BACK IN ENGLAND
Derwentwater is there, and Lake Bassenthwaite, Wastwater and Thirlemere and Grasmere and Windermere and Ulleswater and many others; it was here that the Lake Poets lived, and Wordsworth’s grave is at Grasmere beside a nice old church with an oak roof in a valley of wavy trees; but, although this sentence is so long, it does not contain all the delights of the pleasant Lake District. Thus, for example, Keswick is a town which differs from all other towns in the world by being built of entirely green bricks; but as I have no green paint here, I have drawn for you at least the town hall, which is likewise pretty. For tourist reasons here is Skiddaw and then, between thickets and parks, the delightful Lake Windermere, which I drew on an evening so sweet and peaceful that I felt uneasy with happiness; the sunset was combing the curly wavelets with a golden comb, and here the pilgrim sat by the quiet reeds and had no desire to go home again, so dazing and peaceful was the water. The Guide to the Lake District mentions the various mountains, passes, and beautiful views, as well as the stone upon which Wordsworth used to sit; and other local beauty-spots. As regards myself, I discovered and performed a few pilgrimages:
1. The Pilgrimage to the Sheep. There are sheep in every part of England, but the Lake Sheep are specially curly; they graze on silken lawns, and remind one of the souls of the blessed in heaven. Nobody watches them, and they spend their time in feeding, sleeping, and divine ponderings. 
I have drawn them, imbuing them with as much calm and tender joy of life as can be achieved by means of a fountain pen.
2. The Pilgrimage to the Cows. The Lake Cows differ from others by reason of their special reddish tinge; 
besides this they are distinguished from other cows by the charm of the landscape in which they graze, and by their mildness of expression. They walk about in the Elysian Fields the whole day long; and when they lie down they slowly and solemnly ruminate words of thanksgiving. In my picture I have surrounded them with all the beauties of the Lake District; you see there a bridge beneath which flows a small river with trout, soft shrubs, wavy trees, oval and pleasant hills covered with copses and quickset hedges, the ridges of the Cumbrian mountains, and finally a sky full of moisture and light;
amongst the trees you perceive the tops of cottages built of reddish or greenish stone, and you will admit that to be a cow in the Lake District is a great favour which falls to the lot only of the most sacred and worthy among all creatures.
3. The Pilgrimage to the Horses. Horses in England do nothing else but graze all day or walk about on beautiful grass. Perhaps they are not horses at all, but Swift’s Houyhnhnms, a wise and semi-divine race which does not engage in trade, takes no part in politics, and is not even interested in the horse-racing at Ascot. They regard man indulgently and almost without antagonism; they are remarkably intelligent. 
Sometimes they meditate, sometimes they rush about with flying tails, and sometimes they gaze in so majestic and solemn a manner, that man beside them feels himself to be a sort of ape. To draw a horse is the most difficult task which has hitherto come my way. When I made an attempt at it, the horses surrounded me, and one of them with might and main tried to eat up my sketch-book; I had to beat a retreat, when he refused to be satisfied with my showing him my pictures from afar.
There are many other beautiful things in the Lake District, thus, in particular, the winding rivers, the bushy and magnificent trees, the paths twining like ribbons, the call of the mountains and the tranquillity of the valleys, the crinkled and peaceful lake; and along these twining paths pant chars-à-bancs full of tourists, motor-cars fly, and women slip on bicycles; only the Sheep, the Cows and the Horses ruminate deliberately and without haste on the beauties of nature.