On a cloudy morning we came to Rydal and turned up the road to Wordsworth’s home in old age. At Rydal Mount he produced some of his most characteristic poetry—short pieces such as “The Clouds” and “The Mountain Echo”; at Dove Cottage “The Excursion” and “The Prelude” were penned. In Wordsworth’s day the road in the glen did not send up an almost ceaseless clatter, and seldom did the steam plume by Waterhead pier meet his sight. The poet had an aversion to the larch-tree, an exotic then being planted extensively in the dales, and did not care much for steam and the work of the engineer. The trees in stiff lines and squares make hideous the mountain slopes to-day; but see them growing in romantic irregularity, as by Thirlmere, and you will believe that Wordsworth might have conceded a beauty to the larch. And there are things more hideous than steam—for instance, the petrol motor. Rydal Mount is not a museum: its grounds are kept private. It is a simple dales dwelling in design—round chimneys, lead-glazed windows, grey walls without, low-ceiled, raftered rooms within: its well-planned gardens are the only characteristic to mark it from many other abode of “the bettermer mak” of yeoman folk. Enthusiasts often run up from the road to peep over its shrubs and gate, but most tourists go heedlessly by this retreat of the aged poet. From the garden where the poet composed his verses—“bumming and booing to hissel,” says one who recollects him clearly: “bum—bum—bum—bum, and at every bum he maid a step forrit, mebbe six or sebben steps; then roond he wad whirrel and gang back—bum, bum, bum,—happen just as many times. It didn’t matter to him whether he wor in his ane garden or on t’ fell or on t’ roo-ad,”—there is a grand view. Down the glen to the lake, darkling under the massed clouds, over the woods of Rydal and a corner of the mere, Loughrigg and, dimly seen through rolling mists, Crinkle Crags and Bowfell. Would that a gleam of sunshine would kindle the grey and brown and dull red of dale and fellside to silver and russet, crimson and gold! For it is late September, and the glory of autumn is about us.

I have read many “interviews” with the aged Wordsworth. Some writers have seen him in idealism; others in a matter-of-fact light. A third class, bent on decrying his worth, have conjured up overheated visions of an uncultivated, unmannered man, calling to question his genius, his mode of living, his person. But some humble scribe, long before the poet was removed by death, penned the following. He had no difficulty in reaching the Laureate; a request at the door of Rydal Mount for a short interview was answered by the poet himself. “He took me by the hand in a way that did me good. There was welcome in his words and looks as well as in the shake of his hand, and in less than five minutes he was taking me round his fairy dwelling-place and pointing out to me the most striking objects of the beautiful and glowing scenes around. He was rather tall and thin, with a countenance somewhat pale, and more thoughtful than joyous. Simple and courteous in his demeanour, and frank in his remarks, he made me feel at ease. He was just the man that I had imagined him to be from reading his ‘Excursion.’” The same writer, looking into an ivied and moss-grown unused quarry near White Moss, expressed his pleasure at the sight. “Sir,” was the poet’s response, “all might find these secluded temples of beauty, but all will not give themselves the trouble to seek them.” The path which cuts along the breast of Nab Scar turns to the left just above the poet’s home, between it and Hart Head, name reminiscent of days when its holder was forester on Rydal fells to Le Flemings of old. Looking ahead, we see a rough road climbing up to as wild a piece of fell land as we have. It is another haunt of the shepherd, a land bleak and wild—the ravines of Rydal Head and the great crags of Fairfield, fit home for wild red deer. Fit home too for the half-wild, little Herdwick, that atom of sturdiness fit to live in a land of storm. Two months hence there will be a day of days in wild Rydal, when the shepherds clear their heafs of the flocks. The work begins ere daybreak, and lasts sometimes into the night following. The sheep dogs, obedient to the calls of their masters, range the whole fellsides very completely, driving down the sheep as they are detected in ghyll or by bog. The work is arduous for both men and dogs, the exact equivalent of the work in miles and altitude ascended being often tremendous.

Our way, however, is smoother, easier than this. We skirt the grounds of Rydal Mount: from a higher bank we look over its round chimneys on to the green glen below, on to Windermere, the river-lake, winding away between bluffs bronzed with fading foliage, to be lost at last in the heart of them; we look along the rocky edge of Loughrigg, where the dying bracken shows the approach of autumn. We are walking in a forest of stumpy oak-trees, the twisted heads of which speak eloquently of the power of the winter gales on this exposed fell-end: below us, with its long, narrow, wooded islet almost dividing it into two portions, is Rydalmere. From the outlet in Rothay to swampish White Moss it is in full sight, and of a kindlier hue than was chill Winander, which a corner of Loughrigg has now shut from sight. The breaking mass of cloud over Langdale Pikes is letting in the full day. On the road beneath, even thus early, the mad race of vehicles has begun. No one seems to be able to go slowly by Rydalmere, save the lumbering carrier’s cart. Once all the ordinary passenger traffic of the country was carried on these slow conveyances—I can see a merit in the method now. The coaches sweep you along at a fast trot; one gasps at new things that are gone ere he comprehends their beauty. And now we have motor-traffic, a series of giant ’buses followed by so many pillars of dust as though they held out the rallying signals for a world of traffic; these excel all in soul-destroying haste.