I
never smelt such a delightful fragrance of flowers as there was all
through the garden. In front of the house there is a circular terrace of
two ascents, in raising which Wordsworth had himself performed much of
the labor; and here there are seats, from which we obtained a fine view
down the valley of the Rothay, with Windermere in the distance,--a view
of several miles, and which we did not suppose could be seen, after
winding among the hills so far from the lake. It is very beautiful and
picture-like. While we sat here, S----- happened to refer to the ballad
of little Barbara Lewthwaite, and J----- began to repeat the poem
concerning her, and the gardener said that "little Barbara" had died not
a great while ago, an elderly woman, leaving grown-up children behind
her. Her marriage-name was Thompson, and the gardener believed there was
nothing remarkable in her character.
There is a summer-house at one extremity of the grounds, in deepest
shadow, but with glimpses of mountain views through trees which shut it
in, and which have spread intercepting boughs since Wordsworth died. It
is lined with pine-cones, in a pretty way enough, but of doubtful taste.
I rather wonder that people of real taste should help Nature out, and
beautify her, or perhaps rather prettify her so much as they do,--opening
vistas, showing one thing, hiding another, making a scene picturesque,
whether or no. I cannot rid myself of the feeling that there is
something false--a kind of humbug--in all this.
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