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lake districts,) until the morning's ascent should take us up by the carriage.

On leaving Gowbarrow Park, the next object which attracts peculiar attention is a huge mass, almost overhanging the road, called Stybarrow Crag, which performs its share of closing in this middle and longest reach of the lake, in conjunction with Place Fell, an enormous grey mountain, streaked by many a sombre hue; round whose rugged foot, "pushed into the lake like a lion's claw," a bold expanse of Ulleswater by a sudden curve sweeps into Patterdale. Sharply turning to the left at the mouth of the dark glen into which we had hitherto seemed to be advancing, the glen that had admitted us to a glimpse of the "solemn Alps around Helvellyn,”2— our enchanted gaze embraced the third and smallest, but most exquisitely lovely division of the lake, studded with its three fairy-bowered islets,-Cherry Holm, Wall Holm, and House Holm. The rent and shattered rocks, jutting across our foreground, or pinnacled at our side, now became bolder and more numerous. Stybarrow Crag and Yew Crag we had, indeed, left behind us; but Raven Crag, Dove Crag, and a multitude of minor craglets, were bristling beside our way, canopied by the pendent and graceful foliage-now of some hoary forest tree, venerable as the everlasting hills, or, anon, of a dappled. grove, down-dipping to the water's edge. Across the lake, Place Fell, ponderous and grand, stood like a mighty barrier outshutting the far-off world; the narrowing lake seemed losing itself at the feet of a host of other such giants, closing around the retreating defile, and even here and there o'erlapping their impenetrable walls, as though to forbid egress from amid their awful precincts. Presently, we found ourselves passing Glenridding House, the beautiful retreat of the Rev. Askew. Then one or two distant cottages might be seen, peering from among the umbrageous foliage; two or three groups of lingering pedestrians were soon after espied. On the right, another lovely glen began to reveal its magnificence; the little bridge across Glenridding Beck was

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crossed; the humble village church (solitary, save for its faithful guardian yew,) was passed; an occasional dotting hut began to dimple the wild scenery; a capacious garden-circled house, alive with tourists, broke upon the view; we were entering the open gate, we had drawn up before the inn at Patterdale.

Two or three carriages were scattered around, occupied by visitants, apparently either in the act of taking their departure, or else unable to obtain admission to the hotel; which, by the cheerful faces at many of the windows, and the occasional loiterers straying about the garden, was proven to be already overflowing with guests. We had heard how often travellers find their comforts disarranged through the mountain inns being full on their arrival; and, to obviate the probability of such a mischance befalling ourselves, as well as for the sake of a long evening in the dale, we had fixed our departure from Penrith at an hour which might enable us to reach Patterdale so early as four o'clock in the afternoon. We were, therefore, quite unprepared for the announcement made by the landlord, that, "the house was so full, it was impossible to admit any new arrivals!" What was to be done? The landlord coolly suggested," Go on to Ambleside only ten miles!" But Elephant had already performed an ample distance for one stage; and Elephant's indulgent master protested loudly against this addenda, involving, as it would, a transit across Kirkstone (a great mountain between Patterdale and Ambleside,) by a road which performs an ascent and descent of 1,000 and 1,300 yards respectively, passing during its course by the most loftily situated house in England.

Besides, ours was an entirely different scheme. We did not intend to cross Kirkstone at all, but had planned to take the route leading from Ulleswater, viâ Saddleback, to Keswick, the following morning,-a distance of more than twenty miles; and therefore much too long to attempt as a supplementary stage, where the shades of evening must needs fall ere the journey could reach its close. In this dilemma, at last the landlord told us there was a cottage in the village where superfluous guests

could sometimes be accommodated with beds, &c.; and he did not seem very well pleased because we were so far actuated by a distrust of Westmoreland mountain cottages, that we demanded an inspection of our proposed quarters before we consented to adopt his recommendation. What, then, was our delight, after retracing on foot our way back through the village for about a quarter of a mile, at discovering that the lodging to which we were conducted was one of the neatest, cleanest, prettiest little cottages imaginable! The rural quietness of the simple parlour; the snowy whiteness of the bed-hangings; and, above all, the civility, and evident adroitness of Mrs. Dobson, the landlady, left no room for a moment's further hesitation; and we joyfully trudged back to the inn, to announce the satisfactory result, and to direct immediate remittance of our goods and chattels to the cottage for the night.

But, amid all these unforeseen hindrances, our "long afternoon at Patterdale" was perceptibly dwindling away. So, as the rest of the party did not seem inclined for any rambling before tea, I resolved to avoid losing time, by setting off alone on an exploring expedition up the dale. Some one at the inn told me that, by pursuing the road for a short distance along the beginning of the gorge, I should presently come to a path leading across a rustic bridge, which would at length bring me round to the cottage by a circuit of exceeding beauty. Thus I soon tripped gaily away, exhilarated by the loveliness, yet awed by the grandeur of the scenery around me. The road seemed scalloped into a perpetual zigzag by the projecting feet of the heights which soared abruptly by my side, and only a strip of narrow stream-parted meadow land intervened between these and the opposite fells. Before me, narrow and yet narrower grew the pass, as it penetrated the gigantic range, threatening to bar much further progress. Silence reigned around, and I was alone. Surely my spirit was fanned by unutterable breathings, emitted only by creations so reflective of the Hand of Gop, that mortal tool can neither mar their na tive grandeur, nor add fashioning to their glory! I was in an amphitheatre of mountains!

The mountains! O, the mountains! how gloriously they stand;
A fastness-fortress of defence, to guard our northern land:
The birth-place of the waterfall, where mystic echo wakes
Her soft Eolian harp, across the bosom of the lakes:

Coiled round the pikes, like fretted lace, by many a flashing beck,
Shining, as orient gems upon an Eastern princess' neck,

How beautiful to wander on beside those crystal streams!

How passing dear are mountain thoughts, how blissful mountain dreams!

To gaze upon the mountains, where the tempest-phantoms rideScafell, Helvellyn, Skiddaw, in all their monarch pride!

To stray far into cloudland, till elfin fancies show

Mont Blanc in hoary grandeur, with his diadem of snow;
To start and find, all suddenly the Alpine vision fled;

Yet feel, o'er lake and valley, a warmer lustre shed

By those sweet picture-scenes that roved unbidden through the brain :
This is to taste the beautiful in life's young May again.

Ah! every breath of breezy air that floats along the steep
Speaks of the gifted souls, whose lyres still o'er the mountains sweep;
Where many a knoll and many a glen, fann'd by the whispering winds,
Is redolent of some warm touch from those great master-minds :
O, happy they who found in them the homes their fame illumes!
For now, alas! the dark grey fells but shield two silent tombs:
Yet with a golden halo, their unseen presence beams

Around the mountains of their love-the blue lakes of their dreams.

There's a charm amid the mountains, that wakes, with magic art,
The finest veins of feeling which thrill the human heart:

GOD's sunlight gilds their towering crowns, their every peak illumes;
And yet the heather of the vale finds shelter in their combs :

Exalt the ancient pinnacles! they wrestle with decay,

And, like the unbridled ocean-waves, they spurn subduing sway:
Phalanx of royal chieftain-kings, a noble patriarch band,
The everlasting mountains, how gloriously they stand!


I HAD been riding all day through the wild glens of the Estrella mountain, the back-bone of Portugal. Evening was coming on, and our journey was drawing towards its close. We were winding along the side of the last ravine, and could already see the little white chapel crowning a steep peak, near which, in the pilgrims' house,

we were to pass the night. It was such a pastoral country and scene, as might almost make one believe what the poets tell us about Arcadia. There were goatherds, stretched on the top of mossy rocks and piping to their goats; flocks of black sheep, their tails tipped with white, were hanging, as it were, on the edge of the mountain ravine; girls were returning from the fountain with the pitcher balanced on their heads; shepherds were giving their flocks drink at the tank by the well. So I went on, thinking of all those lovely sketches of such a life that we find in the Old Testament; of Jacob meeting Rachel, of Moses by the well of Midian, of Saul and his servant entering Mizpeh, "about the time that women go forth to draw water."

My mule was sorely tired; so I dismounted, and left it to follow its own track, while I walked by the guide and asked the name of this peak and of that glen. To the right, the mountain, along whose side we were passing, towered up into the clouds; to the left it shelved abruptly down to a little hamlet that, half a mile below us, glimmered up through the evening light. The whole was covered with huge rocks and boulders of granite, in every curious variety of shape-I had almost said, of attitude. Some were like evil beasts, ready to spring out on the traveller; some like a decaying and tumble-down cottage; some like a ship in full sail that had suddenly by the wand of a magician, been turned into stone; some had the likeness of a human face; and some, without any great stretch of fancy, bore a resemblance to those fiends which the old painters loved to represent in their pictures of the Last Doom. We presently passed one which might be about the size, as it was in the shape, of a barn ; and which was distinguished from the others by having been split into four fragments, and by a little wooden cross, planted in the turf by its side.

"What blow could have shattered such a rock ?" I inquired of my guide.

"It is a long story, Senhor, and a sad story too," he replied, "but I will tell it you, if you will; you will have time to hear it before we get to the S. da Atalaya." So stopping a moment to arrange the baggage of the sump

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