This is the first day of my arrival at Keswick.
My house is roomy, situated on an eminence, a furlong from the town;
before it an enormous garden, more than two-thirds of which is rented as
a garden for sale articles; but the walks are ours. Completely behind
the house are shrubberies, and a declivity planted with flourishing
trees of ten or fifteen years' growth, at the bottom of which is a most
delightful shaded walk, by the river Greta, a quarter of a mile in
length. The room in which I sit commands from one window the
Bassenthwaite lake, woods, and mountains. From the opposite, the
Derwentwater and fantastic mountains of Borrowdale. Straight before is a
wilderness of mountains, catching and streaming lights and shadows at
all times. Behind the house, and entering into all our views, is
Skiddaw.
My acquaintances here are pleasant, and at some distance is Sir Guilfred
Lawson's seat, with a very large and expensive library, to which I have
every reason to hope that I shall have free access. But when I have been
settled here a few days longer, I will write you a minute account of my
situation. Wordsworth lives twelve miles distant. In about a year's time
he will probably settle at Keswick likewise. It is no small advantage
here, that for two-thirds of the year we are in complete retirement. The
other third is alive and swarms with tourists of all shapes, and sizes,
and characters.
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