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 meridian-let us not "lose and neglect the creeping hours of time," in pottering about on a level with the silly sea-but 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 cliffs-some 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 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 psalms-probably 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 placid-smooth, 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 province-another 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 little 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 anyhow; 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 waterserpents, 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, friends, we must beware of dining; let us remember this is but a lunch. 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 show 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 foot-bridge 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 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, calls to mind the remains of an ancient abbey. Time, in most cases, and nature everywhere, have given a sanctity to the humble works of man, that are scattered over this peaceful retirement. Hence a harmony of tone and colour, a perfection and consummation of beauty, which would have been marred had aim or purpose interfered with the

This unvitiated region

course of convenience, utility, or necessity. 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 milkmaid, 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 beholds, 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?" replied, "As far as it is finished!"

But before indulging our own eyes with the Duddon, 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. The series-thirty-four-we are told, was the growth of many years. Mr Wordsworth says, he had proceeded insensibly in their composition,

without perceiving that he was trespassing upon ground preoccupied —at least as far as intention went 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