For this let us be thankful. We visited Wordsworth's grave reverently in the twilight. Fresh, very fresh flowers lay upon it. God bless the hand that strewed them there this day! I think the following the one very great thing he gave the world; it contains "the golden guess which ever is the morning star to the full round of truth." The thought of the age--whether right or wrong we need not discuss--is hitherward:
"For I have learned To look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts: a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man A motion and a spirit that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things."
There's a platform upon which this sceptical age may eventually stand. It is not materialistic and it is not dogmatic; perhaps it is the golden mean between extremes. I commend its teachings to both sides of all the cock-sure disputants, one of whom knows it is just so, and the other as presumptuously knows there is nothing to know. Let them shake hands and await patiently the coming of clearer light, and get together in solid work here. Surely there is enough to keep them busy. We still "see through a glass darkly."
We spent our night at Grassmere, and had a fine row upon the lake; and can anything be finer than music upon the waters, the dip of the oar, the cadence of the song which seems to float upon the glassy lake? It came to us again lulling us to sleep--the sweetest lullaby, sure precursor of happy dreams.
"Right, Perry!" Off for Keswick, only twelve miles distant; but who wants to hurry away from scenes like these? It rained heavily through the night, but this morning is grand for us. The mist was on the mountains though, and the clouds passed slowly over them, wrapping the tops in their mantle. The numerous rills dashing down the bare mountains were the themes of much praise. They reminded me of two fine verses from the "Light of Asia" upon "Being's ceaseless tide,"