ing, and brought to my heart only the salutary conviction, that trouble, though a necessary, is but a transient thing, and that there is wisdom in opening the heart to the gracious influences of happiness, even when stealing upon us in the midst of images of sadness and sorrow.

I felt half-inclined to pass all the still morning hours in this little churchyard, so sadly beautiful in itself, and from which there is seen in the distance so much of a cheerful loveliness. For, from this eminence are discerned rich openings of the valley, on one of whose acclivities the village stands the tops of groves here and there islanded, as it were, in the azure atmosphere-mounts wrapt in a glittering mantle of coppice-wood-the first bright smile of the waters of Windermere, and far off the blue summits of a hundred hills. But a fresh and balmy southern breeze came suddenly up from the lake; and, as I left the church-yard of Ambleside, it seemed to waft me along, almost without an effort, up the heights of Kirkstone. In one little hour I was in utter solitude-the stony road winds, like a serpent, up nearly to the top of the mountain, leaving behind it, first cottage, then hut, and then sheepfold, till, having reached its utmost altitude, it stretches, for a while, along a level between overhanging cliffs, and then plunges down again into a long, deep, and narrow abyss. I can well imagine that this pass must be truly awful in a misty and howling storm-but on this pure and gentle morning, its character was that only of utter loneliness, profound solemnity, and a majestic calm. There was hardly a sound in the desart, for the stream below had shrunk before the long summer-drought, and was only heard at times when forming some feeble cascade. High up among the cliffs now and then arose the bleat of a lamb, which, in such situations, is almost as shrill as a bird's cry-and once and once only that fierce, sullen, and murderous carrion, the raven, croaked with a hollow voice that filled all the glen, and then sailed away, like a demon, into the solitude of his own cove. This silence of which I speak has sometimes made the solitude of nature to me almost insupportable. The soul wishes at last for some relief from the weight of stillness with which it is overwhelmed-for never does the

awful conviction of our perishable being so take possession of our thoughts as when time seems floating onwards even with folded wings, and when, amidst the motionless magnificence of nature, we know that we are yet hastening to our graves.

Suddenly, when I had reached the bottom of this descent, a little lake, that had hitherto lain invisible in its pellucid beauty, rippled and just rippled at my feet. This lake, properly called Broader-water, is known to the natives by the name of Brothers-water, according to one of those beautiful fictions created in all countries by the affections and the passions of the human heart; for here tradition tells that three loving brothers were drowned. After sating my eyes with its clear coolness, I turned to look at the mountains in which the stream that feeds this little lake has its source, and in a moment I resolved to ascend into their highest recesses. But before I reached the foot of an almost unscaleable precipice (called, I believe, Dove-Crag), I walked along a stream shaded with alder and birch trees, up a sweet solitary valley (Hartop), that has a char acter entirely peculiar to itself. One house only stands at the head of this valley-an old hall, with a sheltering grove of sycamore trees, old as itself. This is a spot that seems strong in its eternal seclusion-for the mountains behind-the lake terminating the valley

and the wild pass that leads the traveller by-all for ever guard yonder solitary mansion in the unbroken quiet of past years. I then ascended the torrent, the source of which is at least 1500 feet above the lake. Pool after pool seems to meet you on your ascent

clear and deep, in which I could see the fishes lying motionless, or darting away like arrows, when my feet shook the bank, or my shadow fell upon the water. Sometimes a tall graceful birchtree stood beside one of these little waterfalls-while over the dripping rock often hung, like a gorgeous pall, rich masses of moss of a thousand dies. When near the summit of the mountain, I met an old shepherd, who had, I found, left Hartophall before I had left Ambleside.This little circumstance spoke forcibly of the pastoral life. His business was even more sleepless than my pleasure; and the lonely house that I had suppos ed asleep, with all its inmates, had,

even on the Sabbath morning, sent out its careful shepherd, before sunrise, to the mountains.

At length I stood on the summit of the mountain, and looked down into another long, wide, deep, houseless glen, from whose abyss, braided clouds, softer and fairer than snow, were ascending with motion scarcely perceptible; while here and there flashed upwards the scintillating radiance of a stream, whose course was for the most part hidden by overhanging rocks, or by banks of the brightest verdure. Nothing can be more inspiriting and rousing, than the sudden change of prospect when one has toiled up a lofty hill. A range of earth, and cloud, and sky, seems to lie between and to separate two worlds. The mind is drawn down, as if by the power of physical attraction, into the newly discovered depth-a fresh train of thoughts and feelings is at once created, and the journey just past would almost seem as if it had been performed the day before, so bright does even time itself shine, when it dawns over the beauty of a new landscape suddenly revealed.

I descended into this magnificent scene, which is called " Rydal Cove," and walked along the stream for nearly an hour, till I saw, close at hand, the majestic oak-woods of Rydal Park, I first came upon the green mossy stumps of trees; some, through age, utterly decayed, and others that had fallen beneath the inexorable axe. As I advanced, the outskirts of the still standing oak forest were graced by alder and birch trees, numerous in this country-and ere I found myself in the stately park, the stream had assumed a corresponding character, widening into deep black pools, and overshadowed by rocks whose fantastic beauty sometimes approached to grandeur. By this time the sun rode high in heaven, but it was yet morning, and its calm still hung over the woods. Now and then the powerful voice of the stock-dove filled the wide mountain-groves with a deeper weight of loneliness-still carrying with it, wherever it moved, the very soul of solitude, and making that spot where it rested the centre of silence and seclusion. At length I heard the sound of a fall of waters, and looked down a noble cataract into a deep circular basin, surrounded and overshadowed by

all kinds of forest trees. The effect was electrical. When a nountain torrent is in flood, it is all one roaring tumbling cataract; and then one waterfall is distinguished from another only by louder thunder and a wilder tumult. But now the stream was low, and it might almost have been said, that the "Little Naiad wept her impoverished urn." A waterfall, in that case, comes dashing on the ear with a startling din its misty spray seems to freshen all the scenery around it-the dreamlike repose of the rivulet above the descent is at once broken by the roar― and the rush of waters at once fills the mind with a feeling of animated delight and bounding vivacity. The stream soon became still more beautiful-gliding along through majestic trees, that flung their arms across it-enclosing and forming little verdant glades, fit to be the haunts of Titania herself, and all her brightest Fays. It so happened, that this fine wood scenery had an accompaniment of singular beauty. The late noble lady of Rydal Hall had been, I understand, of rare humanity towards the creatures of inferior nature; and her daughter, the young Lady Le Fleming possessed the same amiable heart. It had been the delight of the Lady Diana to rear a vast number of that gorgeous bird, the pea-fowl, and they now sat, in great numbers, on the branches of the old trees, or walked up and down beneath their canopy in all the pomp of their colours. This bird, which looks, unless when its pride is expanded, tame and awkward in a court-yard, is, be yond belief, majestic in forest scenery. As they sat on the mossy fantastic boughs, with their long tail-feathers depending far down-with their slim and graceful necks of changeful radiance constantly moving-and with their delicate crests and glancing eyes,

I could have imagined them natives of wild and untrodden woods, where no wandering man had ever before stopt to admire their beauty. Some of these creatures, too, there were of snowy white-which, so contrary to the dazzling splendour of their companions, pleased by its extreme delicacy and silver purity. As occasionally one of those princely birds gave a wild cry from the top of an oak or an elm tree, it thrilled through the heart of all the wood, and seemed to me to awaken feelings of a stately solitude, encir

There was, however, nothing of vulgar pride in all this, although perhaps it might have seemed so, in an ordinary person. It was the dignity of a mind habitually conversant with high and abstracted thoughts-and unable to divest itself wholly, even in common hours, of the stateliness inspired by the loftiest studies of humanity. No wonder if at first I felt somewhat abashed before such a man-especially when the solemnity of his manner was rendered more striking by the mild simplicity of his wife, and the affectionate earnestness of his sister. But I soon saw how finely characteristic all this was of the man. By degrees he became more lively and carelessand he shewed his politeness towards me his guest and a stranger, by a number of familiar and playful remarks addressed to the members of his own family. I could not help feeling that there was something extremely delicate in this. Often have I been oppressed and almost disgusted with the attention heaped and forced upon me because a stranger, to the utter neglect and seeming forgetfulness of the master of the house towards his own family. But here the kind affections continued in full play-I did not act as a dam to stop the current of domestic enjoyment-and when I saw Mr Wordsworth so kind, so attentive, and so affectionate, to his own happy family, I felt assured that the sunshine of his heart would not fail also to visit me, and that he was disposed to think well of a man before whom he thus freely indulged the best feelings of his human nature.

The features of Wordsworth's face are strong and high, almost harsh and severe and his eyes have, when he is silent, a dim, thoughtful, I had nearly said melancholy expression so that when a smile takes possession of his countenance, it is indeed the most powerful smile I ever saw-gives a new character to the whole man, and renders him, who before seemed rather a being for us to respect and venerate, an object to win our love and affection. Smiles are, assuredly, not the abiding light on that grand countenance; but at times they pass finely over it, like playful sunbeams chasing each other over the features of some stern and solemn scene of external nature, that seems willingly to yield it self for a while to the illumination.

Never saw I a countenance in which CONTEMPLATION so reigns. His brow is very lofty-and his dark brown hair seems worn away, as it were, by thought, so thinly is it spread over his temples. The colour of his face is almost sallow; but it is not the sallowness of confinement or ill health, it speaks rather of the rude and boisterous greeting of the mountain-weather. He does not seem a recluse philosopher, who pores over the midnight oil in his study; but rather a hermit who converses with nature in his silent cell, whose food is roots and herbs, and whose drink is from

"Wherever fountain or fresh current flowed Against the eastern ray, translucent pure, With touch ethereal of Heaven's fiery rod." I at once beheld, in his calm and confident voice-his stedfast and untroubled eyes-the serene expansion of his forehead-and the settled dignity of his demeanour-that original poet, who, in an age of poetry, has walked alone through a world almost exclusively his own, and who has cleared out for himself, by his own labour, a wide and magnificent path through the solitary forests of the human imagination.

After breakfast I accompanied Mr Wordsworth and his family to Grassmere Church, distant about two miles from Rydal Mount; and as we walked along, it was delightful to observe with what mingled respect and familiarity our group was saluted by all the peasants. I have not been able to observe any love of poetry among the lower orders of the people here, as in many parts of our own Germany; but the influence of a great man's character is felt in his neighbourhood, even by those who are either wholly ignorant, or but imperfectly aware of its nature; and besides, Wordsworth, during his long life of study, has been a frequent visitor in all the cottages round; and I remarked in particular, that the old men, as they passed by, addressed him with an air of reverence, inspired no doubt by the power and wisdom of his conversation, and also by the benevolence and charities of his life. As we walked along towards the simple house of God, occasionally talking cheerfully with the shepherds and their families, I almost forgot the poet in the man-the great, if not lost, was absorbed, as it were, in the

good; and I less envied William Wordsworth his glory as a prevailing poet, than his happiness as a philanthropist and a Christian.

I was greatly charmed with divine service as it was performed in the church of Grassmere. The congregation were most attentive and devout, and took part in the solemn ordinances of religion with a staid and sober fervour alike remote from enthusiasm and indifference-while the young priest who officiated, son of the rector of the parish, and who had received a classical education at Oxford, read the service with much feeling and simplicity. There seemed around me neither vice, ignorance, poverty, nor unhappiness at least, the sanctity of the place prevailed for a while over them all; and when the choir of young maidens and boys breathed forth its music, I thought that I had never heard the praises of God sung with one united soul of so much innocence, purity, and devotion. When I looked around upon so many young and beautiful-upon so many old and venerable faces-all happy and tranquil in the holy business of the day I could not but think of the calm which such a day must carry forwards into all the coming week; and the Sabbath seemed to me, like a sacred fountain from which the regular hand of religion removes the seal, that the fresh-gushing waters of comfort may for ever continue to overflow the land.

After divine service Mr Wordsworth's family returned home, while he proposed to conduct me into a neighbouring valley, named Easdale, that had long been one of his favour ite haunts. This valley lies immediately behind the wooded shoulder of a hill that forms the north-west boundary of Grassmere, and I found it indeed worthy of the poet's love. Till we reached a waterfall, about a mile up the valley, it was wooded and cultivated; but it afterwards became wild and sterile, and our journey terminated at a small lake or tarn of deepest solitude, and in great part surrounded' with lofty rocks. Here, Wordsworth informed me, that he had meditated, and even composed, much of his poetry; and certainly there could not be a fitter study for a spirit like his, that loves to brood, with an intensity of passion, on those images of nature which his imagination brings from afar and moulds into the forms of life.

It was in this naked solitude that many of the richest and loftiest passages of the "Excursion" were composed. I now walked with the poet himself through the scene of his inspiration; and when I looked at the bare rocks, the dim tarn, and the silent precipices, I thought, what is nature without the poet's soul to illuminate it? and what is our love of nature, unless refined and elevated by the true feeling of its poetry?

Wordsworth spoke to me, for he saw that I desired it, of poetry-and he seemed to me, as he spoke, like an inspired man. Though his language was far beyond the pitch of conversation, yet it was neither pedantic_nor high-flown; for it rolled out as from a soul filled with ideas and images, and his voice and manner kindled into an enthusiasm which they soon communicated. His speech was continuous as the flow of a free torrent, that seems to meet with no impediments but those of its own seeking, and such as it delights to overcome. It was evident, that poetry was the element in which he lived, and breathed, and had his being. Other poets, at least all I have ever known, are poets but on occasions-Wordsworth's profession is that of a poet; and therefore when he speaks of poetry, he speaks of the things most familiar, and, at the same time, most holy to his heart. For twenty years has he lived in this grand country, and there devoted his whole soul to his divine art. When he speaks most earnestly, it may almost be said that he soliloquizes; for he seems to obey strong internal impulses of thought, and the presence of the person to whom he speaks serves merely to give his eloquence something of a didactic character; yet rarely, if ever, does he become mystical. Indeed, nothing surprised me so much in this great poet, as his strong sense and strict logic-with which the very highest imagination, and the deepest passion, were united in a way that I have never seen exemplified in the conversation of any other man.

I soon saw that he applied to all kinds of poetry the very highest standard-that he was intolerant of all compositions that had not a lofty aim, and that the poetry of action was in his eyes unworthy of being thought of in comparison with that of contemplation. He seemed to venerate some of the mighty masters of old with such