spirit, yet no pride. Self is the centre of our joy, but it radiates to the circumference, shooting out on all sides bright lines of love over the boundless beauty of earth, till imagination loses itself in what seems the obscure sublimity of the far off uncertain sea. Yes! it is the sea! sunshine brightens the blue deep into belief; and God be with her on her voyage! Yonder sails a single ship-for one moment-gone already-as white as snow! But as a blank be ocean and all her isles. And let us lavish our loves on these lakes, and vales, and glens, and plains, and fields and meadows, woods, groves, gardens, houses of man and of God-for conspicuous yet in every deep-down dwindled village is the white churchtower-and the heart blesses that one little solitary chapel, where you may see specks that must be sheep, lying in the burial-place, for there are no tombstones there, only grassy heaps! Nine o'clock o' morning, all through the year, is a strong hour-and, be the season what it may, the best time for breakfast. It is nine now; we conjecture that we have been gazing half an hour; so four hours have been consumed in ascending the Old Man. You might ascend him from Coniston Waterhead in two, or less, were it a matter of life or death; but we have been graciously permitted to be for a month strollers and idlers on the earth; and a long day of delight is before us, ere thou, O Sun! shalt be again o'er Langdale Pikes empurpling the west "To-morrow for severer thought but now For breakfast." Jonathan-Long Jonathan best of guides since old Bobby Partridge died -disembowel the haversack. You are a great linguist, Jonathan; you have got the gift of tongues. A HAM! None of your minnikin March chicken for mountain breakfast with the Old Man of Coniston-these two are earochs-alias how-towdiesand the colour contrasts well with that of a most respectable pair of ducks. A fillet of veal? It is. Perhaps, Jonathan, it may be prudent to postpone that pigeon pie. Well, well, take your own way-put it down alongside that anonymous article, and distribute bread. IMPRIMIS VENERARE DEOS! Ere we commence operations, what would not we give for a smoking gurgle of ginger-beer, or of Imperial Pop! Jonathan-thou Son of Saulare these stone-bottles? How Hunger exults in the extinguishment of Thirst! There are four of us-we believe; so let us first discuss the cacklers and the quackers-a dimidium to each; and thus shall we be enabled, perhaps, to look without any very painful impatience on the pigeon-pie, which we ventured hesitatingly to express an opinion might be postponed-though from that opinion we retain liberty to diverge, without incurring the charge of apostasy, should we feel reason to do so from the state of Parties. There is no possibility of being gluttonous on the top of a high mountain. Temperance herself tells you to take the full length of your tether-to scorn knife and fork, and draw the spawl of the how-towdy through the shiverde-freeze of your tusks. That tongue might have been larger, we think, Jonathan, without incommoding the mouth of the Stot. The fourth part of a tongue has an insignificant look; -aye-that's right-we prefer the root to the tip. Why, it tastes like ham! It is ham! You have given us ham, Jonathan-but we pardon the mistake for now that the surprise has subsided, be the ham Westmoreland or Westphalian, a richer never bore bristle since the progenitor of all porkers descended from the Ark. The silence-the stillness-is sublime! Broken but by the music and the motion of our jaws. Yet they too, at intervals, rest; shut-or wide open for a few moments, as our eyes, spiritually withdrawn from that"material breakfast," wander round the visionary horizon, or survey steadily the lovely landscape, to return with keener animation to the evanescent scenery immediately under our nose. Evanescent!--for anescent!--for tongue and to wdies, ham and ducks, have disappeared! The fillet is fast going the way of all flesh; and under a fortunate star indeed must that pigeon-pie have been baked, if it escape this massacre of the Innocents. Tin-lined is the leathern belt round the shoulders of Jonathan-and 'tis filled with water from the spring in that old slate-quarry-and here is a "horn full of the cold north." The Cogniac tames without killing itmiraculous mixture of Frost and Fire! And here goes the flash of preservation into our vitals to a sentiment that can be understood but on the mountain-top, The Cause of Liberty -all OVER THE WORLD. We are all intoxicated-but not with brandy-for each took but one gulp of unchristened Cogniac and a horn of the baptized; we are divinely drunk with ether-not the ether purchased from Apothecaries' Hall, but the ether given gratis by Apollo -the Sun-God-to all who visit his palace in the regions of Morn. Down the stone-strewn greensward we dancingly go, and like red-deer bound over rocks. The proper place for a guide is in the rear; and Jonathan follows astonished, with the Remains. We are again at Levers Water before any of us has said Jack Robinson-no need of scaling ladders in descending precipices-but that our beards are only about an inch long-and none of us by possibility can have horns-the sheep might suppose us goats. But here let us pause. How magnificent in full view the rocks called Dove Crag rising above Goat's-Tarn! and how beautiful the wavy windings up the breast of WALNA SCAR! We have gloriously enjoyed the morn-it wants centuries yet of meridianlet us not "lose and neglect the creeping hours of time," in pottering about on a level with the silly seabut let's up to the above Goat's Tarn -to SEATHWAITE TARN too, over Walna Scar-and then down to the chapel, and see what sort of a stream that DUDDON is, to which "the Bard" has addressed an eulogistic Libel of Sonnets. Jonathan never was at Goat's Water, but Christopher has many a time; and this is its rivulet. The last ascent to it is very steep; but our lungs laugh now at all difficulties-and we are soon at the foot of the Tarn. In sunshine such as this, 'tis a sweet spot-nay, one might almost, without offence to the genius loci, call it pretty-" sweetly putta!" True, that the margin on the east is a rude assemblage of stones-and that on the opposite side the towering rocks are hushed in a sort of "grim repose." But then the water is clear as a well - and that knoll of birches is admiring itself in the mirror. There are some sheep and lambs-and yonder a " bit birdie" is hopping from spray to spray, who could sing if he chose -but he has manifestly got us in his, eye, and, laying his head on his shoulder, gives us a sly glance as if he was quizzing the whole party. Last time we stood here-facing these cliffssome dozen years ago-how they frowned by glimpses through the driving rack! The tarn itself was pitch, which grew blacker still on tempest-stricken spots-while now and then a wave gave a wallop like an animal, and broke in brown fo foam, with a savage murmur. There was a continual hissing somewhere-and as for croaking, we could have believed that some old raven had established a croaking-school up among the hidden cliffs, and that he and his pupils were trying to sing psalmsprobably to a dead horse. We declare there is one of the devils tugging at something on a ledge at the mouth of that fissure! He views us-but he won't budge. A gruff old tyke, with a bill, no doubt, like a weaver's shuttle. And see-a fox. We are on our way, you know, to Seathwaite. From Coniston Waterhead, our pleasant inn, there are three ways to that vale-one by Broughton for all manner of carriages and a noble one it is, leading over elevated ground, and commanding a view of the river Duddon, at high water itself a lake, "having the beautiful and fertile lands of Lancashire and Cumberland stretching away from its margin. In this extensive view, the face of nature is displayed in a wonderful variety of hill and dale, wooded grounds, and buildings; amongst the latter, Broughton Tower, seated on the crown of a hill, rising elegantly from the valley, is an object of extraordinary interest. Fertility on each side is gradually diminished, and lost in the superior heights of Blackcoomb in Cumberland, and the high lands between Kirkby and Ulverstone. The road from Broughton to Seathwaite is on the banks of the Duddon, and on its Lancashire side it is of various elevations. The river is an amusing companion, one while brawling and tumbling over rocky precipices, until the agitated water becomes again calm by arriving at a smoother and less precipitous bed; but its course is soon again ruffled, and the current thrown into every variety of form which the rocky channel of a river can give to water." So far Green, whose eye was ever that of a painter. The middle way deviates on the right about four miles from Broughton, and leads to Seathwaite over some fine hilly ground from Broughton Mills. The most laborious way of the three is over Walna Scar-the way of the present heroes. A fourth is up Tilberthwaite, over Wrynose, and so down Duddon, from near its source. All are good-but ours is the best and there are few grander walks in the North of England. What is the name of that giant? Blakerigg. He seems to have drawn himself up to his full altitude to oppose our progress-but we must turn his flank. Yet his forehead is mild and placidsmooth, seemingly, as that of a small pastoral hill. But what a burly body hath the old chieftain, surnamed Ironsides! Such ribs! a park of artillery would in vain batter in breach there-'twould scarcely smite off a splinter. In what sort of scenery does he set his feet? By and by you shall see-between him and us there is a wide and a deep abyss. We have reached the summit of this long ascent, and you behold Blakerigg in all his majesty-a foreground to Scafell and its Pikes, the highest land in England, softened by some leagues distance, and belonging to another region-another provinceanother kingdom-another world of the sublime. For the intercepting sky sometimes divides the great objects of nature in a mountainous country, into districts so distinct, that they lie without confusion before Imagination's eyes, while of each some mighty creature seems to be by right divine the monarch, and to bear sway in calm or tempest. Let us descend into the gulf profound, till we touch the foot of Blakerigg, and then shall we skirt his kingship all the way to the head of Seathwaite Tarn. We are now in a lonesome region -nor is it easy to imagine a much better place for a murder. But lo! the Tarn. What should you call its character? Why, such a day as this disturbs by delight, and confounds all distinction between the Sublime and Beautiful. These rocky knolls towards the foot of the Tarn, we should say are exquisitely picturesque; and nothing can be supposed more unassuming than their quietude, which is deepened by the repose of that distant height beyond-can it be Blackcoomb? And then how prettily rise out of the Tarn, on the farthest side, those lit. tle islands, under the shadow of the first range of rocks that may be safely called majestic; while the second -as slowly your eyes are venturing up the prodigious terraces-justify the ejaculation-magnificent! Let's strip and have a swim. 'Tis all nonsense about danger in "dookin" when you are hot. Besides we are not hot; for, in disapparelling, the balmy breezes have already fanned our bosoms, till we are cool as leeks. Saw you ever my Lord Arthur Somerset? Here he goes. No bottom here, gents. Where the devil are you? All gone! You have taken advantage of our absence down below for a few minutes, and descended to Seathwaite. Well, we cannot call that handsome behaviour any how; and trust you will lose your way in the wilderness, and find yourselves among the quagmires of the Black Witch. Whew! are you there, ye water-serpents, snoring with your noses towards Ill-Crag! Save us-save us-save us! The cramp-the cramp-the cramp! Gentlemen, we confess that was an indifferent joke-and we return you our best thanks for your alertness in diving to "pull up drowned Honour by the locks." But you seem flustered; so let us land and rig-Mercy on us, what hulks! Now for the Pigeon-Pie. Give us the crown of crust. Behold with what dignity we devour the diadem! A queer pigeon this as one may see on a summer's day-as flat's a pancake. Ho! ho! a beefsteak we perceive-about the breadth of our palm - let us begin by biting off the fingers-and the thumb. Spicy! But, let us remember this is but a lunch. friends, we must beware of dining; And a lunch, recollect, is but a whet. They must be cushats-they must be cushats; and now let us finish the flask. We smell Seathwaite, Below that aerial blue it lies-and were this the Sabbath, we might hear-Fine-ears as we are for all words of peace-the belfry of the old church-tower. We are about to descend into the vale by the access beloved by nature's bard, Here is volume fourth of Wordsworth-and since Jonathan declines "readin' oop," we shall give the passage the benefit of our silver speech. "After all, the traveller would be most gratified who should approach this beautiful stream, neither at its source, as is done in the sonnets, nor from its termination; but from Coniston over Walna Scar; first descending into a little circular valley, a collateral compartment of the long winding vale through which flows the Duddon. This recess, towards the close of September, when the after-grass of the meadows is still of a fresh green, with the leaves of many of the trees faded, but perhaps none fallen, is truly enchanting. At a point elevated enough to shew the various objects in the valley, and not so high as to diminish their importance, the stranger will instinctively halt. On the foreground, a little below the most favourable station, a rude footbridge is thrown over the bed of the noisy brook foaming by the wayside. Russet and craggy hills, of bold and varied outline, surround the level valley, which is besprinkled with grey rocks plumed with birch-trees. A few homesteads are interspersed, in some places peeping out from among the rocks like e hermitages, whose site has been chosen for the benefit of sunshine as well as shelter; in other instances, the dwelling-house, barn, and byre, compose together a cruciform structure, which, with its embowering trees, and the ivy clothing part of the walls and roof like a fleece, call to mind the remains of an ancient abbey. Time, in most cases, and nature every where, have given a sanctity to the humble works of man, that are scattered over this peaceful retirement. Hence a har mony of tone and colour, a perfection and consummation of beauty, which would have been marred had aim or purpose interfered with the course. of convenience, utility, or necessity. This unvitiated region stands in no need of the veil of twilight to soften or disguise its features. As it glistens in the morning sunshine, it would fill the spectator's heart with gladsomeness. Looking from our chosen station, he would feel an impatience to rove among its pathways, to be greeted by the m ilkmaid, to wander from house to house, exchanging 'good-morrows' as he passed the open doors; but, at evening, when the sun is set, and a pearly light gleams from the western quarter of the sky, with an answering light from the smooth surface of the meadows; when the trees are dusky, but each kind still distinguishable; when the cool air has condensed the blue smoke rising from the cottage-chimneys; when the dark mossy stones seem to sleep in the bed of the foaming brook; then, he would be unwilling to move forward, not less from a reluctance to relinquish what he be holds, than from an apprehension of disturbing, by his approach, the quietness beneath him. Issuing from the plain of this valley, the brook descends in a rapid torrent, passing by the churchyard of Seathwaite. The traveller is thus conducted at once into the midst of the wild and beautiful scenery which gave occasion to the sonnets from the 14th to the 20th inclusive. From the point where the Seathwaite Brook joins the Duddon, is a view upwards, into the pass through which the river makes its way into the plain of Donnerdale. The perpendicular rock on the right bears the ancient British name of THE PEN; the one opposite is called WALLOW-BARROW CRAG, a name that occurs in several places to designate rocks of the same character. The chaotic aspect of the scene is well marked by the expression of a stranger, who strolled out while dinner was preparing, and at his return, being asked by his host, 'What way he had been wandering?' plied, 'As far as it is finished!'" But before indulging our own eyes with the Dudden, let us, in view of the very scene thus beautifully painted in "Prose, by a Poet," look at its spirit as it haunts these Sonnets. Theseries-thirty-four-we are told, was the growth of many years. Mr Wordsworth says, he had proceed-. ed insensibly in their composition, " without perceiving that he was trespassing upon ground pre-occupied-at least as far as intention went re -by Mr Coleridge; who, more than twenty years ago, used to speak of writing a rural poem, to be entitled The Brook,' of which he has given a sketch in a recent publication. But a particular subject cannot, I think, much interfere with a general one; and I have been further kept from encroaching upon any right Mr Coleridge may still wish to exercise, by the restriction which the frame of the Sonnet imposed upon me, narrowing unavoidably the range of thought, and precluding, though not without its advantages, many graces to which a freer movement of verse would naturally have led. "May I not venture, then, to hope, that, instead of being a hinderance, by anticipation of any part of the subject, these Sonnets may remind Mr Coleridge of his own more comprehensive design, and induce him to fulfil it? There is a sympathy in streams-one calleth to another;' and I would gladly believe, that 'The Brook' will, er erelong, murmur in concert with 'The Duddon.' But, asking pardon for this fancy, I need not scruple to say, that those verses must indeed be ill-fated which can enter upon such pleasant walks of nature, without receiving and giving inspiration. The power of waters over the minds of Poets has been acknowledged from the earliest ages; -through the Flumina amem sylvasque inglorius' of Virgil, down to the sublime apostrophe to the great rivers of the earth, by Armstrong, and the simple ejaculation of Burns, (chosen, if I recollect right, by Mr Coleridge, as a motto for his embryo 'Brook,') * The Muse nae Poet ever fand her, Till by himsell he learn'd to wander, Adown some trotting burn's meander, And na' think lang." This reminds us of the title of one of Shakspeare's plays-Muchado about Nothing. Mr Coleridge is an original Poet; but there is nothing original in the idea of " a Rural Poem, to be entitled the Brook;" and if there were, it would be hard to deter all other Poets from writing about brooks, and should they do so, to punish them as trespassers on ground pre-occupied" by the Ancient Mariner, " at least as far as intention went, more than twenty years ago." This would be carrying com plaisance to Mr Coleridge, and cruelty to the rest of mankind, too far; and would subject us to transportation for our article " Streams." Were this principle of appropriation and exclusion once admitted, why, an indolent or dreaming man of genius might put an end to poetry, by imagining all kinds of subjects, and annually publishing a list which nobody else was to meddle with, on pain of death. Such tyranny far transcends even our ultra-Toryismand we hereby declare all the rills, rivulets, brooks, streams, and rivers on the globe, free to all the poets and poetasters on its surface or in its bowels. Neither is there any thing at all original-nothing daring-in composing a series of sonnets on the River Duddon. Many a river has been celebrated in song-and there are poems in almost all languages, on particular rivers. The difficulty, indeed, of singing of a stream from source to sea, in one continuous strain, is considerable; and Mr Wordsworth has given it the go-by, in a series of sonnets. This he states-but he puts it on strange grounds. "I have been farther kept from encroaching on any right Mr C. may still wish to exercise, (poo!) by the restriction which the frame of the Sonnet imposed upon me, narrowin unavoidably the range of thought, and precluding, though not without its advantages, many graces to which a freer movement of verse would naturally have led." Fudge! But some hundreds of fine sonnets have been distilled from the pen of Mr Wordsworth; and had he written nothing else an absurd supposition-his fame had been immortal. Some of the most beautiful are to be found in this seriesperfect gems... "I seek the birth-place of a native stream," is a simple line in the first sonnetand these conclude the last "And may thy Poet, cloud-born stream! be free, The sweets of earth contentedly resign'd, And each tumultuous working left behind At seemly distance, to advance like thee, |