I seen human life in low estate, without something allied to degradation. But I now beheld before me the free children of the soil, and I could not but admire the sons and daughters of liberty. There was nothing like servitude to be seen among them. I could not tell whether the young maidens were or were not daughters of the family; all seemed to perform the same household work in those calm evenings which I passed silently among them; and every thing went on as if one kind spirit of love and happiness insensibly filled all hearts with one purpose. Of these interesting people I have since seen much; but I dare not yet venture to speak of the habits, manners, customs, and feelings, of a race so unlike any other I have beheld, and whom it requires to study thoughtfully before it is possible for a stranger to understand them. How should I dare to describe their character, till I have seen into the soul of their lonely, their adventurous, and most peculiar life? A shepherd's year is one of many seasons!

It was the land of lakes through which I was a pilgrim. Yet I know not how it happened, that, during the first days I saw no lakes that had power to detain me on their shores. I had passed some years of my boyhood on the sea-shore; and as I walked by the edge of these calm sheets of water, I seemed to long for the hollow murmurs of the ocean, and felt the want of that awful sound. But it was the mountains that, when I was yet at a distance from them, wholly filled my imagination. The deep blackness that separated one mighty mass from another the topmost crags that shot into the sky's heart-the sudden illuminations that burned on the cliffs till the whole side of a hill would seem on fire the clouds that coursed not along the sky, but up the glens, and cleaving to the mountains half-way down, sometimes with amazing velocity flying past in detached and broken fragments, and sometimes coming on with a majestic slowness in deep processional masses, as if from an immense distance and then, the sounds of the desert at times even terrible these were the things that followed me, and that I followed-there was a sort of rolling-a swell in my soul that I wished not to subside, and in that mood I think I should have turned VOL. IV.

away from the level expanse of a lake, however beautiful or majestic, as from a scene too peaceful for the tumultuous state of my senses and imagination.

In this wild mood I traversed many of the mountain glens of Westmorland and Cumberland; and I was fortunate enough to enjoy every kind of weather, from the stillest and brightest sunshine to the most loud and stormy darkness. Now that I have become somewhat familiar with the "local habitations and the names,” I cannot but admire the many wayward routes which, in all the glorious delight of ignorance, I find that I have occasionally followed. One very stormy day, I left the village of Patterdale (a hamlet surrounded by huge mountains at the head of a lake called Ullswater); and, ascending a steep wild pass through the hills that hang over the little inn, came at last by the edge of frightful precipices to the very summit of Helvyn. I then may say, that I flew before a strong-rushing wind along the smooth brink of a succession of semicircular basins of vast depth, in some of which lay black sullen pools, till I descended the shoulder of a huge mountain upon the old oak woods and the ancient Hall of Rydal. I then crossed the valley through which the high road runs from Kendal to Keswick, and, ascending Loughrig Fells (I have a pleasure in writing these names), came out of the enveloping mist in the long and solemn valley called Langdale: having traced that valley to its head, I bore on across the opposing precipices, and after two hours' walk in a savage solitude, my course was blocked up by an enormous mountain (the Great Gabel); so, wheeling to the right, I soon descended into Borrowdale, a vale filled with rocks, woods, promontories, and even mountains, and certainly not to be surpassed by any scene on earth for beauty mixed with grandeur-wildness with cultivation-and profound seclusion sometimes widening out into such a sweeping magnificence, that it would seem a fitter site for palaces than cottages, for cities than for hamlets;-then espying through the opening storm a wild staircase in a mountain to the left, I toiled up its steps against the hurricane, and, descending its long, dreary, melancholy vale, by the side of a stream rolling over a bed of blue slate, just as the 3 E

evening closed in, I reached a small inn on the banks of Buttermere, having been without one hour's rest, hurrying on through the storm from sunrise to sunset, and having travelled nearly fifty miles, through all possible varieties of mountain scenery.

Next morning, by sunrise, I left the valley, in which lie separated from each other, by some smiling meadows, the lakes of Buttermere and Cromack. Water, and passing a singular cataract in a roaring cleft between two high perpendicular rocks, I followed a green and wide pass, till I came to the top of a mountain hanging over the lake of Ennerdale, whose shores stretch away in Arcadian beauty, till it melts into a noble vale extending to the sea. Instead of pacing the level banks of this lake, I penetrated the misty mass of mountains at its head, and, after long bewilderment, came suddenly down upon the head of Wastdale, in whose profound and silent depth-for the wind had wholly ceased-lay a cluster of cottages embowered in trees, and close to them a little building, scarcely larger than a cottage, but which I discovered from its shape to be a chapel. This is the most solitary place I ever beheld; and what makes the solitude more affecting is, that it has, and seems long to have had, its own small population. The few houses it contains are old, but not ruinous ash trees of immense age overshadow them-and all around them are the remains of woods long ago decayed, and some solitary yew-trees, within whose wreathed trunks centuries seem to be enclosed, and that give to this still pastoral scene something of an indefinite and mysterious solemnity. Methought I could have lived here for ever!-transient thought! I soon left this solitary hamlet, and, pausing on the top of a hill, gave it a farewell glance; and then, crossing a long moor, and its own dreary lake (Barnmoor-Tarn), I descended into a vale of a character altogether opposite to that of Wastdale,-a long narrow vale, smiling with cultivated fields -watered by a rivulet, that, though much swollen, was still translucent, and, along all its course, beautifully `shaded with trees. Never saw I such fair cottages as in this valley-all seemed cheerful serenity, and placid enjoyment; and if two hours ago I

wished to be a hermit in the severe sojourn of that other profounder glen, it was here that I almost thought, "That lowly shepherd's life was best,"

and could have pitched my tent in this bright and warbling solitude. But the sweet cottages and green mounds of Eskdale soon faded behind me; as I ascended a steep mountain, which I believe is called Hardknot, the mists again encircled me in darkness, and I saw nothing for two hours but black crags, or foamy waterfalls, till the gentle hours of evening again stole over the earth, and I continued walking on through a succession of meadows, coppice-woods, and rocky heaths, till a brighter smile of verdure all round me, and more frequent cottages, and a widened rivulet, warned me that some village was near, and just as the rooks were gathering for the night on a lofty row of pine trees, I entered Ambleside, a romantic village, situated on the slope of a hill, crowned by its white church-tower, and commanding the view of a noble valley, which terminates in the lake of Windermere.

I

If ever, my dear P., you visit this enchanted land, endeavour to make your way through the mountains in the track I have now described. have sketched these two days' walk very slightly and generally; but he who has traversed this mountainous region, has assuredly seen specimens of the finest things the country contains.-Yours ever.

LETTER II.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

I HAVE now been a fortnight at Ambleside, and have studied with enthu siastic love, the character of nature, as she is displayed in the enchanted circle of which that sweet village may be considered as the centre. Wherever a man happens to be, indeed, he is apt to feel that all things gather, as it were, round himself-and even though there be no such combination of objects in reality, they seem all to diverge from his place of abode in imagination. But Ambleside is a central situation,-and each day has presented me with a fresh vision of beauty and magnifi

cence. I am not, however, now going to describe inanimate nature-and, perhaps, you will not be displeased to find my former letter, that expressed only vague and indefinite first impressions, followed by one that speaks to you of illustrious living men. I know your admiration of the modern poetry of England, and you will read with interest any information concerning those men of genius, whose works we have often read together, and of whose personal character we have insensibly formed to ourselves a dim and shadowy picture. I have been so fortunate as not only to have seen Southey and Wordsworth, but to have seen them beneath their own roofs, and to have heard them, with perfect freedom, and a noble simplicity, deliver their opinions both on things, on books, and on men. I hope that I know too well what is due to the sanctity of the domestic life of men of genius and virtue, to utter one idle word about that bright scene of happiness which I was permitted, though a stranger and unknown, to behold and to enjoy but to you who, like myself, regard these men at once as the most original of poets, and the most patriotic of citizens, I may be allowed to communicate something of what I felt in their presence, and to tell you something of Southey and Wordsworth as human beings, accustomed as we have both hitherto been to think of them only as creative spirits in the world of inspiration.

My first, and indeed only, interview with Mr Southey was purely accidental. I had strolled into a nurserygarden, close to the small town of Keswick, and found myself at the door of a gentleman's house, on whose privacy I felt that I might seem to the inmates to have somewhat rudely intruded. On retiring from the front of the mansion, I met a gentleman, to whom I apologised for my seeming intrusion; and being received with a singular courtesy, I found myself sitting in an elegant little parlour, with my unknown host, a lady, who I saw was his wife, and two very beautiful children. I know not how it was, but all at once I felt assured that I was in the house of Robert Southey. There reigned in the mansion so still, and yet so cheerful, an air of serenity-there was such a total absence of any professional air about its master, and, at

the same time, something so much more elegant and scholar-like in his demeanour than I had ever seen in any English country-gentleman merely, that before I perceived in him any of the distinctive traits of the poet, or heard him say any thing at all extraordinary, I ventured to hint, that I suspected the intellectual rank of the man in whose presence I had the honour to sit. When I found that it was indeed the great author of Thalaba and Madoc, I could not but feel no small portion of awe-a feeling due from me, who had only the devout love of genius, to him who was so richly gifted with the heavenly flame itself-and who occupied so high a place in the literature of a great nation. Mr Southey allowed me, with frank and unaffected good-nature, to express my sense of the honour I enjoyed, and then changed the conversation with some lively remarks on the weather, which was oppressively hot; and, unless I am greatly mistaken, he uttered two of those little witticisms called puns. There was indeed something short and epigrammatic in his talk, and I felt rather puzzled how to take my share in the conversation; for I could not think of shewing off as a facetious person before a great poet, on my very first interview with him; and yet I saw that gravity, and, still more, any formal discussion, would be most absurd and out of place with a man, who, though eminent for genius, talents, and learning, had all the simplicity, I had almost said the playfulness-though that would be too strong a word-of a child. I soon felt myself perfectly at ease; for there was no affectation in this lively and happy carelessness of mind, evidently unbending itself with pleasure in the bosom of a beautiful family, from those severe and higher studies which have raised his name among the immortals; and e'er an hour elapsed, I was absolutely exchanging repartees with the poet; and on one occasion I thought his smile admitted, that I had said a tolerably good thing. During all this time, I was, in spite of myself, acting in the character of a well-intentioned spy, and had a fair opportunity of beholding the personal appearance and manners of this celebrated man. His figure is rather tall and slim, but apparently muscular, and has altogether an air of gentility

about it. He has nothing whatever about him of the stiffness or awkwardness of a great student; but, on the contrary, were he a mere ordinary person, I should describe him as a genteel-looking man, possessing much natural elegance, or even grace. But his head and countenance bespeak the poet. His hair is black, and bushy, and strong, and gives him a bold, free, and even dignified look-his face is sharp-his nose high-and his eyes, without having that piercing look which is often felt to be disagreeable, because too searching in the eyes of men of genius, are, without any exception, the most acute and intelligent I ever beheld. Yet I believe he is near-sighted; and this seems to have given him a habit of elevating his face when he speaks, as if he were looking up, which brings all his features fully before you, and seemed to me to impart to his whole demeanour a singular charm of sincerity and independence. His voice seemed to me at first to be shrill and weak, and perhaps it is so; but there is in it a kind of musical wildness, which I could not help considering to be characteristic of the author of Thalaba; and when he chanced to recite a few lines of poetry, it became quite empassioned.

After tea, during which happy meal I saw, in a thousand little circumstances not to be misunderstood, the amiable heart of that poet who has excelled all his contemporaries in the delineation of domestic blessedness, he led me into his study. Fit study for a poet! On first entering it, I almost felt as if I had stepped out into the calm evening air. One softened blaze of beauty burst upon my eyes. The windows commanded an entire view of two noble lakes-Derwentwater and Bassenthwaite, and of a richlywooded valley, by which they are separated from each other, and yet bound together by a river that covers it with fertility and verdure. Vast ranges of mountains terminated the prospect at the head of the higher lake, while the blue waters of Bassenthwaite seemed to die away in the skies. I gazed on the transcendent landscape, and then on the poet-so worthy of each other. His face seemed kindling with pride-when he said that he considered these lakes as his own-that he had lived twenty years on their banks-and would probably die

there. He pointed out to me some of the objects which he thought most characteristic of the scene before us; and then, with great simplicity, said, "You have now been reading the great book of Nature-here are the volumes of men!" I saw one of the noblest private libraries in Englandcertainly the richest of any in Spanish and Portuguese literature. It seemed to me, that Mr Southey's air and manner insensibly changed "from lively to severe," as we sat together surrounded by that magnificent collection of books which his intellectual power had enabled him to purchase, his learning to select, and his genius to enjoy. I saw that his soul was there that this was the room in which he had composed his noble poems, his learned histories, his beautiful illustrations of antiquity, his Essays so lively and so original-the vast mass of his miscellaneous literature-and that here he was yet meditating future works for the benefit of mankind, and for the glory of his own imperishable name. It seemed indeed a magnificent seclusion-haunted by all high and noble fancies, and presided over by genius and virtue. I had seen before splendid libraries in cities, belonging to universities and corporations of learned men-in whose dim galleries, and retired cells, students explore the treasures of the wisdom of past ages,-noble institutions, founded and endowed, perhaps, by the bequests of some rich and liberalminded citizen, or noble, or king; but here was a vast treasure of books, piled together in the majestic silence of solitude, and existing, too, for the use of one solitary intellect, who, far removed from the noise of busy life, had, from his youth up, been self-devoted to the great cause of truth, and now sat surrounded and inspired by the spirits of the mighty men of old; while his dwelling was overshadowed by the grandeur of nature. Calm and lofty happiness reigned over all the poet's house; but it was in this "sanctum sanctorum" that I felt the concentration of all the rays of his character. A beautiful arrangement prevailed in this library. The massy folios seemed to know that they stood not there for shew alone ; and when that illustrious man, in the course of conversation, took down a volume from its shelf, he turned over

the leaves with an assured hand and eye, as if the contents of every page were familiar to him, and the whole mighty force around him at once disposable, and all ready marshalled in known array. It seemed to me the very temple of knowledge-in whose pure air error, falsehood, or prejudice, could not bear to live.

You may guess with what feelings I bade farewell to such a man and such a scene. Before we parted, he not only requested me to visit him on my return to Keswick, but gave me a note to the celebrated Wordsworth, of whom he spoke as the greatest poet since the days of Shakspeare, and of whose personal character he seemed impressed with the profoundest veneration. Of that extraordinary personcertainly the most original genius of his day, at least of his country (for we must not yield our Goëthe)-I shall endeavour to speak in my next Letter. It was at sunset that I left Mr Southey; and finding the inn of Keswick crowded with parties of travellers, each in its own way seeking to enjoy the beauties of this fine region, I walked back to Ambleside, distant nearly sixteen miles, which I reached about midnight. It was a bright moonlight; and the profound repose of the mighty mountains, along whose bases my walk lay, was most conge nial with the lofty enthusiasm which had been kindled in my mind, by my too fleeting intercourse with a great and pure intellect. Now I proceeded in dark and deep shadow, as the road descended into some dell, formed by fantastic precipices; and now I could almost have thought it daylight, when the moonshine steeped my path over some rising mount, beautifully crested with the light-tressed birch-trees. The few cottages that I past on the road-side, were all quiet as the rocks that sheltered them; and nothing crossed my path, during that long still journey, but now and then a sheep starting from its slumber, as my footsteps approached its bed of fern. Several lakes, which I had scarcely seen the day before, owing to the rain and mist, now smiled upon me with unexpected beauty-here and there, in some quiet bay, reflecting a large bright star, or streamered with a long trembling line of moonlight. Thoughts and feelings arose of themselves, without any voluntary effort; and all glid

ed through my mind with the uninterrupted pleasure of a dream.

Many of my thoughts, you may be assured, were of Southey, his character, and his life. Thine, I exclaimed to myself, is a specimen of genuine glory! Thine is true power-legiti mate dominion.

Day succeeds day, and with him the tide of happiness is ever on the flow. He sees before him a series of duties which high intellect alone can perform-and every morning he addresses himself to the high task of his calling. Should human afflictions assail himand I was not ignorant that God had removed from him a boy of singular promise there was a strength of comfort in all his high studies to dignify distress and to that was, in his case, happily added the illumination of religious faith. This man does not achieve great things by sudden fits of strength and of passion, as is sometimes seen with poets who are lifted above ordinary life only by a shortlived and uncertain inspiration. He is at all times master of himself and of all his faculties, and possesses, beyond, perhaps, any man that ever lived, the power of turning himself at will from one subject to another, however different they may be, nay even hostile in nature. I could not but with wonder hear him say, that he proceeded in the composition of all his long poems-some of them, you know, so wild in their scheme and structure

with the utmost regularity-composing a certain portion every day— nay, even at stated hours.

His whole time was subdivided, he said, into distinct duties and tasksand when the work of one hour was performed, he felt himself always ready for the new labour and delight of the next. Happy and enviable discipline of a great mind! What wonderful things may not this man, yet in the prime of his life, who has already done more than any other literary man in Europe, yet live to achieve.

Such were some of the thoughts that occupied my mind on my solitary night walk. And yet, strange to say, this man has been for many years the object of calumny and hatred to a body of writers who cannot endure the triumph of his genius, and to whom the odours of his pure name come like gales of Paradise to the evil spirits banished for ever from its