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nest rustic was seated on a bench, placed in the best situation for the view, under the shade of an ash; and there could be no doubt that he had come to this seat of his in order to enjoy that view. After the usual salutations, we said something about the fine prospect; but, to our great surprise, he would not allow that there was much beauty in it, and said he knew we had seen much finer pros pects than that. It appeared evident that he was ashamed to admire, as if he had never been out of his village, by the same sort of affectation which would have made a citizen pretend raptures, that he might not be supposed insensible to the beauties of the country;-affected people being always the reverse of what they endeavour to appear, give, without intending it, the key of their true dispositions.

Oct. 6.-We went yesterday to Coniston water with our friends, and their friends, on foot, on horseback, and in a cart, by roads impracticable in any other way; first along the Bruthy, a mountain stream; then up the ridge which separates the valley of Langdale and the one filled by Coniston water. From the top of it, we saw this fine piece of water below us, deep set in a frame of black mountains, pressing round its head. The banks, however, we found well inhabited and cultivated; and were shewn the house of the parents of a young lady lately dead (Miss E. Smith), who has since become so justly celebrated, by the proofs she left behind her of an erudition uncommon for her age and her sex. and her sex. This family were formerly proprietors of Piercefield on the Wye, described in this Journal.

The best mounted of the party pushed on to the other extremity of the lake, seven miles further,

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which is merely pretty. All lakes begin among mountains, and end in a plain. plain. Here, therefore, on our return, we had the stupendous rampart round the head of the lake full in sight the whole way, towering over such headlands, or rocks, or trees, as crossed our road occasionally, and at other times rising from the bosom of the lake itself, in hazy greatness. After dining at a comfortable little inn in the village of Coniston, we ascended, on foot, the mountain behind, along a rapid little stream, tumbling down its rocky bed as clear as possible. Trees fringed its immediate banks, beyond which, above, all was sheep pasture and rock. When we reached the top, the sun had been set some time, and the sky, fine all day, had clouded over. A fall of water terminated the ascent, and we found ourselves at the entrance of a little plain, a mere landing-place, whence the mountains, taking a bolder flight, rose all round to the very clouds, shewing here and there only a craggy pinnacle of shivering rocks. The whole scene equalled in dreary grandeur any we had seen in Scotland. Turning round, the lake was below reflecting a placid light;-green fields, and white houses, and tufts of trees along its banks, all harmonized in indistinctness, formed a scene of loveliness, perfectly contrasted with the wild sublimity above.

On our return, we recognized immediately the spot of a view of Coniston, in Middleman's landscapes, with some soldiers and their wives by the side of the road, and a few tall Scotch pines. It is just behind the inn at the head of the lake.

Oct. 10.-Grasmere is the nearest lake to Windermere, an hour's walk across the hill, but much more by the road. It is a little pool surrounded

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by mountains nearly equal in height, sloping everywhere to the water's edge. The declivities, covered with crumbling fragments, show neither rock nor soil, and exhibit only litter and poverty. This at least applies to the side I first saw coming from Windermere, across the hill. Approaching Grasmere by the road, the retrospect was more wooded. Mr Wordsworth, who lives on Grasmere, was so obliging as to show us some of its beauties;-some very wild spots round its north extremity. A small piece of land, of twenty acres, in his neighbourhood, had been sold lately for L. 1500, a price certainly out of all proportion to its produce.

We were shown in the valley north west of Grasmere, a lone cottage, inhabited last winter by a peasant of the name of Green, his wife, and nine children. The father and mother had gone to a cattle fair in Langdale, separated from their vale by a mountain. There was a fall of snow. The evening came on, and they did not return. The youngest child was only a few months old, the eldest a girl about ten years old; she took care to feed the baby with a little milk which happened to be in the house. The next day she procured from a neighbouring farm some more milk. The father and mother not yet returned, another night passed in the same manner. The following day, the little girl going again for her supply of milk, was questioned, her situation discovered, and strong suspicions of the accident. The alarm spreading in the valley, fifty people set out to explore the hill, and soon discovered the bodies. It appears, that, having lost the track, the unfortunate couple had wandered higher up in the mountain; that the husband had fallen from a rock, and from appearances had died by the fall. The woman,

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warned by the fall, had reached the bottom of the rock by a circuitous way, and groped about for him a great while, the snow being all trodden down. She had lost her shoes, which were found in different places; and falling at last from fatigue and cold, died probably the easy death ordinary in such cases. Some persons thought afterwards they recollected having heard distant screams in the mountain during the storm, but they did not suspect the cause; nor, if they had, would they probably have been in time to give assistance. The bodies, followed by all the inhabitants of the valley, and by the nine orphans, were buried in the same grave. The latter have since been adopted, or at least taken care of by the people of the neighbourhood.

Some years before this, a sportsman perished in these mountains, in a manner still more tragical. A dog had been observed coming from time to time to the houses of the valley, and, after obtaining some food, returning to the mountains. He was at last followed, and the body of his master dis covered. He had, it seems, dislocated his foot, and, unable to move, had died of hunger and pain, and his faithful dog had ever since watched by his remains.

Oct. 11.-To Keswick, or Derwentwater, 16 miles. The first view on the left, as you approach it from Windermere, is by far the most striking of any we have seen in the course of our excursion; quite a finished composition. High clefts on either side of the lake, of nearly perpendicular rocks, broken, and woody, and varied with bold projections and bays; the nearer shore covered with lofty groves of trees,-the farthest penetrating into a sanctuary of mountains, the wildest, the softest,

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the most aërial of any of those romantic hoods which shade the heads of all the English lakes. Towards the evening of a fine day, the oblique rays of the sun throw over this jumble of fanciful forms their misty veil of golden and purple vapours, in endless changes. There is just a sufficient extent of water to set off the mountains, and mountains enough to give dignity to the lake; nothing to be wished otherwise than it is. On the right you have huge Skiddaw close at hand, and before you the lake of Bassenthwaite, at two or three miles distance, with a rich plain between.

Pursuing the narrow road (along the eastern margin of the lake,) at the foot of the high cleft, from which enormous blocks roll frequently over into the water, we advanced towards the magnificent termination just described; the softness of distance changing by degrees into asperity and ruggedness. On our way we saw the Fall of Lowdore, in a woody recess; its bed, a steep ascent of. stones of about 200 feet, was nearly dry, and the stones much too rounded and uniform for beauty. The cheeks of the rock on each side are finely broken, and well clothed with trees. It must be, when full, a very grand object. At the head of the lake we entered a pass, not unlike the Trosachs at Loch Katrine; it leads to the Vale of Borrowdale. About one mile from the entrance you come to a huge fragment of rock, called the Bowder-Stone, 62 feet long, 36 feet high, and about as much broad; this is nearly the dimensions of the celebrated base to the statue of the Czar Peter at St Petersburg. The Bowder-Stone has probably rolled down from the neighbouring heights, and has stopped in a strange position, standing on an edge. The top is rendered accessible by means of a ladder, and is covered with a considerable layer of