When my mother’s notes for her projected novel were completed, we thought that before turning our faces southwards, we would pay a flying visit to the lake district, which was new ground to both of us.  I remember well my intense delight at my first introduction to mountains worthy of the name.  But I mean to mention here two only of my reminiscences of that first visit to lake-land.

The first of these concerns an excursion on Windermere with Captain Hamilton, the author of Cyril Thornton, which had at that time made its mark.  He had recently received a new boat, which had been built for him in Norway.  He expected great performances from her, and as there was a nice fresh wind idly curling the surface of the lake, he invited us to come out with him and try her, and in a minute or two we were speeding merrily before the breeze towards the opposite shore.  But about the middle of the lake we found the water a good deal rougher, and the wind began to increase notably.  Hamilton held the tiller, and not liking to make fast the haulyard of the sail, gave me the rope to hold, with instructions to hold on till further orders.  He was a perfect master of the business in hand, and so was the new boat a perfect mistress of her business, but this did not prevent us from getting thoroughly ducked.  My attention was sufficiently occupied in obeying my orders, and keeping my eye on him in expectation of fresh ones.  The wind meanwhile increased from minute to minute, and I could not help perceiving that Hamilton, despite his cheery laughter, was becoming a little anxious.  We got back, however, to the shore we had left after a good buffeting, and in the condition of drowned rats.  My mother was helped out of the boat, and while she was making her way up the bank, and I was helping him to make the boat secure, I said, “Well! the new boat has done bravely!” “Between you and me, my dear fellow,” said he, as he laid his hand on my shoulder with a grip, that I think must have left his thumb-mark on the skin, “if the boat had not behaved better than any boat of her class that I ever saw, there would have been a considerable probability of our being dined on by the fishes, instead of dining together, as I hope we are going to do!  I have been blaming myself for taking your mother out; but the truth is that on these lakes it is really impossible to tell for half an hour what the next half hour may bring forth.”

The one other incident of our visit to lake-land which I will record, was our visit to Wordsworth.

For my part I managed to incur his displeasure while yet on the threshold of his house.  We were entering it together, when observing a very fine bay-tree by the door-side, I unfortunately expressed surprise at its luxuriance in such a position.  “Why should you be surprised?” he asked, suddenly turning upon me with much displeasure in his manner.  Not a little disconcerted, I hesitatingly answered that I had imagined the bay-tree required more and greater warmth of sunshine than it could find there.  “Pooh!” said he, much offended at the slight cast on his beloved locality, “what has sunshine got to do with it?”