There is
no fault to be found with his grave,--within view of the hills, within
sound of the river, murmuring near by,--no fault except that he is
crowded so closely with his kindred; and, moreover, that, being so old a
churchyard, the earth over him must all have been human once. He might
have had fresh earth to himself; but he chose this grave deliberately.
No very stately and broad-based monument can ever be erected over it
without infringing upon, covering, and overshadowing the graves, not only
of his family, but of individuals who probably were quite disconnected
with him. But it is pleasant to think and know--were it but on the
evidence of this choice of a resting-place--that he did not care for a
stately monument.
After leaving the churchyard, we wandered about in quest of the
post-office, and for a long time without success. This little town of
Grasmere seems to me as pretty a place as ever I met with in my life. It
is quite shut in by hills that rise up immediately around it, like a
neighborhood of kindly giants. These hills descend steeply to the verge
of the level on which the village stands, and there they terminate at
once, the whole site of the little town being as even as a floor. I call
it a village; but it is no village at all,--all the dwellings standing
apart, each in its own little domain, and each, I believe, with its own
little lane leading to it, independently of the rest. Most of these are
old cottages, plastered white, with antique porches, and roses and other
vines trained against them, and shrubbery growing about them; and some
are covered with ivy.
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