’s shoes. The young mother was sitting by a bright wood fire, with her youngest child upon her lap, and the other two sate on each side of the chimney. The light of the fire made them a beautiful sight, with their innocent countenances, their rosy cheeks, and glossy curling hair. We sate and talked about poor Ellis, and our journey over the Hawes. Before we had come to the shore of the Lake, we met our patient bow-bent friend, with his little wooden box at his back. “Where are you going?” said he. “To Rydale for letters.” “I have two for you in my box.” We lifted up the lid, and there they lay. Poor fellow, he straddled and pushed on with all his might; but we outstripped him far away when we had turned back with our letters…. I could not help comparing lots with him. He goes at that slow pace every morning, and after having wrought a hard day’s work returns at night, however weary he may be, takes it all quietly, and, though perhaps he neither feels thankfulness nor pleasure, when he eats his supper, and has nothing to look forward to but falling asleep in bed, yet I daresay he neither murmurs nor thinks it hard. He seems mechanised to labour. We broke the seal of Coleridge’s letters, and I had light enough just to see that he was not ill. I put it in my pocket. At the top of the White Moss I took it to my bosom,–a safer place for it. The sight was wild. There was a strange mountain lightness, when we were at the top of the White Moss. I have often observed it there in the evenings, being between the two valleys. There is more of the sky there than any other place. It has a strange effect. Sometimes, along with the obscurity of evening, or night, it seems almost like a peculiar sort of light. There was not much wind till we came to John’s Grove, then it roared right out of the grove, all the trees were tossing about. Coleridge’s letter somewhat damped us. It spoke with less confidence about France. Wm. wrote to him. The other letter was from Montagu, with £8. Wm. was very unwell, tired when he had written. He went to bed and left me to write to M. H., Montagu, and Calvert, and Mrs. Coleridge. I had written in his letter to Coleridge. We wrote to Calvert to beg him not to fetch us on Sunday. Wm. left me with a little peat fire. It grew less. I wrote on, and was starved. At 2 o’clock I went to put my letters under Fletcher’s door. I never felt such a cold night. There was a strong wind and it froze very hard. I gathered together all the clothes I could find (for I durst not go into the pantry for fear of waking Wm.). At first when I went to bed I seemed to be warm. I suppose because the cold air, which I had just left, no longer touched my body; but I soon found that I was mistaken. I could not sleep from sheer cold. I had baked pies and bread in the morning. Coleridge’s letter contained prescriptions.

N.B.–The moon came out suddenly when we were at John’s Grove, and a star or two besides.

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Tuesday._–Wm. had slept better. He fell to work, and made himself unwell. We did not walk. A funeral came by of a poor woman who had drowned herself, some say because she was hardly treated by her husband; others that he was a very decent respectable man, and _she_ but an indifferent wife. However this was, she had only been married to him last Whitsuntide and had had very indifferent health ever since. She had got up in the night, and drowned herself in the pond. She had requested to be buried beside her mother, and so she was brought in a hearse. She was followed by some very decent-looking men on horseback, her sister–Thomas Fleming’s wife–in a chaise, and some others with her, and a cart full of women. Molly says folks thinks o’ their mothers. Poor body, _she_ has been little thought of by any body else. We did a little of Lessing. I attempted a fable, but my head ached; my bones were sore with the cold of the day before, and I was downright stupid. We went to bed, but not till Wm. had tired himself. 

Wednesday, 10th._–A very snowy morning…. I was writing out the poem, as we hoped for a final writing…. We read the first part and were delighted with it, but Wm. afterwards got to some ugly place, and went to bed tired out. A wild, moonlight night.

Thursday, 11th._– … Wm. sadly tired and working at “The Pedlar”… We made up a good fire after dinner, and Wm. brought his mattress out, and lay down on the floor. I read to him the life of Ben Jonson, and some short poems of his, which were too interesting for him, and would not let him go to sleep. I had begun with Fletcher, but he was too dull for me. Fuller says, in his “Life of Jonson” (speaking of his plays), “If his latter be not so spriteful and vigorous as his first pieces, all that are old, and all who desire to be old, should excuse him therein.” He says he “beheld” wit-combats between Shakespeare and Jonson, and compares Shakespeare to an English man-of-war, Jonson to a great Spanish galleon. There is one affecting line in Jonson’s epitaph on his first daughter–

Here lies to each her parents ruth,

Mary the daughter of their youth.

At six months’ end she parted hence,

In safety of her innocence.

Friday, 12th._–A very fine, bright, clear, hard frost. Wm. working again. I recopied “The Pedlar,” but poor Wm. all the time at work…. In the afternoon a poor woman came, she said, to beg, … but she has been used to go a-begging, for she has often come here. Her father lived to the age of 105. She is a woman of strong bones, with a complexion that has been beautiful, and remained very fresh last year, but now she looks broken, and her little boy–a pretty little fellow, and whom I have loved for the sake of Basil–looks thin and pale. I observed this to her. “Aye,” says she, “we have all been ill. Our house was nearly unroofed in the storm, and we lived in it so for more than a week.” The child wears a ragged drab coat and a fur cap. Poor little fellow, I think he seems scarcely at all grown since the first time I saw him. William was with me when we met him in a lane going to Skelwith Bridge. He looked very pretty. He was walking lazily, in the deep narrow lane, overshadowed with the hedgerows, his meal poke hung over his shoulder. He said he “was going a laiting.” Poor creature! He now wears the same coat he had on at that time. When the woman was gone, I could not help thinking that we are not half thankful enough that we are placed in that condition of life in which we are. We do not so often bless God for this, as we wish for this £50, that £100, etc. etc. We have not, however, to reproach ourselves with ever breathing a murmur. This woman’s was but a common case. The snow still lies upon the ground. Just at the closing in of the day, I heard a cart pass the door, and at the same time the dismal sound of a crying infant. I went to the window, and had light enough to see that a man was driving a cart, which seemed not to be very full, and that a woman with an infant in her arms was following close behind and a dog close to her. It was a wild and melancholy sight. Wm. rubbed his tables after candles were lighted, and we sate a long time with the windows unclosed, and almost finished writing _The Pedlar_; but poor Wm. wore himself out, and me out, with labour. We had an affecting conversation. Went to bed at 12 o’clock.

Saturday, 13th._–It snowed a little this morning. Still at work at “The Pedlar,” altering and refitting. We did not walk, though it was a very fine day. We received a present of eggs and milk from Janet Dockeray, and just before she went, the little boy from the Hill brought us a letter from Sara H., and one from the Frenchman in London. I wrote to Sara after tea, and Wm. took out his old newspapers, and the new ones came in soon after. We sate, after I had finished the letter, talking; and Wm. read parts of his “Recluse” aloud to me…

Sunday, 14th February._–A fine morning. The sun shines out, but it has been a hard frost in the night. There are some little snowdrops that are afraid to put their white heads quite out, and a few blossoms of hepatica that are half-starved. Wm. left me at work altering some passages of “The Pedlar,” and went into the orchard. The fine day pushed him on to resolve, and as soon as I had read a letter to him, which I had just received from Mrs. Clarkson, he said he would go to Penrith, so Molly was despatched for the horse. I worked hard, got the writing finished, and all quite trim. I wrote to Mrs. Clarkson, and put up some letters for Mary H., and off he went in his blue spencer, and a pair of new pantaloons fresh from London…. I then sate over the fire, reading Ben Jonson’s “Penshurst,” and other things. Before sunset, I put on my shawl and walked out. The snow-covered mountains were spotted with rich sunlight, a palish buffish colour…. I stood at the wishing-gate, and when I came in view of Rydale, I cast a long look upon the mountains beyond. They were very white, but I concluded that Wm. would have a very safe passage over Kirkstone, and I was quite easy about him. After dinner, a little before sunset, I walked out about 20 yards above Glow-worm Rock. I met a carman, a Highlander I suppose, with four carts, the first three belonging to himself, the last evidently to a man and his family who had joined company with him, and who I guessed to be potters. The carman was cheering his horses, and talking to a little lass about ten years of age who seemed to make him her companion. She ran to the wall, and took up a large stone to support the wheel of one of his carts, and ran on before with it in her arms to be ready for him. She was a beautiful creature, and there was something uncommonly impressive in the lightness and joyousness of her manner. Her business seemed to be all pleasure–pleasure in her own motions, and the man looked at her as if he too was pleased, and spoke to her in the same tone in which he spoke to his horses. There was a wildness in her whole figure, not the wildness of a Mountain lass, but of the Road lass, a traveller from her birth, who had wanted neither food nor clothes. Her mother followed the last cart with a lovely child, perhaps about a year old, at her back, and a good-looking girl, about fifteen years old, walked beside her. All the children were like the mother. She had a very fresh complexion, but she was blown with fagging up the steep hill, and with what she carried. Her husband was helping the horse to drag the cart up by pushing it with his shoulder. I reached home, and read German till about 9 o’clock. I wrote to Coleridge. Went to bed at about 12 o’clock…. I slept badly, for my thoughts were full of Wm. 

Monday, 15th February._–It snowed a good deal, and was terribly cold. After dinner it was fair, but I was obliged to run all the way to the foot of the White Moss, to get the least bit of warmth into me. I found a letter from C. He was much better, this was very satisfactory, but his letter was not an answer to Wm.’s which I expected. A letter from Annette. I got tea when I reached home, and then set on reading German. I wrote part of a letter to Coleridge, went to bed and slept badly. 

Tuesday, 16th._–A fine morning, but I had persuaded myself not to expect Wm., I believe because I was afraid of being disappointed. I ironed all day. He came just at tea time, had only seen Mary H. for a couple of hours between Eamont Bridge and Hartshorn Tree. Mrs. C. better. He had had a difficult journey over Kirkstone, and came home by Threlkeld. We spent a sweet evening. He was better, had altered “The Pedlar.” We went to bed pretty soon. Mr. Graham said he wished Wm. had been with him the other day–he was riding in a post-chaise and he heard a strange cry that he could not understand, the sound continued, and he called to the chaise driver to stop. It was a little girl that was crying as if her heart would burst. She had got up behind the chaise, and her cloak had been caught by the wheel, and was jammed in, and it hung there. She was crying after it, poor thing. Mr. Graham took her into the chaise, and her cloak was released from the wheel, but the child’s misery did not cease, for her cloak was torn to rags; it had been a miserable cloak before, but she had no other, and it was the greatest sorrow that could befall her. Her name was Alice Fell.[51] She had no parents, and belonged to the next town. At the next town, Mr. G. left money with some respectable people in the town, to buy her a new cloak.

Wednesday, 17th._–A miserable nasty snowy morning. We did not walk, but the old man from the hill brought us a short letter from Mary H. I copied the second part of “Peter Bell”…. 

Thursday, 18th._–A foggy morning. I copied new part of _Peter Bell_ in W.’s absence, and began a letter to Coleridge. Wm. came in with a letter from Coleridge…. We talked together till 11 o’clock, when Wm. got to work, and was no worse for it. Hard frost.

Saturday, 20th._– … I wrote the first part of “Peter Bell”…

Sunday, 21st._–A very wet morning. I wrote the 2nd prologue to “Peter Bell”… After dinner I wrote the 1st prologue…. Snowdrops quite out, but cold and winterly; yet, for all this, a thrush that lives in our orchard has shouted and sung its merriest all day long …

Monday, 22nd._–Wm. brought me 4 letters to read–from Annette and Caroline,[52] Mary and Sara, and Coleridge…. In the evening we walked to the top of the hill, then to the bridge. We hung over the wall, and looked at the deep stream below. It came with a full, steady, yet a very rapid flow down to the lake. The sykes made a sweet sound everywhere, and looked very interesting in the twilight, and that little one above Mr. Olliff’s house was very impressive. A ghostly white serpent line, it made a sound most distinctly heard of itself. The mountains were black and steep, the tops of some of them having snow yet visible.

• Footnote 52: See “Poetical Works,” vol. ii. p. 335.

Tuesday, 23rd._– … When we came out of our own doors, that dear thrush was singing upon the topmost of the smooth branches of the ash tree at the top of the orchard. How long it had been perched on that same tree I cannot tell, but we had heard its dear voice in the orchard the day through, along with a cheerful undersong made by our winter friends, the robins. As we came home, I picked up a few mosses by the roadside, which I left at home. We then went to John’s Grove. There we sate a little while looking at the fading landscape. The lake, though the objects on the shore were fading, seemed brighter than when it is perfect day, and the island pushed itself upwards, distinct and large. All the shores marked. There was a sweet, sea-like sound in the trees above our heads. We walked backwards and forwards some time for dear John’s sake, then walked to look at Rydale. Wm. now reading in Bishop Hall, I going to read German. We have a nice singing fire, with one piece of wood…

Wednesday, 24th._–A rainy morning. William returned from Rydale very wet, with letters. He brought a short one from C., a very long one from Mary. Wm. wrote to Annette, to Coleridge…. I wrote a little bit to Coleridge. We sent off these letters by Fletcher. It was a tremendous night of wind and rain. Poor Coleridge! a sad night for a traveller such as he. God be praised he was in safe quarters. Wm. went out. He never felt a colder night.

Thursday, 25th._–A fine, mild, gay, beautiful morning. Wm. wrote to Montagu in the morning…. I reached home just before dark, brought some mosses and ivy, and then got tea, and fell to work at German. I read a good deal of Lessing’s Essay. Wm. came home between 9 and 10 o’clock. We sat together by the fire till bedtime. Wm. not very much tired.

Friday, 26th._–A grey morning till 10 o’clock, then the sun shone beautifully. Mrs. Lloyd’s children and Mrs. Luff came in a chaise, were here at 11 o’clock, then went to Mrs. Olliff. Wm. and I accompanied them to the gate. I prepared dinner, sought out _Peter Bell_, gave Wm. some cold meat, and then we went to walk. We walked first to Butterlip How, where we sate and overlooked the dale, no sign of spring but the red tints of the woods and trees. Sate in the sun. Met Charles Lloyd near the Bridge…. Mr. and Mrs. Luff walked home, the Lloyds stayed till 8 o’clock. Wm. always gets on better with conversation at home than elsewhere. The chaise-driver brought us a letter from Mrs. H., a short one from C. We were perplexed about Sara’s coming. I wrote to Mary. Wm. closed his letter to Montagu, and wrote to Calvert and Mrs. Coleridge. Birds sang divinely to-day. Wm. better.

Sunday, 28th February._–Wm. employed himself with “The Pedlar.” We got papers in the morning.

Monday._–A fine pleasant day, we walked to Rydale. I went on before for the letters, brought two from M. and S. H. We climbed over the wall and read them under the shelter of a mossy rock. We met Mrs. Lloyd in going. Mrs. Olliff’s child ill. The catkins are beautiful in the hedges, the ivy is very green. Robert Newton’s paddock is greenish–that is all we see of Spring; finished and sent off the letter to Sara, and wrote to Mary. Wrote again to Sara, and Wm. wrote to Coleridge. Mrs. Lloyd called when I was in bed.

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Tuesday._[53]–A fine grey morning…. I read German, and a little before dinner Wm. also read. We walked on Butterlip How under the wind. It rained all the while, but we had a pleasant walk. The mountains of Easedale, black or covered with snow at the tops, gave a peculiar softness to the valley. The clouds hid the tops of some of them. The valley was populous and enlivened with streams….

• Footnote 53: March 2nd.

Note: Below is a possible route to Butharlyp Howe. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday._–I was so unlucky as to propose to rewrite “The Pedlar.” Wm. got to work, and was worn to death. We did not walk. I wrote in the afternoon.

Thursday._–Before we had quite finished breakfast Calvert’s man brought the horses for Wm. We had a deal to do, pens to make, poems to put in order for writing, to settle for the press, pack up; and the man came before the pens were made, and he was obliged to leave me with only two. Since he left me at half-past 11 (it is now 2) I have been putting the drawers into order, laid by his clothes which he had thrown here and there and everywhere, filed two months’ newspapers and got my dinner, 2 boiled eggs and 2 apple tarts. I have set Molly on to clean the garden a little, and I myself have walked. I transplanted some snowdrops–the Bees are busy. Wm. has a nice bright day. It was hard frost in the night. The Robins are singing sweetly. Now for my walk. I “will” be busy. I “will” look well, and be well when he comes back to me. O the Darling! Here is one of his bitter apples. I can hardly find it in my heart to throw it into the fire…. I walked round the two Lakes, crossed the stepping-stones at Rydale foot. Sate down where we always sit. I was full of thought about my darling. Blessings on him. I came home at the foot of our own hill under Loughrigg. They are making sad ravages in the woods. Benson’s wood is going, and the woods above the River. The wind has blown down a small fir tree on the Rock, that terminates John’s path. I suppose the wind of Wednesday night. I read German after tea. I worked and read the L. B., enchanted with the “Idiot Boy.” Wrote to Wm. and then went to bed. It snowed when I went to bed.

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Friday._–First walked in the garden and orchard, a frosty sunny morning. After dinner I gathered mosses in Easedale. I saw before me sitting in the open field, upon his pack of rags, the old Ragman that I know. His coat is of scarlet in a thousand patches. When I came home Molly had shook the carpet and cleaned everything upstairs. When I see her so happy in her work, and exulting in her own importance, I often think of that affecting expression which she made use of to me one evening lately. Talking of her good luck in being in this house, “Aye, Mistress, them ‘at’s low laid would have been proud creatures could they but have seen where I is now, fra what they thought wud be my doom.” I was tired when I reached home. I sent Molly Ashburner to Rydale. No letters. I was sadly mortified. I expected one fully from Coleridge. Wrote to William, read the L. B., got into sad thoughts, tried at German, but could not go on. Read L. B. Blessings on that brother of mine! Beautiful new moon over Silver How.

Note: Below is a possible route to Easedale. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Friday Morning._–A very cold sunshiny frost. I wrote “The Pedlar,” and finished it before I went to Mrs. Simpson’s to drink tea. Miss S. at Keswick, but she came home. Mrs. Jameson came in and stayed supper. Fletcher’s carts went past and I let them go with William’s letter. Mr. B. S. came nearly home with me. I found letters from Wm., Mary, and Coleridge. I wrote to C. Sat up late, and could not fall asleep when I went to bed.

Sunday Morning._–A very fine, clear frost. I stitched up “The Pedlar”; wrote out “Ruth”; read it with the alterations, then wrote Mary H. Read a little German, … and in came William, I did not expect him till to-morrow. How glad I was. After we had talked about an hour, I gave him his dinner. We sate talking and happy. He brought two new stanzas of “Ruth”…

Monday Morning._–A soft rain and mist. We walked to Rydale for letters. The Vale looked very beautiful in excessive simplicity, yet, at the same time, in uncommon obscurity. The Church stood alone–mountains behind. The meadows looked calm and rich, bordering on the still lake. Nothing else to be seen but lake and island…

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Tuesday Morning._–William was reading in Ben Jonson. He read me a beautiful poem on Love…. We sate by the fire in the evening, and read “The Pedlar” over. William worked a little, and altered it in a few places…

Wednesday._– … Wm. read in Ben Jonson in the morning. I read a little German. We then walked to Rydale. No letters. They are slashing away in Benson’s wood. William has since tea been talking about publishing the Yorkshire Wolds Poem with “The Pedlar.”

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Thursday._–A fine morning. William worked at the poem of “The Singing Bird.” [54] Just as we were sitting down to dinner we heard Mr. Clarkson’s voice. I ran down, William followed. He was so finely mounted that William was more intent upon the horse than the rider, an offence easily forgiven, for Mr. Clarkson was as proud of it himself as he well could be…

• Footnote 54: First published in 1807, under the title of “The   Sailor’s Mother.”

Friday._–A very fine morning. We went to see Mr. Clarkson off. The sun shone while it rained, and the stones of the walls and the pebbles on the road glittered like silver…. William finished his poem of “The Singing Bird”. In the meantime, I read the remainder of Lessing. In the evening after tea William wrote “Alice Fell.” He went to bed tired, with a wakeful mind and a weary body…. 

Saturday Morning._– It was as cold as ever it has been all winter, very hard frost…. William finished “Alice Fell,” and then wrote the poem of “The Beggar Woman”, taken from a woman whom I had seen in May (now nearly two years ago) when John and he were at Gallow Hill. I sate with him at intervals all the morning, took down his stanzas, etc…. After tea I read to William that account of the little boy belonging to the tall woman, and an unlucky thing it was, for he could not escape from those very words, and so he could not write the poem. He left it unfinished, and went tired to bed. In our walk from Rydale he had got warmed with the subject, and had half cast the poem.

Sunday Morning._–William … got up at nine o’clock, but before he rose he had finished “The Beggar Boy”, and while we were at breakfast … he wrote the poem “To a Butterfly”! He ate not a morsel, but sate with his shirt neck unbuttoned, and his waistcoat open while he did it. The thought first came upon him as we were talking about the pleasure we both always felt at the sight of a butterfly. I told him that I used to chase them a little, but that I was afraid of brushing the dust off their wings, and did not catch them. He told me how he used to kill all the white ones when he went to school because they were Frenchmen…. I wrote it down and the other poems, and I read them all over to him…. William began to try to alter “The Butterfly,” and tired himself…. 

Monday Morning._–We sate reading the poems, and I read a little German… During W.’s absence a sailor who was travelling from Liverpool to Whitehaven called, he was faint and pale when he knocked at the door–a young man very well dressed. We sate by the kitchen fire talking with him for two hours. He told us interesting stories of his life. His name was Isaac Chapel. He had been at sea since he was 15 years old. He was by trade a sail-maker. His last voyage was to the coast of Guinea. He had been on board a slave ship, the captain’s name Maxwell, where one man had been killed, a boy put to lodge with the pigs and was half eaten, set to watch in the hot sun till he dropped down dead. He had been away in North America and had travelled thirty days among the Indians, where he had been well treated. He had twice swam from a King’s ship in the night and escaped. He said he would rather be in hell than be pressed. He was now going to wait in England to appear against Captain Maxwell. “O he’s a Rascal, Sir, he ought to be put in the papers!” The poor man had not been in bed since Friday night. He left Liverpool at 2 o’clock on Saturday morning; he had called at a farm house to beg victuals and had been refused. The woman said she would give him nothing. “Won’t you? Then I can’t help it.” He was excessively like my brother John.

Tuesday._– … William went up into the orchard, … and wrote a part of “The Emigrant Mother.” After dinner I read him to sleep. I read Spenser…. We walked to look at Rydale. The moon was a good height above the mountains. She seemed far distant in the sky. There were two stars beside her, that twinkled in and out, and seemed almost like butterflies in motion and lightness. They looked to be far nearer to us than the moon.

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday._–William went up into the orchard and finished the poem. I went and sate with W. and walked backwards and forwards in the orchard till dinner time. He read me his poem. I read to him, and my Beloved slept. A sweet evening as it had been a sweet day, and I walked quietly along the side of Rydale lake with quiet thoughts–the hills and the lake were still–the owls had not begun to hoot, and the little birds had given over singing. I looked before me and saw a red light upon Silver How as if coming out of the vale below:

There was a light of most strange birth,

A light that came out of the earth,

And spread along the dark hill-side.

Thus I was going on when I saw the shape of my Beloved in the road at a little distance. We turned back to see the light but it was fading–almost gone. The owls hooted when we sate on the wall at the foot of White Moss; the sky broke more and more, and we saw the moon now and then. John Gill passed us with his cart; we sate on. When we came in sight of our own dear Grasmere, the vale looked fair and quiet in the moonshine, the Church was there and all the cottages. There were huge slow-travelling clouds in the sky, that threw large masses of shade upon some of the mountains. We walked backwards and forwards, between home and Olliff’s, till I was tired. William kindled, and began to write the poem. We carried cloaks into the orchard, and sate a while there. I left him, and he nearly finished the poem. I was tired to death, and went to bed before him. He came down to me, and read the poem to me in bed. A sailor begged here to-day, going to Glasgow. He spoke cheerfully in a sweet tone.

Thursday._–Rydale vale was full of life and motion. The wind blew briskly, and the lake was covered all over with bright silver waves, that were there each the twinkling of an eye, then others rose up and took their place as fast as they went away. The rocks glittered in the sunshine. The crows and the ravens were busy, and the thrushes and little birds sang. I went through the fields, and sate for an hour afraid to pass a cow. The cow looked at me, and I looked at the cow, and whenever I stirred the cow gave over eating…. A parcel came in from Birmingham, with Lamb’s play for us, and for C…. As we came along Ambleside vale in the twilight, it was a grave evening. There was something in the air that compelled me to various thoughts–the hills were large, closed in by the sky…. Night was come on, and the moon was overcast. But, as I climbed the moss, the moon came out from behind a mountain mass of black clouds. O, the unutterable darkness of the sky, and the earth below the moon, and the glorious brightness of the moon itself! There was a vivid sparkling streak of light at this end of Rydale water, but the rest was very dark, and Loughrigg Fell and Silver How were white and bright, as if they were covered with hoar frost. The moon retired again, and appeared and disappeared several times before I reached home. Once there was no moonlight to be seen but upon the island-house and the promontory of the island where it stands. “That needs must be a holy place,” etc. etc. I had many very exquisite feelings, and when I saw this lofty Building in the waters, among the dark and lofty hills, with that bright, soft light upon it, it made me more than half a poet. I was tired when I reached home, and could not sit down to reading. I tried to write verses, but alas! I gave up, expecting William, and went soon to bed.

Friday._–A very rainy morning. I went up into the lane to collect a few green mosses to make the chimney gay against my darling’s return. Poor C., I did not wish for, or expect him, it rained so…. Coleridge came in. His eyes were a little swollen with the wind. I was much affected by the sight of him, he seemed half-stupefied. William came in soon after. Coleridge went to bed late, and William and I sate up till four o’clock. A letter from Sara sent by Mary. They disputed about Ben Jonson. My spirits were agitated very much.

Saturday._– … When I awoke the whole vale was covered with snow. William and Coleridge walked…. We had a little talk about going abroad. After tea William read _The Pedlar_. Talked about various things–christening the children, etc. etc. Went to bed at 12 o’clock.

Sunday._–Coleridge and William lay long in bed. We sent up to George Mackareth’s for the horse to go to Keswick, but we could not have it. Went with C. to Borwick’s where he left us. William very unwell. We had a sweet and tender conversation. I wrote to Mary and Sara. 

Monday._–A rainy day. William very poorly. 2 letters from Sara, and one from poor Annette. Wrote to my brother Richard. We talked a good deal about C. and other interesting things. We resolved to see Annette, and that Wm. should go to Mary. Wm. wrote to Coleridge not to expect us till Thursday or Friday.

Tuesday._–A mild morning. William worked at “The Cuckoo” poem. I sewed beside him…. I read German, and, at the closing-in of day, went to sit in the orchard. William came to me, and walked backwards and forwards. We talked about C. Wm. repeated the poem to me. I left him there, and in 20 minutes he came in, rather tired with attempting to write. He is now reading Ben Jonson. I am going to read German. It is about 10 o’clock, a quiet night. The fire flickers, and the watch ticks. I hear nothing save the breathing of my Beloved as he now and then pushes his book forward, and turns over a leaf…

Tuesday._–A mild morning. William worked at “The Cuckoo” poem. I sewed beside him…. I read German, and, at the closing-in of day, went to sit in the orchard. William came to me, and walked backwards and forwards. We talked about C. Wm. repeated the poem to me. I left him there, and in 20 minutes he came in, rather tired with attempting to write. He is now reading Ben Jonson. I am going to read German. It is about 10 o’clock, a quiet night. The fire flickers, and the watch ticks. I hear nothing save the breathing of my Beloved as he now and then pushes his book forward, and turns over a leaf…

Wednesday._–It was a beautiful spring morning, warm, and quiet with mists. We found a letter from M. H. I made a vow that we would not leave this country for G. Hill.[55] … William altered “The Butterfly” as we came from Rydale…

• Footnote 55: Gallow Hill, Yorkshire.

Thursday._– … No letter from Coleridge.

Friday._– … William wrote to Annette, then worked at “The Cuckoo”… After dinner I sate 2 hours in the orchard. William and I walked together after tea, to the top of White Moss. I left Wm. and while he was absent I wrote out poems. I grew alarmed, and went to seek him. I met him at Mr. Olliff’s. He has been trying, without success, to alter a passage–his _Silver How_ poem. He had written a conclusion just before he went out. While I was getting into bed, he wrote “The Rainbow.”

Saturday._–A divine morning. At breakfast William wrote part of an ode…. We sate all day in the orchard.

Sunday._–We went to Keswick. Arrived wet to the skin…

Note: Below is a possible route to Keswick. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Monday._–Wm. and C. went to Armathwaite.

Tuesday, 30th March._–We went to Calvert’s.

Wednesday, 31st March._– … We walked to Portinscale, lay upon the turf, and looked into the Vale of Newlands; up to Borrowdale, and down to Keswick–a soft Venetian view. Calvert and Wilkinsons dined with us. I walked with Mrs. W. to the Quaker’s meeting, met Wm., and we walked in the field together.

Thursday, 1st April._–Mrs. C, Wm. and I went to the How. We came home by Portinscale.

Friday, 2nd._–Wm. and I sate all the morning in the field.

Saturday, 3rd._–Wm. went on to Skiddaw with C. We dined at Calvert’s….

Sunday, 4th._–We drove by gig to Water End. I walked down to Coleridge’s. Mrs. Calvert came to Greta Bank to tea. William walked down with Mrs. Calvert, and repeated his verses to them….

Monday, 5th._–We came to Eusemere. Coleridge walked with us to Threlkeld….

Monday, 12th. — … The ground covered with snow. Walked to T. Wilkinson’s and sent for letters. The woman brought me one from William and Mary. It was a sharp, windy night. Thomas Wilkinson came with me to Barton, and questioned me like a catechiser all the way. Every question was like the snapping of a little thread about my heart. I was so full of thought of my half-read letter and other things. I was glad when he left me. Then I had time to look at the moon while I was thinking my own thoughts. The moon travelled through the clouds, tinging them yellow as she passed along, with two stars near her, one larger than the other. These stars grew and diminished as they passed from, or went into, the clouds. At this time William, as I found the next day, was riding by himself between Middleham and Barnard Castle…

Tuesday, 13th April.–Mrs. C. waked me from sleep with a letter from Coleridge…. I walked along the lake side. The air was become still, the lake was of a bright slate colour, the hills darkening. The bays shot into the low fading shores. Sheep resting. All things quiet. When I returned William was come. The surprise shot through me….

Thursday, 15th. — It was a threatening, misty morning, but mild. We set off after dinner from Eusemere. Mrs. Clarkson went a short way with us, but turned back. The wind was furious, and we thought we must have returned. We first rested in the large boathouse, then under a furze bush opposite Mr. Clarkson’s. Saw the plough going in the field. The wind seized our breath. The lake was rough. There was a boat by itself floating in the middle of the bay below Water Millock. We rested again in the Water Millock Lane. The hawthorns are black and green, the birches here and there greenish, but there is yet more of purple to be seen on the twigs. We got over into a field to avoid some cows–people working. A few primroses by the roadside–woodsorrel flower, the anemone, scentless violets, strawberries, and that starry, yellow flower which Mrs. C. calls pile wort. When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow Park we saw a few daffodils close to the water-side. We fancied that the sea had floated the seeds ashore, and that the little colony had so sprung up. But as we went along there were more and yet more; and at last, under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore, about the breadth of a country turnpike road. I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones about and above them; some rested their heads upon these stones, as on a pillow, for weariness; and the rest tossed and reeled and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, that blew upon them over the lake; they looked so gay, ever glancing, ever changing. This wind blew directly over the lake to them. There was here and there a little knot, and a few stragglers higher up; but they were so few as not to disturb the simplicity, unity, and life of that one busy highway. We rested again and again. The bays were stormy, and we heard the waves at different distances, and in the middle of the water, like the sea…. All was cheerless and gloomy, so we faced the storm. At Dobson’s I was very kindly treated by a young woman. The landlady looked sour, but it is her way… William was sitting by a good fire when I came downstairs. He soon made his way to the library, piled up in a corner of the window. He brought out a volume of Enfield’s “Speaker,” another miscellany, and an odd volume of Congreve’s plays. We had a glass of warm rum and water. We enjoyed ourselves, and wished for Mary. It rained and blew, when we went to bed.

Friday, 16th April (“Good Friday”).–When I undrew curtains in the morning, I was much affected by the beauty of the prospect, and the change. The sun shone, the wind had passed away, the hills looked cheerful, the river was very bright as it flowed into the lake. The church rises up behind a little knot of rocks, the steeple not so high as an ordinary three-story house. Trees in a row in the garden under the wall. The valley is at first broken by little woody knolls that make retiring places, fairy valleys in the vale, the river winds along under these hills, travelling, not in a bustle but not slowly, to the lake. We saw a fisherman in the flat meadow on the other side of the water. He came towards us, and threw his line over the two-arched bridge. It is a bridge of a heavy construction, almost bending inwards in the middle, but it is grey, and there is a look of ancientry in the architecture of it that pleased me. As we go on the vale opens out more into one vale, with somewhat of a cradle bed. Cottages, with groups of trees, on the side of the hills. We passed a pair of twin children, two years old. Sate on the next bridge which we crossed–a single arch. We rested again upon the turf, and looked at the same bridge. We observed arches in the water, occasioned by the large stones sending it down in two streams. A sheep came plunging through the river, stumbled up the bank, and passed close to us. It had been frightened by an insignificant little dog on the other side. Its fleece dropped a glittering shower under its belly. Primroses by the road-side, pile wort that shone like stars of gold in the sun, violets, strawberries, retired and half-buried among the grass. When we came to the foot of Brothers Water, I left William sitting on the bridge, and went along the path on the right side of the lake through the wood. I was delighted with what I saw. The water under the boughs of the bare old trees, the simplicity of the mountains, and the exquisite beauty of the path. There was one grey cottage. I repeated “The Glow-worm,” as I walked along. I hung over the gate, and thought I could have stayed for ever. When I returned, I found William writing a poem descriptive of the sights and sounds we saw and heard.[56] There was the gentle flowing of the stream, the glittering, lively lake, green fields without a living creature to be seen on them; behind us, a flat pasture with forty-two cattle feeding; to our left, the road leading to the hamlet. No smoke there, the sun shone on the bare roofs. The people were at work ploughing, harrowing, and sowing; … a dog barking now and then, cocks crowing, birds twittering, the snow in patches at the top of the highest hills, yellow palms, purple and green twigs on the birches, ashes with their glittering stems quite bare. The hawthorn a bright green, with black stems under the oak. The moss of the oak glossy. We went on. Passed two sisters at work (they first passed us), one with two pitchforks in her hand, the other had a spade. We had come to talk with them. They laughed long after we were gone, perhaps half in wantonness, half boldness. William finished his poem.[56] Before we got to the foot of Kirkstone, there were hundreds of cattle in the vale. There we ate our dinner. The walk up Kirkstone was very interesting. The becks among the rocks were all alive. William showed me the little mossy streamlet which he had before loved when he saw its bright green track in the snow. The view above Ambleside very beautiful. There we sate and looked down on the green vale. We watched the crows at a little distance from us become white as silver as they flew in the sunshine, and when they went still further, they looked like shapes of water passing over the green fields. The whitening of Ambleside church is a great deduction from the beauty of it, seen from this point. We called at the Luffs, the Roddingtons there. Did not go in, and went round by the fields. I pulled off my stockings, intending to wade the beck, but I was obliged to put them on, and we climbed over the wall at the bridge. The post passed us. No letters. Rydale Lake was in its own evening brightness: the Island, and Points distinct. Jane Ashburner came up to us when we were sitting upon the wall…. The garden looked pretty in the half-moonlight, half-daylight, as we went up the vale….

Saturday, 17th. –A mild warm rain. We sate in the garden all the morning. William dug a little. I transplanted a honey-suckle. The lake was still. The sheep on the island, reflected in the water, like the grey-deer we saw in Gowbarrow Park. We walked after tea by moonlight. I had been in bed in the afternoon, and William had slept in his chair. We walked towards Rydale backwards and forwards below Mr. Olliff’s. The village was beautiful in the moonlight. Helm Crag, we observed very distinct. The dead hedge round Benson’s field bound together at the top by an interlacing of ash sticks, which made a chain of silver when we faced the moon. A letter from C. and also one from S. H. I saw a robin chasing a scarlet butterfly this morning.

Sunday, 18th. –Again a mild grey morning, with rising vapours. We sate in the orchard. William wrote the poem on “The Robin and the Butterfly.” [57] … William met me at Rydale … with the conclusion of the poem of the Robin. I read it to him in bed. We left out some lines.

• Footnote 57: See vol. ii. p. 295.

Tuesday, 20th. –A beautiful morning. The sun shone. William wrote a conclusion to the poem of the Butterfly:– I’ve watched you now a full half-hour.[58]

I was quite out of spirits, and went into the orchard. When I came in, he had finished the poem. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun shone upon the level fields, and they grew greener beneath the eye. Houses, village, all cheerful–people at work. We sate in the orchard and repeated “The Glow-worm” and other poems. Just when William came to a well or trough, which there is in Lord Darlington’s park, he began to write that poem of “The Glow-worm”; … interrupted in going through the town of Staindrop, finished it about 2 miles and a half beyond Staindrop. He did not feel the jogging of the horse while he was writing; but, when he had done, he felt the effect of it, and his fingers were cold with his gloves. His horse fell with him on the other side of St. Helens, Auckland. So much for “The Glow-worm.” It was written coming from Middleham on Monday, 12th April 1802…. On Tuesday 20th, when we were sitting after tea, Coleridge came to the door. I startled him with my voice. C. came up fatigued, but I afterwards found he looked well. William was not well, and I was in low spirits.

• Footnote 58: Published as a separate poem.

Wednesday, 21st.–William and I sauntered a little in the garden. Coleridge came to us, and repeated the verses he wrote to Sara. I was affected with them, and in miserable spirits.[59] The sunshine, the green fields, and the fair sky made me sadder; even the little happy, sporting lambs seemed but sorrowful to me. The pile wort spread out on the grass a thousand shiny stars. The primroses were there, and the remains of a few daffodils. The well, which we cleaned out last night, is still but a little muddy pond, though full of water… Read Ferguson’s life and a poem or two…

• Footnote 59: Can these “Verses” have been the first draft of “Dejection, an Ode,” in its earliest and afterwards abandoned form? It is said to have been written on 2nd April 1802.

Thursday, 22nd._–A fine mild morning. We walked into Easedale. The sun shone. Coleridge talked of his plan of sowing the laburnum in the woods. The waters were high, for there had been a great quantity of rain in the night. I was tired and sate under the shade of a holly tree that grows upon a rock, and looked down the stream. I then went to the single holly behind that single rock in the field, and sate upon the grass till they came from the waterfall. I saw them there, and heard William flinging stones into the river, whose roaring was loud even where I was. When they returned, William was repeating the poem:–

     I have thoughts that are fed by the sun.

It had been called to his mind by the dying away of the stunning of the waterfall when he got behind a stone….

Note: Below is a possible route to Easedale. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Friday, 23rd April 1802.–It being a beautiful morning we set off at 11 o’clock, intending to stay out of doors all the morning. We went towards Rydale, and before we got to Tom Dawson’s we determined to go under Nab Scar. Thither we went. The sun shone, and we were lazy. Coleridge pitched upon several places to sit down upon, but we could not be all of one mind respecting sun and shade, so we pushed on to the foot of the Scar. It was very grand when we looked up, very stony, here and there a budding tree. William observed that the umbrella yew tree, that breasts the wind, had lost its character as a tree, and had become something like to solid wood. Coleridge and I pushed on before. We left William sitting on the stones, feasting with silence; and Coleridge and I sat down upon a rocky seat–a couch it might be under the bower of William’s eglantine, Andrew’s Broom. He was below us, and we could see him. He came to us, and repeated his poems[60] while we sate beside him upon the ground. He had made himself a seat in the crumbling ground. Afterwards we lingered long, looking into the vales; Ambleside vale, with the copses, the village under the hill, and the green fields; Rydale, with a lake all alive and glittering, yet but little stirred by breezes; and our dear Grasmere, making a little round lake of nature’s own, with never a house, never a green field, but the copses and the bare hills enclosing it, and the river flowing out of it. Above rose the Coniston Fells, in their own shape and colour–not man’s hills, but all for themselves, the sky and the clouds, and a few wild creatures. C. went to search for something new. We saw him climbing up towards a rock. He called us, and we found him in a bower–the sweetest that was ever seen. The rock on one side is very high, and all covered with ivy, which hung loosely about, and bore bunches of brown berries. On the other side it was higher than my head. We looked down on the Ambleside vale, that seemed to wind away from us, the village lying under the hill. The fir-tree island was reflected beautifully. About this bower there is mountain-ash, common-ash, yew-tree, ivy, holly, hawthorn, grasses, and flowers, and a carpet of moss. Above, at the top of the rock, there is another spot. It is scarce a bower, a little parlour only, not enclosed by walls, but shaped out for a resting-place by the rocks, and the ground rising about it. It had a sweet moss carpet. We resolved to go and plant flowers in both these places to-morrow. We wished for Mary and Sara. Dined late. After dinner Wm. and I worked in the garden. C. received a letter from Sara.

• Footnote 60: See “The Waterfall and the Eglantine”, and “The Oak and the Broom,” vol. ii. pp. 170, 174.

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Saturday, 24th.–A very wet day. William called me out to see a waterfall behind the barberry tree. We walked in the evening to Rydale. Coleridge and I lingered behind. C. stopped up the little runnel by the road-side to make a lake. We all stood to look at Glow-worm Rock–a primrose that grew there, and just looked out on the road from its own sheltered bower.[61] The clouds moved, as William observed, in one regular body like a multitude in motion–a sky all clouds over, not one cloud.[62] On our return it broke a little out, and we saw here and there a star. One appeared but for a moment in a pale blue sky.

• Footnote 61: See _The Primrose of the Rock_, vol. vii. p. 274.
• Footnote 62: Compare _To the Clouds_, vol. viii. p. 142.

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Sunday, 25th April.–After breakfast we set off with Coleridge towards Keswick. Wilkinson overtook us near the Potter’s, and interrupted our discourse. C. got into a gig with Mr. Beck, and drove away from us. A shower came on, but it was soon over. We spent the morning in the orchard reading the “Epithalamium of Spenser”; walked backwards and forwards…

Note: Below is a possible route to Keswick. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Monday, 26th.–I copied Wm.’s poems for Coleridge….

Tuesday, 27th.–A fine morning. Mrs. Luff called. I walked with her to the boat-house. William met me at the top of the hill with his fishing-rod in his hand. I turned with him, and we sate on the hill looking to Rydale. I left him, intending to join him, but he came home, and said his loins would not stand the pulling he had had. We sate in the orchard. In the evening W. began to write “The Tinker”; we had a letter and verses from Coleridge.

Wednesday, 28th April.– … I copied “The Prioress’s Tale”. William was in the orchard. I went to him; he worked away at his poem…. I happened to say that when I was a child I would not have pulled a strawberry blossom. I left him, and wrote out _The Manciple’s Tale_. At dinner time he came in with the poem of “Children gathering Flowers”,[63] but it was not quite finished, and it kept him long off his dinner. It is now done. He is working at “The Tinker.” He promised me he would get his tea, and do no more, but I have got mine an hour and a quarter, and he has scarcely begun his. We have let the bright sun go down without walking. Now a heavy shower comes on, and I guess we shall not walk at all. I wrote a few lines to Coleridge. Then we walked backwards and forwards between our house and Olliff’s. We called upon T. Hutchinson, and Bell Addison. William left me sitting on a stone. When we came in we corrected the Chaucers, but I could not finish them to-night.

• Footnote 63: See “Foresight,” vol. ii. p. 298.

Thursday, 29th.– … After I had written down “The Tinker,” which William finished this morning, Luff called. He was very lame, limped into the kitchen. He came on a little pony. We then went to John’s Grove, sate a while at first; afterwards William lay, and I lay, in the trench under the fence–he with his eyes shut, and listening to the waterfalls and the birds. There was no one waterfall above another–it was a sound of waters in the air–the voice of the air. William heard me breathing, and rustling now and then, but we both lay still, and unseen by one another. He thought that it would be so sweet thus to lie in the grave, to hear the peaceful sounds of the earth, and just to know that our dear friends were near. The lake was still; there was a boat out. Silver How reflected with delicate purple and yellowish hues, as I have seen spar; lambs on the island, and running races together by the half-dozen, in the round field near us. The copses greenish, hawthorns green, … cottages smoking. As I lay down on the grass, I observed the glittering silver line on the ridge of the backs of the sheep, owing to their situation respecting the sun, which made them look beautiful, but with something of strangeness, like animals of another kind, as if belonging to a more splendid world…. I got mullins and pansies…

Friday, April 30th._–We came into the orchard directly after breakfast, and sate there. The lake was calm, the day cloudy…. Two fishermen by the lake side. William began to write the poem of “The Celandine.” [64] … Walked backwards and forwards with William–he repeated his poem to me, then he got to work again and would not give over. He had not finished his dinner till 5 o’clock. After dinner we took up the fur gown into the Hollins above. We found a sweet seat, and thither we will often go. We spread the gown, put on each a cloak, and there we lay. William fell asleep, he had a bad headache owing to his having been disturbed the night before, with reading C.’s letter. I did not sleep, but lay with half-shut eyes looking at the prospect as on a vision almost, I was so resigned [65] to it. Loughrigg Fell was the most distant hill, then came the lake, slipping in between the copses. Above the copse, the round swelling field; nearer to me, a wild intermixture of rocks, trees, and patches of grassy ground. When we turned the corner of our little shelter, we saw the church and the whole vale. It is a blessed place. The birds were about us on all sides. Skobbies, robins, bull-finches, and crows, now and then flew over our heads, as we were warned by the sound of the beating of the air above. We stayed till the light of day was going, and the little birds had begun to settle their singing. But there was a thrush not far off, that seemed to sing louder and clearer than the thrushes had sung when it was quite day. We came in at 8 o’clock, got tea, wrote to Coleridge, and I wrote to Mrs. Clarkson part of a letter. We went to bed at 20 minutes past 11, with prayers that William might sleep well.

• Footnote 64: See vol. ii. p. 300.
• Footnote 65: “Resigned” is curiously used in the Lake District. A woman there once told me that Mr. Ruskin was “very much resigned to his own company.”

Saturday, May 1st.–Rose not till half-past 8, a heavenly morning. As soon as breakfast was over, we went into the garden, and sowed the scarlet beans about the house. It was a clear sky.

I sowed the flowers, William helped me. We then went and sate in the orchard till dinner time. It was very hot. William wrote “The Celandine.” [66] We planned a shed, for the sun was too much for us. After dinner, we went again to our old resting-place in the Hollins under the rock. We first lay under the Holly, where we saw nothing but the holly tree, and a budding elm tree mossed, with the sky above our heads. But that holly tree had a beauty about it more than its own, knowing as we did when we arose. When the sun had got low enough, we went to the Rock Shade. Oh, the overwhelming beauty of the vale below, greener than green! Two ravens flew high, high in the sky, and the sun shone upon their bellies and their wings, long after there was none of his light to be seen but a little space on the top of Loughrigg Fell. Heard the cuckoo to-day, this first of May. We went down to tea at 8 o’clock, and returned after tea. The landscape was fading: sheep and lambs quiet among the rocks. We walked towards King’s, and backwards and forwards. The sky was perfectly cloudless. _N.B._ it is often so. Three solitary stars in the middle of the blue vault, one or two on the points of the high hills.

• Footnote 66: Doubtless the second of the two poems, beginning thus– Pleasures newly found are sweet.

Tuesday, 4th May._–Though William went to bed nervous, and jaded in the extreme, he rose refreshed. I wrote out “The Leech Gatherer” for him, which he had begun the night before, and of which he wrote several stanzas in bed this morning. [They started to walk to Wytheburn.] It was very hot…. We rested several times by the way,–read, and repeated “The Leech Gatherer”… We saw Coleridge on the Wytheburn side of the water; he crossed the beck to us. Mr. Simpson was fishing there. William and I ate luncheon, and then went on towards the waterfall. It is a glorious wild solitude under that lofty purple crag. It stood upright by itself; its own self, and its shadow below, one mass; all else was sunshine. We went on further. A bird at the top of the crag was flying round and round, and looked in thinness and transparency, shape and motion like a moth…. We climbed the hill, but looked in vain for a shade, except at the foot of the great waterfall. We came down, and rested upon a moss-covered rock rising out of the bed of the river. There we lay, ate our dinner, and stayed there till about four o’clock or later. William and Coleridge repeated and read verses. I drank a little brandy and water, and was in heaven. The stag’s horn is very beautiful and fresh, springing upon the fells; mountain ashes, green. We drank tea at a farm house…. We parted from Coleridge at Sara’s crag, after having looked for the letters which C. carved in the morning. I missed them all. William deepened the X with C.’s pen-knife. We sate afterwards on the wall, seeing the sun go down, and the reflections in the still water. C. looked well, and parted from us cheerfully, hopping upon the side stones. On the Raise we met a woman with two little girls, one in her arms, the other, about four years old, walking by her side, a pretty little thing, but half-starved…. Young as she was, she walked carefully with them. Alas, too young for such cares and such travels. The mother, when we accosted her, told us how her husband had left her, and gone off with another woman, and how she “_pursued_” them. Then her fury kindled, and her eyes rolled about. She changed again to tears. She was a Cockermouth woman, thirty years of age–a child at Cockermouth when I was. I was moved, and gave her a shilling…. We had the crescent moon with the “auld moon in her arms.” We rested often, always upon the bridges. Reached home at about ten o’clock…. We went soon to bed. I repeated verses to William while he was in bed; he was soothed, and I left him. “This is the spot” over and over again.

Note: Below is a possible route to Wytheburn. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday, 5th May._–A very fine morning, rather cooler than yesterday. We planted three-fourths of the bower. I made bread. We sate in the orchard. The thrush sang all day, as he always sings. I wrote to the Hutchinsons, and to Coleridge. Packed off “Thalaba.” William had kept off work till near bed-time, when we returned from our walk. Then he began again, and went to bed very nervous. We walked in the twilight, and walked till night came on. The moon had the old moon in her arms, but not so plain to be seen as the night before. When we went to bed it was a boat without the circle. I read “The Lover’s Complaint” to William in bed, and left him composed.

Thursday, 6th May._–A sweet morning. We have put the finishing stroke to our bower, and here we are sitting in the orchard. It is one o’clock. We are sitting upon a seat under the wall, which I found my brother building up, when I came to him…. He had intended that it should have been done before I came. It is a nice, cool, shady spot. The small birds are singing, lambs bleating, cuckoos calling, the thrush sings by fits, Thomas Ashburner’s axe is going quietly (without passion) in the orchard, hens are cackling, flies humming, the women talking together at their doors, plum and pear trees are in blossom–apple trees greenish–the opposite woods green, the crows are cawing, we have heard ravens, the ash trees are in blossom, birds flying all about us, the stitchwort is coming out, there is one budding lychnis, the primroses are passing their prime, celandine, violets, and wood sorrel for ever more, little geraniums and pansies on the wall. We walked in the evening to Tail End, to inquire about hurdles for the orchard shed…. When we came in we found a magazine, and review, and a letter from Coleridge, verses to Hartley, and Sara H. We read the review, etc. The moon was a perfect boat, a silver boat, when we were out in the evening. The birch tree is all over green in _small_ leaf, more light and elegant than when it is full out. It bent to the breezes, as if for the love of its own delightful motions. Sloe-thorns and hawthorns in the hedges.

Friday, 7th May._–William had slept uncommonly well, so, feeling himself strong, he fell to work at “The Leech Gatherer;” he wrote hard at it till dinner time, then he gave over, tired to death–he had finished the poem. I was making Derwent’s frocks. After dinner we sate in the orchard. It was a thick, hazy, dull air. The thrush sang almost continually; the little birds were more than usually busy with their voices. The sparrows are now full fledged. The nest is so full that they lie upon one another; they sit quietly in their nest with closed mouths. I walked to Rydale after tea, which we drank by the kitchen fire. The evening very dull; a terrible kind of threatening brightness at sunset above Easedale. The sloe-thorn beautiful in the hedges, and in the wild spots higher up among the hawthorns. No letters. William met me. He had been digging in my absence, and cleaning the well. We walked up beyond Lewthwaites. A very dull sky; coolish; crescent moon now and then. I had a letter brought me from Mrs. Clarkson while we were walking in the orchard. I observed the sorrel leaves opening at about nine o’clock. William went to bed tired with thinking about a poem. 

Saturday Morning, 8th May._–We sowed the scarlet beans in the orchard, and read “Henry V.” there. William lay on his back on the seat, and wept…. After dinner William added one to the orchard steps.

Sunday Morning, 9th May.–The air considerably colder to-day, but the sun shone all day. William worked at “The Leech Gatherer” almost incessantly from morning till tea-time. I copied “The Leech Gatherer” and other poems for Coleridge. I was oppressed and sick at heart, for he wearied himself to death. After tea he wrote two stanzas in the manner of Thomson’s “Castle of Indolence,” and was tired out. Bad news of Coleridge.

Monday, 10th May.–A fine clear morning, but coldish. William is still at work, though it is past ten o’clock; he will be tired out, I am sure. My heart fails in me. He worked a little at odd things, but after dinner he gave over. An affecting letter from Mary H. We sate in the orchard before dinner…. I wrote to Mary H…. I wrote to Coleridge, sent off reviews and poems. Went to bed at twelve o’clock. William did not sleep till three o’clock.

Tuesday, 11th May.–A cool air. William finished the stanzas about C. and himself. He did not go out to-day. Miss Simpson came in to tea, which was lucky enough, for it interrupted his labours. I walked with her to Rydale. The evening cool; the moon only now and then to be seen; the lake purple as we went; primroses still in abundance. William did not meet me. He completely finished his poem, I finished Derwent’s frocks. We went to bed at twelve o’clock…. 

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday, 12th May.–A sunshiny, but coldish morning. We walked into Easedale…. We brought home heckberry blossom, crab blossom, the anemone nemorosa, marsh marigold, speedwell,–that beautiful blue one, the colour of the blue-stone or glass used in jewellery–with the beautiful pearl-like chives. Anemones are in abundance, and still the dear dear primroses, violets in beds, pansies in abundance, and the little celandine. I pulled a bunch of the taller celandine. Butterflies of all colours. I often see some small ones of a pale purple lilac, or emperor’s eye colour, something of the colour of that large geranium which grows by the lake side…. William pulled ivy with beautiful berries. I put it over the chimney-piece. Sate in the orchard the hour before dinner, coldish…. In the evening we were sitting at the table writing, when we were roused by Coleridge’s voice below. He had walked; looked palish, but was not much tired. We sate up till one o’clock, all together, then William went to bed, and I sate with C. in the sitting-room (where he slept) till a quarter past two o’clock. Wrote to M. H.

Note: Below is a possible route to Easedale. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Thursday, 13th May.–The day was very cold, with snow showers. Coleridge had intended going in the morning to Keswick, but the cold and showers hindered him. We went with him after tea as far as the plantations by the roadside descending to Wytheburn. He did not look well when we parted from him…

Friday, 14th May. –A very cold morning–hail and snow showers all day. We went to Brothers wood, intending to get plants, and to go along the shore of the lake to the foot. We did go a part of the way, but there was no pleasure in stepping along that difficult sauntering road in this ungenial weather. We turned again, and walked backwards and forwards in Brothers wood. William tired himself with seeking an epithet for the cuckoo. I sate a while upon my last summer seat, the mossy stone. William’s, unoccupied, beside me, and the space between, where Coleridge has so often lain. The oak trees are just putting forth yellow knots of leaves. The ashes with their flowers passing away, and leaves coming out; the blue hyacinth is not quite full blown; gowans are coming out; marsh marigolds in full glory; the little star plant, a star without a flower. We took home a great load of gowans, and planted them about the orchard. After dinner, I worked bread, then came and mended stockings beside William; he fell asleep. After tea I walked to Rydale for letters. It was a strange night. The hills were covered over with a slight covering of hail or snow, just so as to give them a hoary winter look with the black rocks. The woods looked miserable, the coppices green as grass, which looked quite unnatural, and they seemed half shrivelled up, as if they shrank from the air. O, thought I! what a beautiful thing God has made winter to be, by stripping the trees, and letting us see their shapes and forms. What a freedom does it seem to give to the storms! There were several new flowers out, but I had no pleasure in looking at them. I walked as fast as I could back again with my letter from S. H…. Met William at the top of White Moss…. Near ten when we came in. William and Molly had dug the ground and planted potatoes in my absence. We wrote to Coleridge; sent off bread and frocks to the C.’s. Went to bed at half-past eleven. William very nervous. After he was in bed, haunted with altering “The Rainbow.”

Saturday, 15th. –A very cold and cheerless morning. I sate mending stockings all the morning. I read in Shakespeare. William lay very late because he slept ill last night. It snowed this morning just like Christmas. We had a melancholy letter from Coleridge at bedtime. It distressed me very much, and I resolved upon going to Keswick the next day.

Sunday, 16th.–William was at work all the morning. I did not go to Keswick. A sunny, cold, frosty day. A snowstorm at night. We were a good while in the orchard in the morning.

Monday, 17th May. –William was not well, he went with me to Wytheburn water, and left me in a post-chaise. Hail showers, snow, and cold attacked me. The people were graving peats under Nadel Fell. A lark and thrush singing near Coleridge’s house. Bancrofts there. A letter from M. H. 

Tuesday, 18th May.–Terribly cold, Coleridge not well. Froude called, Wilkinsons called, C. and I walked in the evening in the garden. Warmer in the evening. Wrote to M. and S.

Wednesday, 19th May.–A grey morning–not quite so cold. C. and I set off at half-past nine o’clock. Met William near the six-mile stone. We sate down by the road-side, and then went to Wytheburn water. Longed to be at the island. Sate in the sun. We drank tea at John Stanley’s. The evening cold and clear. A glorious light on Skiddaw. I was tired. Brought a cloak down from Mr. Simpson’s. Packed up books for Coleridge, then got supper, and went to bed.

Thursday, 20th. –A frosty, clear morning. I lay in bed late. William got to work. I was somewhat tired. We sate in the orchard sheltered all the morning. In the evening there was a fine rain. We received a letter from Coleridge telling us that he wished us not to go to Keswick. 

Friday, 21st May.–A very warm gentle morning, a little rain. William wrote two sonnets on Buonaparte, after I had read Milton’s sonnets to him. In the evening he went with Mr. Simpson with Borwick’s boat to gather ling in Bainrigg’s. I plashed about the well, was much heated, and I think I caught cold.

Saturday, 22nd May.–A very hot morning. A hot wind, as if coming from a sand desert. We met Coleridge. He was sitting under Sara’s rock. When we reached him he turned with us. We sate a long time under the wall of a sheep-fold. Had some interesting, melancholy talk, about his private affairs. We drank tea at a farmhouse. The woman was very kind. There was a woman with three children travelling from Workington to Manchester. The woman served them liberally. Afterwards she said that she never suffered any to go away without a trifle “sec as we have.” The woman at whose house we drank tea the last time was rich and senseless–she said “she never served any but their own poor.” C. came home with us. We sate some time in the orchard…. Letters from S. and M. H.

Sunday. –I sat with C. in the orchard all the morning…. We walked in Bainrigg’s after tea. Saw the juniper–umbrella shaped. C. went to the Points,[67] joined us on White Moss.

• Footnote 67: Mary Point and Sara Point; the “two heath-clad rocks” referred to in one of the “Poems on the Naming of Places.”–ED.]

Monday, 24th May.–A very hot morning. We were ready to go off with Coleridge, but foolishly sauntered, and Miss Taylor and Miss Stanley called. William and Coleridge and I went afterwards to the top of the Raise. I had sent off a letter to Mary by C. I wrote again, and to C.

Tuesday, 25th. — … Papers and short note from C.; again no sleep for William.

Friday, 28th.– … William tired himself with hammering at a passage.

… We sate in the orchard. The sky cloudy, the air sweet and cool. The young bullfinches, in their party-coloured raiment, bustle about among the blossoms, and poise themselves like wire-dancers or tumblers, shaking the twigs and dashing off the blossoms.[68] There is yet one primrose in the orchard. The stitchwort is fading. The vetches are in abundance, blossoming and seeding. That pretty little wavy-looking dial-like yellow flower, the speedwell, and some others, whose names I do not yet know. The wild columbines are coming into beauty; some of the gowans fading. In the garden we have lilies, and many other flowers. The scarlet beans are up in crowds. It is now between eight and nine o’clock. It has rained sweetly for two hours and a half; the air is very mild. The heckberry blossoms are dropping off fast, almost gone; barberries are in beauty; snowballs coming forward; May roses blossoming.

Saturday, 29th. — … William finished his poem on going for Mary. I wrote it out. I wrote to Mary H., having received a letter from her in the evening. A sweet day. We nailed up the honeysuckles, and hoed the scarlet beans.

Monday, 31st. — … We sat out all the day…. I wrote out the poem on “Our Departure,” which he seemed to have finished. In the evening Miss Simpson brought us a letter from M. H., and a complimentary and critical letter to W. from John Wilson of Glasgow.[69]…

• Footnote 69: Christopher North.–ED.

Tuesday. –A very sweet day, but a sad want of rain. We went into the orchard after I had written to M. H. Then on to Mr. Olliff’s intake…. The columbine was growing upon the rocks; here and there a solitary plant, sheltered and shaded by the tufts and bowers of trees. It is a graceful slender creature, a female seeking retirement, and growing freest and most graceful where it is most alone. I observed that the more shaded plants were always the tallest. A short note and gooseberries from Coleridge. We walked upon the turf near John’s Grove. It was a lovely night. The clouds of the western sky reflected a saffron light upon the upper end of the lake. All was still. We went to look at Rydale. There was an Alpine, fire-like red upon the tops of the mountains. This was gone when we came in view of the lake. But we saw the lake from a new and most beautiful point of view, between two little rocks, and behind a small ridge that had concealed it from us. This White Moss, a place made for all kinds of beautiful works of art and nature, woods and valleys, fairy valleys and fairy tarns, miniature mountains, alps above alps.

Wednesday, 2nd June._–In the morning we observed that the scarlet beans were drooping in the leaves in great numbers, owing, we guess, to an insect…. Yesterday an old man called, a grey-headed man, above seventy years of age. He said he had been a soldier, that his wife and children had died in Jamaica. He had a beggar’s wallet over his shoulders; a coat of shreds and patches, altogether of a drab colour; he was tall, and though his body was bent, he had the look of one used to have been upright. I talked a while, and then gave him a piece of cold bacon and some money. Said he, “You’re a fine woman!” I could not help smiling; I suppose he meant, “You’re a kind woman.” Afterwards a woman called, travelling to Glasgow. After dinner we went into Frank’s field, crawled up the little glen, and planned a seat; … found a beautiful shell-like purple fungus in Frank’s field. After tea we walked to Butterlip How, and backwards and forwards there. All the young oak tree leaves are dry as powder. A cold south wind, portending rain…

Thursday, 3rd June 1802._–A very fine rain. I lay in my bed till ten o’clock. William much better than yesterday. We walked into Easedale…. The cuckoo sang, and we watched the little birds as we sate at the door of the cow-house. The oak copses are brown, as in autumn, with the late frosts…. We have been reading the life and some of the writings of poor Logan since dinner. There are many affecting lines and passages in his poem, “e.g.”

And everlasting longings for the lost.

… William is now sleeping with the window open, lying on the window seat. The thrush is singing. There are, I do believe, a thousand buds on the honeysuckle tree, all small and far from blowing, save one that is retired behind the twigs close to the wall, and as snug as a bird nest. John’s rose tree is very beautiful, blended with the honeysuckle.

Yesterday morning William walked as far as the Swan with Aggy Fisher, who was going to attend upon Goan’s dying infant. She said, “There are many heavier crosses than the death of an infant;” and went on, “There was a woman in this vale who buried four grown-up children in one year, and I have heard her say, when many years were gone by, that she had more pleasure in thinking of those four than of her living children, for as children get up and have families of their own, their duty to their parents “wears out and weakens.” She could trip lightly by the graves of those who died when they were young … as she went to church on a Sunday.”

… A very affecting letter came from M. H., while I was sitting in the window reading Milton’s “Penseroso” to William. I answered this letter before I went to bed.

Note: Below is a possible route to Easedale. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Saturday, 5th. –A fine showery morning. I made both pies and bread; but we first walked into Easedale, and sate under the oak trees, upon the mossy stones. There were one or two slight showers. The gowans were flourishing along the banks of the stream. The strawberry flower hanging over the brook; all things soft and green. In the afternoon William sate in the orchard. I went there; was tired, and fell asleep. William began a letter to John Wilson.

Sunday, 6th June. –A showery morning. We were writing the letter to John Wilson when Ellen came…. After dinner I walked into John Fisher’s intake with Ellen. He brought us letters from Coleridge, Mrs. Clarkson, and Sara Hutchinson….

Monday, 7th June. –I wrote to Mary H. this morning; sent the C. “Indolence” poem. Copied the letter to John Wilson, and wrote to my brother Richard and Mrs. Coleridge. In the evening I walked with Ellen to Butterlip How…. It was a very sweet evening; there was the cuckoo and the little birds; the copses still injured, but the trees in general looked most soft and beautiful in tufts…. I went with Ellen in the morning to Rydale Falls…

Tuesday, 8th June._–Ellen and I rode to Windermere. We had a fine sunny day, neither hot nor cold. I mounted the horse at the quarry. We had no difficulties or delays but at the gates. I was enchanted with some of the views. From the High Ray the view is very delightful, rich, and festive, water and wood, houses, groves, hedgerows, green fields, and mountains; white houses, large and small. We passed two or three new-looking statesmen’s houses. The Curwens’ shrubberies looked pitiful enough under the native trees. We put up our horses, ate our dinner by the water-side, and walked up to the Station. We went to the Island, walked round it, and crossed the lake with our horse in the ferry. The shrubs have been cut away in some parts of the island. I observed to the boatman that I did not think it improved. He replied: “We think it is, for one could hardly see the house before.” It seems to me to be, however, no better than it was. They have made no natural glades; it is merely a lawn with a few miserable young trees, standing as if they were half-starved. There are no sheep, no cattle upon these lawns. It is neither one thing nor another–neither natural, nor wholly cultivated and artificial, which it was before. And that great house! Mercy upon us! if it _could_ be concealed, it would be well for all who are not pained to see the pleasantest of earthly spots deformed by man. But it _cannot_ be covered. Even the tallest of our old oak trees would not reach to the top of it. When we went into the boat, there were two men standing at the landing-place. One seemed to be about sixty, a man with a jolly red face; he looked as if he might have lived many years in Mr. Curwen’s house. He wore a blue jacket and trousers, as the people who live close by Windermere, particularly at the places of chief resort…. He looked significantly at our boatman just as we were rowing off, and said, “Thomas, mind you take the directions off that cask. You know what I mean. It will serve as a blind for them. _You_ know. It was a blind business, both for you, and the coachman, … and all of us. Mind you take off the directions. ‘A wink’s as good as a nod with some folks;'” and then he turned round, looking at his companion with an air of self-satisfaction, and deep insight into unknown things! I could hardly help laughing outright at him. The laburnums blossom freely at the island, and in the shrubberies on the shore; they are blighted everywhere else. Roses of various sorts now out. The brooms were in full glory everywhere, “veins of gold” among the copses. The hawthorns in the valley fading away; beautiful upon the hills. We reached home at three o’clock. After tea William went out and walked and wrote that poem, The sun has long been set, etc. He … walked on our own path and wrote the lines; he called me into the orchard, and there repeated them to me….

Note: Below is a possible route to Windermere. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday, 9th June. — … The hawthorns on the mountain sides like orchards in blossom….

Thursday, 10th June.– … Coleridge came in with a sack full of books, etc., and a branch of mountain ash. He had been attacked by a cow. He came over by Grisdale. A furious wind….

Saturday, 12th June.–A rainy morning. Coleridge set off before dinner. We went with him to the Raise, but it rained, so we went no further. Sheltered under a wall. He would be sadly wet, for a furious shower came on just when we parted…

Sunday, 13th June._–A fine morning. Sunshiny and bright, but with rainy clouds. William … has been altering the poem to Mary this morning…. I wrote out poems for our journey…. Mr. Simpson came when we were in the orchard in the morning, and brought us a beautiful drawing which he had done. In the evening we walked, first on our own path…. It was a silent night. The stars were out by ones and twos, but no cuckoo, no little birds; the air was not warm, and we have observed that since Tuesday, 8th, when William wrote, “The sun has long been set,” that we have had no birds singing after the evening is fairly set in. We walked to our new view of Rydale, but it put on a sullen face. There was an owl hooting in Bainrigg’s. Its first halloo was so like a human shout that I was surprised, when it gave its second call tremulous and lengthened out, to find that the shout had come from an owl. The full moon (not quite full) was among a company of shady island clouds, and the sky bluer about it than the natural sky blue. William observed that the full moon, above a dark fir grove, is a fine image of the descent of a superior being. There was a shower which drove us into John’s Grove before we had quitted our favourite path. We walked upon John’s path before we went to view Rydale…

Monday, 14th. — … William wrote to Mary and Sara about “The Leech Gatherer,” and wrote to both of them in one … and to Coleridge also…. I walked with William … on our own path. We were driven away by the horses that go on the commons; then we went to look at Rydale; walked a little in the fir grove; went again to the top of the hill, and came home. A mild and sweet night. William stayed behind me. I threw him the cloak out of the window. The moon overcast. He sate a few minutes in the orchard; came in sleepy, and hurried to bed. I carried him his bread and butter. 

Tuesday, 15th. –A sweet grey, mild morning. The birds sing soft and low. William has not slept all night; it wants only ten minutes of ten, and he is in bed yet. After William rose we went and sate in the orchard till dinner time. We walked a long time in the evening upon our favourite path; the owls hooted, the night hawk sang to itself incessantly, but there were no little birds, no thrushes. I left William writing a few lines about the night hawk and other images of the evening, and went to seek for letters…

Wednesday, 16th. –We walked towards Rydale for letters…. One from Mary. We went up into Rydale woods and read it there. We sate near the old wall, which fenced a hazel grove, which William said was exactly like the filbert grove at Middleham. It is a beautiful spot, a sloping or rather steep piece of ground, with hazels growing “tall and erect” in clumps at distances, almost seeming regular, as if they had been planted…. I wrote to Mary after dinner, while William sate in the orchard…. I spoke of the little birds keeping us company, and William told me that that very morning a bird had perched upon his leg. He had been lying very still, and had watched this little creature. It had come under the bench where he was sitting…. He thoughtlessly stirred himself to look further at it, and it flew on to the apple tree above him. It was a little young creature that had just left its nest, equally unacquainted with man, and unaccustomed to struggle against the storms and winds. While it was upon the apple tree the wind blew about the stiff boughs, and the bird seemed bemazed, and not strong enough to strive with it. The swallows come to the sitting-room window as if wishing to build, but I am afraid they will not have courage for it; but I believe they will build in my room window. They twitter, and make a bustle, and a little cheerful song, hanging against the panes of glass with their soft white bellies close to the glass and their forked fish-like tails. They swim round and round, and again they come…. I do not now see the brownness that was in the coppices. The bower hawthorn blossoms passed away. Those on the hills are a faint white. The wild guelder-rose is coming out, and the wild roses. I have seen no honey-suckles yet…. Foxgloves are now frequent.

Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Thursday, 17th._– … When I came home I found William at work attempting to alter a stanza in the poem on our going for Mary, which I convinced him did not need altering. We sate in the house after dinner. In the evening walked on our favourite path. A short letter from Coleridge. William added a little to the Ode he is writing.[70]

• Footnote 70: Doubtless the “Ode, Intimations of Immortality.”–ED.

Friday, 18th June._–When we were sitting after breakfast … Luff came in. He had rode over the Fells. He brought news about Lord Lowther’s intention to pay all debts, etc., and a letter from Mr. Clarkson. He saw our garden, was astonished at the scarlet beans, etc. etc. etc. When he was gone, we wrote to Coleridge, M. H., and my brother Richard about the affair. William determined to go to Eusemere on Monday…

Saturday, 19th._–The swallows were very busy under my window this morning…. Coleridge, when he was last here, told us that for many years, there being no Quaker meeting at Keswick, a single old Quaker woman used to go regularly alone every Sunday to attend the meeting-house, and there used to sit and perform her worship alone, in that beautiful place among those fir trees, in that spacious vale, under the great mountain Skiddaw!!!… On Thursday morning Miss Hudson of Workington called. She said, “… I sow flowers in the parks several miles from home, and my mother and I visit them, and watch them how they grow.” This may show that botanists may be often deceived when they find rare flowers growing far from houses. This was a very ordinary young woman, such as in any town in the North of England one may find a score. I sate up a while after William. He then called me down to him. (I was writing to Mary H.) I read Churchill’s “Rosciad.” Returned again to my writing, and did not go to bed till he called to me. The shutters were closed, but I heard the birds singing. There was our own thrush, shouting with an impatient shout; so it sounded to me. The morning was still, the twittering of the little birds was very gloomy. The owls had hooted a quarter of an hour before, now the cocks were crowing, it was near daylight, I put out my candle, and went to bed…

Sunday, 20th. — … We were in the orchard a great part of the morning. After tea we walked upon our own path for a long time. We talked sweetly together about the disposal of our riches. We lay upon the sloping turf. Earth and sky were so lovely that they melted our very hearts. The sky to the north was of a chastened yet rich yellow, fading into pale blue, and streaked and scattered over with steady islands of purple, melting away into shades of pink. It was like a vision to me….

Tuesday morning. — … I walked to Rydale. I waited long for the post, lying in the field, and looking at the distant mountains, looking and listening to the river. I met the post. Letters from Montagu and Richard. I hurried back, forwarded these to William, and wrote to Montagu. When I came home I wrote to my brother Christopher. I could settle to nothing…. I read the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and began “As You Like It.”

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday, 23rd June. — … A sunshiny morning. I walked to the top of the hill and sate under a wall near John’s Grove, facing the sun. I read a scene or two in “As You Like It.” … Coleridge and Leslie came just as I had lain down after dinner. C. brought me William’s letter. He had got well to Eusemere. Coleridge and I accompanied Leslie to the boat-house. It was a sullen, coldish evening, no sunshine; but after we had parted from Leslie a light came out suddenly that repaid us for all. It fell only upon one hill, and the island, but it arrayed the grass and trees in gem-like brightness. I cooked Coleridge’s supper. We sate up till one o’clock.

Thursday, 24th June. –I went with C. half way up the Raise. It was a cool morning…. William came in just when M. had left me. It was a mild, rainy evening…. We sate together talking till the first dawning of day; a happy time.

Friday, 25th June. — … I went, just before tea, into the garden. I looked up at my swallow’s nest, and it was gone. It had fallen down. Poor little creatures, they could not themselves be more distressed than I was. I went upstairs to look at the ruins. They lay in a large heap upon the window ledge; these swallows had been ten days employed in building this nest, and it seemed to be almost finished. I had watched them early in the morning, in the day many and many a time, and in the evenings when it was almost dark. I had seen them sitting together side by side in their unfinished nest, both morning and night. When they first came about the window they used to hang against the panes, with their white bellies and their forked tails, looking like fish; but then they fluttered and sang their own little twittering song. As soon as the nest was broad enough, a sort of ledge for them, they sate both mornings and evenings, but they did not pass the night there. I watched them one morning, when William was at Eusemere, for more than an hour. Every now and then there was a motion in their wings, a sort of tremulousness, and they sang a low song to one another.

… It is now eight o’clock; I will go and see if my swallows are on their nest. Yes! there they are, side by side, both looking down into the garden. I have been out on purpose to see their faces. I knew by looking at the window that they were there…. Coleridge and William came in at about half-past eleven. They talked till after twelve.

Wednesday, 30th June. — … We met an old man between the Raise and Lewthwaites. He wore a rusty but untorn hat, an excellent blue coat, waistcoat, and breeches, and good mottled worsted stockings. His beard was very thick and grey, of a fortnight’s growth we guessed; it was a regular beard, like grey “plush.” His bundle contained Sheffield ware. William said to him, after we had asked him what his business was, “You are a very old man?” “Aye, I am eighty-three.” I joined in, “Have you any children?” “Children? Yes, plenty. I have children and grand-children, and great grand-children. I have a great grand-daughter, a fine lass, thirteen years old.” I then said, “Won’t they take care of you?” He replied, much offended, “Thank God, I can take care of myself.” He said he had been a servant of the Marquis of Granby–“O he was a good man; he’s in heaven; I hope he is.” He then told us how he shot himself at Bath, that he was with him in Germany, and travelled with him everywhere. “He was a famous boxer, sir.” And then he told us a story of his fighting with his farmer. “He used always to call me bland and sharp.” Then every now and then he broke out, “He was a good man! When we were travelling he never asked at the public-houses, as it might be there” (pointing to the “Swan”), “what we were to pay, but he would put his hand into his pocket and give them what he liked; and when he came out of the house he would say, Now, they would have charged me a shilling or tenpence. God help them, poor creatures!” I asked him again about his children, how many he had. Says he, “I cannot tell you” (I suppose he confounded children and grand-children together); “I have one daughter that keeps a boarding-school at Skipton, in Craven. She teaches flowering and marking. And another that keeps a boarding-school at Ingleton. I brought up my family under the Marquis.” He was familiar with all parts of Yorkshire. He asked us where we lived. At Grasmere. “The bonniest dale in all England!” says the old man. I bought a pair of slippers from him, and we sate together by the road-side. When we parted I tried to lift his bundle, and it was almost more than I could do…. After tea I wrote to Coleridge, and closed up my letter to M. H. We went soon to bed. A weight of children a poor man’s blessing!…

Friday, 2nd July. –A very rainy morning…. I left William, and wrote a short letter to M. H. and to Coleridge, and transcribed the alterations in “The Leech Gatherer.”

Sunday, 4th July._– … William finished “The Leech Gatherer” to-day.

Monday, 5th July._–A very sweet morning. William stayed some time in the orchard…. I copied out “The Leech Gatherer” for Coleridge, and for us. Wrote to Mrs. Clarkson, M. H., and Coleridge…

Tuesday, 6th July. — … We set off towards Rydale for letters. The rain met us at the top of the White Moss, and it came on very heavily afterwards. It drove past Nab Scar in a substantial shape, as if going to Grasmere was as far as it could go…. The swallows have completed their beautiful nest…

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday, 7th. — … Walked on the White Moss. Glow-worms. Well for them children are in bed when they shine.

Note: Below is a possible route to White Moss. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Thursday, 8th. — … When I was coming home, a post-chaise passed with a little girl behind in a patched, ragged cloak. In the afternoon, after we had talked a little, William fell asleep. I read the “Winter’s Tale”; then I went to bed, but did not sleep. The swallows stole in and out of their nest, and sate there, “whiles” quite still, “whiles” they sung low for two minutes or more, at a time just like a muffled robin. William was looking at “The Pedlar” when I got up. He arranged it, and after tea I wrote it out–280 lines…. The moon was behind. William hurried me out in hopes that I should see her. We walked first to the top of the hill to see Rydale. It was dark and dull, but our own vale was very solemn–the shape of Helm Crag was quite distinct, though black. We walked backwards and forwards on the White Moss path; there was a sky-like white brightness on the lake. The Wyke cottage right at the foot of Silver How. Glow-worms out, but not so numerous as last night. O, beautiful place! Dear Mary, William. The hour is come … I must prepare to go. The swallows, I must leave them, the wall, the garden, the roses, all. Dear creatures! they sang last night after I was in bed; seemed to be singing to one another, just before they settled to rest for the night. Well, I must go. Farewell.[71]

• Footnote 71: Several of the poems, referred to in this Journal, are difficult, if not impossible, to identify. “The Inscription of the Pathway”, finished on the 28th of August 1800; “The Epitaph”, written on the 28th January 1801; “The Yorkshire Wolds poem”, referred to on March 10th, 1802; also “The Silver Howe poem”, and that known in the Wordsworth household as “The Tinker.” It is possible that some of them were intentionally suppressed. The “Inscription of the Pathway” and “The Tinker” will, however, soon be published.–ED.

Note: Below is a possible route to White Moss. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

On Friday morning, July 9th, William and I set forward to Keswick on our road to Gallow Hill. We had a pleasant ride, though the day was showery…. Coleridge met us at Sara’s Rock…. We had been told by a handsome man, an inhabitant of Wytheburn, with whom he had been talking (and who seemed, by the bye, much pleased with his companion), that C. was waiting for us. We reached Keswick against tea-time. We called at Calvert’s on the Saturday evening…

Note: Below is a possible route to Keswick. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

On Monday, 12th July, we went to Eusemere. Coleridge walked with us six or seven miles. He was not well, and we had a melancholy parting after having sate together in silence by the road-side. We turned aside to explore the country near Hutton-John, and had a new and delightful walk. The valley, which is subject to the decaying mansion that stands at its head, seems to join its testimony to that of the house, to the falling away of the family greatness, and the hedges are in bad condition. The land wants draining, and is overrun with brackens; yet there is a something everywhere that tells of its former possessors. The trees are left scattered about as if intended to be like a park, and these are very interesting, standing as they do upon the sides of the steep hills that slope down to the bed of the river, a little stony-bedded stream that spreads out to a considerable breadth at the village of Dacre. A little above Dacre we came into the right road to Mr. Clarkson’s, after having walked through woods and fields, never exactly knowing whether we were right or wrong. We learnt, however, that we had saved half-a-mile. We sate down by the river-side to rest, and saw some swallows flying about and under the bridge, and two little schoolboys were loitering among the scars seeking after their nests. We reached Mr. Clarkson’s at about eight o’clock after a sauntering walk, having lingered and loitered and sate down together that we might be alone. Mr. and Mrs. C. were just come from Luff’s. We spent Tuesday, the 13th of July, at Eusemere; and on Wednesday morning, the 14th, we walked to Emont Bridge, and mounted the coach between Bird’s Nest and Hartshorn Tree…. At Greta Bridge the sun shone cheerfully, and a glorious ride we had over Gaterly Moor. Every building was bathed in golden light. The trees were more bright than earthly trees, and we saw round us miles beyond miles–Darlington spire, etc. etc. We reached Leeming Lane at about nine o’clock: supped comfortably, and enjoyed our fire.

Note: Below is a possible route from Keswick to Eusmere. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

On Thursday morning, at a little before seven, being the 15th July, we got into a post-chaise and went to Thirsk to breakfast. We were well treated, but when the landlady understood that we were going to “walk” off, and leave our luggage behind, she threw out some saucy words in our hearing. The day was very hot, and we rested often and long before we reached the foot of the Hambledon Hills, and while we were climbing them, still oftener…. We were almost overpowered with thirst, when I heard the trickling of a little stream of water. I was before William, and I stopped till he came up to me. We sate a long time by this water, and climbed the hill slowly. I was footsore; the sun shone hot; the little Scotch cattle panted and tossed fretfully about. The view was hazy, and we could see nothing from the top of the hill but an undistinct wide-spreading country, full of trees, but the buildings, towns, and houses were lost. We stopped to examine that curious stone, then walked along the flat common…. Arrived very hungry at Rivaux. Nothing to eat at the Millers, as we expected, but at an exquisitely neat farm-house we got some boiled milk and bread. This strengthened us, and I went down to look at the ruins. Thrushes were singing; cattle feeding among green-grown hillocks about the ruins. The hillocks were scattered over with “grovelets” of wild roses and other shrubs, and covered with wild flowers. I could have stayed in this solemn quiet spot till evening, without a thought of moving, but William was waiting for me, so in a quarter of an hour I went away. We walked upon Mr. Duncombe’s terrace and looked down upon the Abbey. It stands in a larger valley among a brotherhood of valleys, of different length and breadth,–all woody, and running up into the hills in all directions. We reached Helmsly just at dusk. We had a beautiful view of the castle from the top of the hill, and slept at a very nice inn, and were well treated; floors as smooth as ice. On Friday morning, 16th July, we walked to Kirby. Met people coming to Helmsly fair. Were misdirected, and walked a mile out of our way…. A beautiful view above Pickering…. Met Mary and Sara seven miles from G. H. Sheltered from the rain; beautiful glen, spoiled by the large house; sweet church and churchyard. Arrived at Gallow Hill at seven o’clock.

Note: Below is a possible route from Eusmere to Thirsk. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Friday Evening, 16th July. — … Sara, Tom, and I rode up Bedale. Wm., Mary, Sara, and I went to Scarborough, and we walked in the Abbey pasture, and to Wykeham; and on Monday, the 26th, we went off with Mary in a post-chaise. We had an interesting ride over the Wolds, though it rained all the way. Single thorn bushes were scattered about on the turf, sheep-sheds here and there, and now and then a little hut. Swelling grounds, and sometimes a single tree or a clump of trees…. We passed through one or two little villages, embosomed in tall trees. After we had parted from Mary, there were gleams of sunshine, but with showers. We saw Beverley in a heavy rain, and yet were much pleased with the beauty of the town. Saw the minster–a pretty, clean building, but injured very much with Grecian architecture. The country between Beverley and Hull very rich, but miserably flat–brick houses, windmills, houses again–dull and endless. Hull a frightful, dirty, brickhousey, tradesmanlike, rich, vulgar place; yet the river–though the shores are so low that they can hardly be seen–looked beautiful with the evening lights upon it, and boats moving about. We walked a long time, and returned to our dull day-room but quiet evening one, to supper.

Note: Below is a possible route from Thirsk to Bedale to Scarborough to Wykeham. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Tuesday, 20th. — Market day. Streets dirty, very rainy, did not leave Hull till four o’clock, and left Barton at about six; rained all the way almost. A beautiful village at the foot of a hill with trees. A gentleman’s house converted into a lady’s boarding-school…. We left Lincoln on Wednesday morning, 27th July, at six o’clock. It rained heavily, and we could see nothing but the antientry of some of the buildings as we passed along. The night before, however, we had seen enough to make us regret this. The minster stands at the edge of a hill overlooking an immense plain. The country very flat as we went along; the day mended. We went to see the outside of the minster while the passengers were dining at Peterborough; the west end very grand….

On Thursday morning, 29th, we arrived in London. Wm. left me at the Sun…. After various troubles and disasters, we left London on Saturday morning at half-past five or six, the 31st of July. We mounted the Dover coach at Charing Cross. It was a beautiful morning. The city, St. Paul’s, with the river, and a multitude of little boats, made a most beautiful sight as we crossed Westminster Bridge. The houses were not overhung by their cloud of smoke, and they were spread out endlessly, yet the sun shone so brightly, with such a fierce light, that there was even something like the purity of one of nature’s own grand spectacles.[72]

• Footnote 72: Compare the sonnet “Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802,” in vol. ii. p. 328.–ED.

We rode on cheerfully, now with the Paris diligence before us, now behind. We walked up the steep hills, a beautiful prospect everywhere, till we even reached Dover. At first the rich, populous, wide-spreading, woody country about London, then the River Thames, ships sailing, chalk cliffs, trees, little villages. Afterwards Canterbury, situated on a plain, rich and woody, but the city and cathedral disappointed me. Hop grounds on each side of the road some miles from Canterbury; then we came to a common, the race ground, an elevated plain, villages among trees in the bed of a valley at our right, and, rising above this valley, green hills scattered over with wood, neat gentlemen’s houses. One white house, almost hid with green trees, which we longed for, and the parson’s house, as neat a place as could be, which would just have suited Coleridge. No doubt we may have found one for Tom Hutchinson and Sara, and a good farm too. We halted at a half-way house–fruit carts under the shade of trees, seats for guests, a tempting place to the weary traveller. Still, as we went along, the country was beautiful and hilly, with cottages lurking under the hills, and their little plots of hop ground like vineyards. It was a bad hop year. A woman on the top of the coach said to me, “It is a sad thing for the poor people, for the hop-gathering is the woman’s harvest; there is employment about the hops for women and children.”

We saw the castle of Dover, and the sea beyond, four or five miles before we reached it. We looked at it through a long vale, the castle being upon an eminence, as it seemed, at the end of this vale, which opened to the sea. The country now became less fertile, but near Dover it seemed more rich again. Many buildings stand on the flat fields, sheltered with tall trees. There is one old chapel that might have been there just in the same state in which it now is when this vale was as retired, and as little known to travellers as our own Cumberland mountain wilds thirty years ago. There was also a very old building on the other side of the road, which had a strange effect among the many new ones that are springing up everywhere. It seemed odd that it could have kept itself pure in its ancientry among so many upstarts. It was near dark when we reached Dover. We were told that a packet was about to sail, so we went down to the custom-house in half-an-hour–had our luggage examined, etc. etc., and then we drank tea with the Honourable Mr. Knox and his tutor. We arrived at Calais at four o’clock on Sunday morning, the 31st of July. We stayed in the vessel till half-past seven; then William went for letters at about half-past eight or nine. We found out Annette and C. chez Madame Avril dans la Rue de la Tête d’or. We lodged opposite two ladies, in tolerably decent-sized rooms, but badly furnished…. The weather was very hot. We walked by the sea-shore almost every evening with Annette and Caroline, or William and I alone. I had a bad cold, and could not bathe at first, but William did. It was a pretty sight to see as we walked upon the sands when the tide was low, perhaps a hundred people bathing about a quarter of a mile distant from us. And we had delightful walks after the heat of the day was passed–seeing far off in the west the coast of England like a cloud crested with Dover castle, which was but like the summit of the cloud–the evening star and the glory of the sky,[73] the reflections in the water were more beautiful than the sky itself, purple waves brighter than precious stones, for ever melting away upon the sands. The fort, a wooden building, at the entrance of the harbour at Calais, when the evening twilight was coming on, and we could not see anything of the building but its shape, which was far more distinct than in perfect daylight, seemed to be reared upon pillars of ebony, between which pillars the sea was seen in the most beautiful colours that can be conceived. Nothing in romance was ever half so beautiful. Now came in view, as the evening star sunk down, and the colours of the west faded away, the two lights of England, lighted up by Englishmen in our country to warn vessels off rocks or sands. These we used to see from the pier, when we could see no other distant objects but the clouds, the sky, and the sea itself–all was dark behind. The town of Calais seemed deserted of the light of heaven, but there was always light, and life, and joy upon the sea. One night I shall never forget–the day had been very hot, and William and I walked alone together upon the pier. The sea was gloomy, for there was a blackness over all the sky, except when it was overspread with lightning, which often revealed to us a distant vessel near, as the waves roared and broke against the pier, and they were interfused with greenish fiery light. The more distant sea always black and gloomy. It was also beautiful, on the calm hot night, to see the little boats row out of harbour with wings of fire, and the sail boats with the fiery track which they cut as they went along, and which closed up after them with a hundred thousand sparkles, and streams of glow-worm light. Caroline was delighted.

• Footnote 73: Compare the sonnet (“Poetical Works,” vol. ii. p. 330) beginning–Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west.  ED.

On Sunday, the 29th of August, we left Calais at twelve o’clock in the morning, and landed at Dover at one on Monday the 30th…. It was very pleasant to me, when we were in the harbour at Dover, to breathe the fresh air, and to look up, and see the stars among the ropes of the vessel. The next day was very hot. We … bathed, and sate upon the Dover Cliffs, and looked upon France with many a melancholy and tender thought. We could see the shores almost as plain as if it were but an English lake. We mounted the coach, and arrived in London at six, the 30th August. It was misty, and we could see nothing. We stayed in London till Wednesday the 22nd of September, and arrived at Gallow Hill on Friday.

September 24th. –Mary first met us in the avenue. She looked so fat and well that we were made very happy by the sight of her; then came Sara, and last of all Joanna. Tom was forking corn, standing upon the corn cart. We dressed ourselves immediately and got tea. The garden looked gay with asters and sweet peas. Jack and George came on Friday evening, 1st October. On Saturday, 2nd, we rode to Hackness, William, Jack, George, and Sara single. I behind Tom. On Sunday 3rd, Mary and Sara were busy packing.

On Monday, 4th October 1802, my brother William was married to Mary Hutchinson.[74] I slept a good deal of the night, and rose fresh and well in the morning. At a little after eight o’clock, I saw them go down the avenue towards the church. William had parted from me upstairs. When they were absent, my dear little Sara prepared the breakfast. I kept myself as quiet as I could, but when I saw the two men running up the walk, coming to tell us it was over, I could stand it no longer, and threw myself on the bed, where I lay in stillness, neither hearing nor seeing anything till Sara came upstairs to me, and said, “They are coming.” This forced me from the bed where I lay, and I moved, I knew not how, straight forward, faster than my strength could carry me, till I met my beloved William, and fell upon his bosom. He and John Hutchinson led me to the house, and there I stayed to welcome my dear Mary. As soon as we had breakfasted, we departed. It rained when we set off. Poor Mary was much agitated, when she parted from her brothers and sisters, and her home. Nothing particular occurred till we reached Kirby. We had sunshine and showers, pleasant talk, love and cheerfulness. We were obliged to stay two hours at K. while the horses were feeding. We wrote a few lines to Sara, and then walked out; the sun shone, and we went to the churchyard after we had put a letter into the post-office for the “York Herald.” We sauntered about, and read the grave-stones. There was one to the memory of five children, who had all died within five years, and the longest lived had only lived four years…

• Footnote 74: It may not be a too trivial detail to note that Coleridge’s “Dejection, an Ode,” appeared in “The Morning Post” on Wordsworth’s marriage day.–ED.

We left Kirby at about half-past two. There is not much variety of prospect from K. to Helmsley, but the country is very pleasant, being rich and woody, and Helmsley itself stands very sweetly at the foot of the rising grounds of Duncombe Park, which is scattered over with tall woods; and, lifting itself above the common buildings of the town, stands Helmsley Castle, now a ruin, formerly inhabited by the gay Duke of Buckingham. Every foot of the road was of itself interesting to us, for we had travelled along it on foot, William and I, when we went to fetch our dear Mary, and had sate upon the turf by the roadside more than once. Before we reached Helmsley, our driver told us that he could not take us any further, so we stopped at the same inn where we had slept before. My heart danced at the sight of its cleanly outside, bright yellow walls, casements overshadowed with jasmine, and its low, double gavel-ended front…. Mary and I warmed ourselves at the kitchen fire. We then walked into the garden, and looked over a gate, up to the old ruin which stands at the top of the mount, and round about it the moats are grown up into soft green cradles, hollows surrounded with green grassy hillocks, and these are overshadowed by old trees, chiefly ashes. I prevailed upon William to go up with me to the ruins…. The sun shone, it was warm and very pleasant. One part of the castle seems to be inhabited. There was a man mowing nettles in the open space which had most likely once been the castle-court. There is one gateway exceedingly beautiful. Children were playing upon the sloping ground. We came home by the street. After about an hour’s delay, we set forward again; had an excellent driver, who opened the gates so dexterously that the horses never stopped. Mary was very much delighted with the view of the castle from the point where we had seen it before. I was pleased to see again the little path which we had walked upon, the gate I had climbed over, and the road down which we had seen the two little boys drag a log of wood, and a team of horses struggle under the weight of a great load of timber. We had felt compassion for the poor horses that were under the governance of oppression and ill-judging drivers, and for the poor boys, who seemed of an age to have been able to have dragged the log of wood merely out of the love of their own activity, but from poverty and bad food they panted for weakness, and were obliged to fetch their father from the town to help them. Duncombe house looks well from the road–a large building, though I believe only two-thirds of the original design are completed. We rode down a very steep hill to Rivaux valley, with woods all round us. We stopped upon the bridge to look at the Abbey, and again when we had crossed it. Dear Mary had never seen a ruined abbey before except Whitby. We recognised the cottages, houses, and the little valleys as we went along. We walked up a long hill, the road carrying us up the cleft or valley with woody hills on each side of us. When we went to G. H. I had walked down the valley alone. William followed me.

Before we had crossed the Hambledon Hill, and reached the point overlooking Yorkshire, it was quite dark. We had not wanted, however, fair prospects before us, as we drove along the flat plain of the high hill. Far far off from us, in the western sky, we saw shapes of castles, ruins among groves, a great spreading wood, rocks, and single trees, a minster with its tower unusually distinct, minarets in another quarter, and a round Grecian Temple also; the colours of the sky of a bright grey, and the forms of a sober grey, with a dome. As we descended the hill there was no distinct view, but of a great space; only near us we saw the wild (and as the people say) bottomless tarn in the hollow at the side of the hill. It seemed to be made visible to us only by its own light, for all the hill about us was dark. Before we reached Thirsk we saw a light before us, which we at first thought was the moon, then lime-kilns; but when we drove into the market-place it proved a large bonfire, with lads dancing round it, which is a sight I dearly love. The inn was like an illuminated house–every room full. We asked the cause, and were told by the girl that it was “Mr. John Bell’s birthday, that he had heired his estate.” The landlady was very civil. She did not recognise the despised foot-travellers. We rode on in the dark, and reached Leeming Lane at eleven o’clock…

The next morning we set off at about half-past eight o’clock. It was a cheerful, sunny morning…. We had a few showers, but when we came to the green fields of Wensley, the sun shone upon them all, and the Ure in its many windings glittered as it flowed along under the green slopes of Middleham Castle. Mary looked about for her friend Mr. Place, and thought she had him sure on the contrary side of the vale from that on which we afterwards found he lived. We went to a new built house at Leyburn, the same village where William and I had dined on our road to Grasmere two years and three-quarters ago, but not the same house. The landlady was very civil, giving us cake and wine, but the horses being out we were detained at least two hours, and did not set off till two o’clock. We paid for thirty-five miles, _i.e._ to Sedbergh, but the landlady did not encourage us to hope to get beyond Hawes…. When we passed through the village of Wensley my heart melted away, with dear recollections–the bridge, the little waterspout, the steep hill, the church. They are among the most vivid of my own inner visions, for they were the first objects that I saw after we were left to ourselves, and had turned our whole hearts to Grasmere as a home in which we were to rest. The vale looked most beautiful each way. To the left the bright silver stream inlaid the flat and very green meadows, winding like a serpent. To the right, we did not see it so far, it was lost among trees and little hills. I could not help observing, as we went along, how much more varied the prospects of Wensley Dale are in the summer time than I could have thought possible in the winter. This seemed to be in great measure owing to the trees being in leaf, and forming groves and screens, and thence little openings upon recesses and concealed retreats, which in winter only made a part of the one great vale. The beauty of the summer time here as much excels that of the winter, as the variety (owing to the excessive greenness) of the fields, and the trees in leaf half concealing, and–where they do not conceal–softening the hard bareness of the limey white roofs. One of our horses seemed to grow a little restive as we went through the first village, a long village on the side of a hill. It grew worse and worse, and at last we durst not go on any longer. We walked a while, and then the post boy was obliged to take the horse out, and go back for another. We seated ourselves again snugly in the post-chaise. The wind struggled about us and rattled the window, and gave a gentle motion to the chaise, but we were warm and at our ease within. Our station was at the top of a hill, opposite Bolton Castle, the Ure flowing beneath. William has since written a sonnet on this our imprisonment. Hard was thy durance, poor Queen Mary! compared with ours….[75]

• Footnote 75: This sonnet was not thought worthy of being preserved.–ED.

We had a sweet ride till we came to a public-house on the side of a hill, where we alighted and walked down to see the waterfalls. The sun was not set, and the woods and fields were spread over with the yellow light of evening, which made their greenness a thousand times more green. There was too much water in the river for the beauty of the falls, and even the banks were less interesting than in winter. Nature had entirely got the better in her struggles against the giants who first cast the mould of these works; for, indeed, it is a place that did not in winter remind one of God, but one could not help feeling as if there had been the agency of some “mortal instruments,” which Nature had been struggling against without making a perfect conquest. There was something so wild and new in this feeling, knowing, as we did in the inner man, that God alone had laid his hand upon it, that I could not help regretting the want of it; besides, it is a pleasure to a real lover of Nature to give winter all the glory he can, for summer _will_ make its own way, and speak its own praises. We saw the pathway which William and I took at the close of evening, the path leading to the rabbit warren where we lost ourselves. Sloe farm, with its holly hedges, was lost among the green hills and hedgerows in general, but we found it out, and were glad to look at it again. William left us to seek the waterfalls…

At our return to the inn, we found new horses and a new driver, and we went on nicely to Hawes, where we arrived before it was quite dark…. We rose at six o’clock–a rainy morning…. There was a very fine view about a mile from Hawes, where we crossed a bridge; bare and very green fields with cattle, a glittering stream, cottages, a few ill-grown trees, and high hills. The sun shone now. Before we got upon the bare hills, there was a hunting lodge on our right, exactly like Greta Hill, with fir plantations about it. We were very fortunate in the day, gleams of sunshine, passing clouds, that travelled with their shadows below them. Mary was much pleased with Garsdale. It was a dear place to William and me. We noted well the public-house (Garsdale Hall) where we had baited, … and afterwards the mountain which had been adorned by Jupiter in his glory when we were here before. It was midday when we reached Sedbergh, and market day. We were in the same room where we had spent the evening together in our road to Grasmere. We had a pleasant ride to Kendal, where we arrived at two o’clock. The day favoured us. M. and I went to see the house where dear Sara had lived…. I am always glad to see Staveley; it is a place I dearly love to think of–the first mountain village that I came to with William when we first began our pilgrimage together…. Nothing particular occurred till we reached Ings chapel. The door was open, and we went in. It is a neat little place, with a marble floor and marble communion table, with a painting over it of the last supper, and Moses and Aaron on each side. The woman told us that “they had painted them as near as they could by the dresses as they are described in the Bible,” and gay enough they are. The marble had been sent by Richard Bateman from Leghorn. The woman told us that a man had been at her house a few days before, who told her he had helped to bring it down the Red Sea, and she believed him gladly!… We … arrived at Grasmere at about six o’clock on Wednesday evening, the 6th of October 1802…. I cannot describe what I felt…. We went by candle light into the garden, and were astonished at the growth of the brooms, Portugal laurels, etc. etc. etc. The next day, Thursday, we unpacked the boxes. On Friday, 8th, … Mary and I walked first upon the hill-side, and then in John’s Grove, then in view of Rydale, the first walk that I had taken with my sister.

Monday, 11th. –A beautiful day. We walked to the Easedale hills to hunt waterfalls. William and Mary left me sitting on a stone on the solitary mountains, and went to Easedale tarn…. The approach to the tarn is very beautiful. We expected to have found Coleridge at home, but he did not come till after dinner. He was well, but did not look so.

Note: Below is a possible route to Easedale. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Tuesday, 12th October. –We walked with Coleridge to Rydale.

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Wednesday, 13th. –Set forwards with him towards Keswick, and he prevailed us to go on. We consented, Mrs. C. not being at home. The day was delightful….

Note: Below is a possible route to Rydal. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Thursday, 14th. –We went in the evening to Calvert’s. Moonlight. Stayed supper.

Saturday, 16th. –Came home, Mary and I. William returned to Coleridge before we reached Nadel Fell. Mary and I had a pleasant walk. The day was very bright; the people busy getting in their corn. Reached home at about five o’clock….

Sunday, 17th. –We had thirteen of our neighbours to tea. William came in just as we began tea.

Saturday, 30th October. –William is gone to Keswick. Mary went with him to the top of the Raise. She is returned, and is now sitting near me by the fire. It is a breathless, grey day, that leaves the golden woods of autumn quiet in their own tranquility, stately and beautiful in their decaying. The lake is a perfect mirror.

William met Stoddart at the bridge at the foot of Legberthwaite dale…. They surprised us by their arrival at four o’clock in the afternoon…. After tea, S. read Chaucer to us.

Note: Below is a possible route to Keswick. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Tuesday, 2nd November._–William returned from Keswick.

Friday, 5th. — … I wrote to Montagu, … and sent off letters to Miss Lamb and Coleridge….

Sunday, 7th._–Fine weather. Letters from Coleridge that he was gone to London. Sara at Penrith. I wrote to Mrs. Clarkson. William began to translate Ariosto.

Monday, 8th. –A beautiful day. William got to work again at Ariosto, and so continued all the morning, though the day was so delightful that it made my very heart long to be out of doors, and see and feel the beauty of the autumn in freedom. The trees on the opposite side of the lake are of a yellow brown, but there are one or two trees opposite our windows (an ash tree, for instance) quite green, as in spring. The fields are of their winter colour, but the island is as green as ever it was…. William is writing out his stanzas from Ariosto…. The evening is quiet. Poor Coleridge! Sara is at Keswick, I hope…. I have read one canto of Ariosto to-day…

24th December. –Christmas Eve. William is now sitting by me, at half-past ten o’clock. I have been … repeating some of his sonnets to him, listening to his own repeating, reading some of Milton’s, and the “Allegro” and “Penseroso.” It is a quick, keen frost…. Coleridge came this morning with Wedgwood. We all turned out … one by one, to meet him. He looked well. We had to tell him of the birth of his little girl, born yesterday morning at six o’clock. William went with them to Wytheburn in the chaise, and M. and I met W. on the Raise. It was not an unpleasant morning…. The sun shone now and then, and there was no wind, but all things looked cheerless and distinct; no meltings of sky into mountains, the mountains like stone work wrought up with huge hammers. Last Sunday was as mild a day as I ever remember… Mary and I went round the lakes. There were flowers of various kinds–the topmost bell of a foxglove, geraniums, daisies, a buttercup in the water (but this I saw two or three days before), small yellow flowers (I do not know their name) in the turf. A large bunch of strawberry blossoms…

It is Christmas Day, Saturday, 25th December 1802. I am thirty-one years of age. It is a dull, frosty day.

On Thursday, 30th December, I went to Keswick. William rode before me to the foot of the hill nearest K. There we parted close to a little watercourse, which was then noisy with water, but on my return a dry channel…. We stopped our horse close to the ledge, opposite a tuft of primroses, three flowers in full blossom and a bud. They reared themselves up among the green moss. We debated long whether we should pluck them, and at last left them to live out their day, which I was right glad of at my return the Sunday following; for there they remained, uninjured either by cold or wet.

Note: Below is a possible route to Keswick. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

I stayed at Keswick over New Year’s Day, and returned on Sunday, the 2nd January…. William was alarmed at my long delay, and came to within three miles of Keswick…

Coleridge stayed with us till Tuesday, January 4th. W. and I … walked with him to Ambleside. We parted with him at the turning of the lane, he going on horseback to the top of Kirkstone.

Note: Below is a possible route to Ambleside. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

Monday, January 10th 1803._–I lay in bed to have a drench of sleep till one o’clock. Worked all day…. Ominously cold.

Tuesday, January 11th._–A very cold day, … but the blackness of the cold made us slow to put forward, and we did not walk at all. Mary read the Prologue to Chaucer’s tales to me in the morning. William was working at his poem to C. Letter from Keswick and from Taylor on William’s marriage. C. poorly, in bad spirits…. Read part of _The Knights Tale_ with exquisite delight. Since tea Mary has been down stairs copying out Italian poems for Stuart. William has been working beside me, and here ends this imperfect summary….