“Cassel” [essay]
When shall we get up this hill, this intermin‐
able hill. 1 Bend after bend we have been ascen‐
ding for the last half hour every successive
turn disclosing a weary length of way, and
those tiresome windmills at the top seem as far
from us as ever. Windmills have long been
celebrated for gesticulation, celebrated with Cer‐
vantes all over the world, but never saw I wind‐
mills more provokingly alive than at present
with their long stretchy arms bending to the
breeze that flew over the hilltop, they seemed
beckoning us up ironically, while, the slow
 
a
measured step of our booted postillion as
 
b
he tramped it up the hill as much encum‐
bered as a cat with walnut shells, told
us of many a weary moment ere those
becks should, could, or would be obeyed.
We are on the summit, a green plateau
of turf, that looks round on the wide
plains of France without a single emin‐
ence to rival it and few that can obstruct
its view. —. Fifteen battle‐fields are in
view from that spot, telling a fearful tale
of the ready ire of nations, yet looking as
green and peaceful as if they had never
been watered with blood,— c They say the
cliffs of England are visible from Cassel—
the sea certainly is, so I looked in the
direction, and I did see something—. I had
some lurking suspicions it was a cloud,
but I chose to believe it was my own Eng‐
land and it did quite as well to bid fare‐
well to.— d
I love a view like this, for it seems as if you
were looking over all the wide wide world
and were ruling it. Throughout all our
after journey I have seen nothing more
beautiful or more wonderful of its kind
than the view from the little, humble, neg‐
lected village of—. e Cassel.