their forefathers; the well of truth needs not, they think, at this time of day to be new-fangled; and they know that the spring is perennial and inexhaustible. Why, that is strange. Our paper, that had been gradually growing dimmer and duskier, so that we could hardly see the uncertain letters, is brightening as if below a lamp. And Heavens! what a lamp! The Moon. She has all the heaven to herself, yet looks as if looking on no other place in the wide world but Wastdale. All the house is asleep. There goes the night-hawk-the first we have heard this season--like a whirring-wheel. Well hooted, thou joyous owl! The Irt, too, is awake, with his little babbling waterfalls, as if he would soothe all things else with slumber but his wakeful self, dimpling, no doubt, into smiles beneath the moonshine. Oh! blind old Homer! thou didst look on nature with spiritual eyes; and with those famous lines in our memory, that seem to lift off the roof of our dwelling, and to lay our bed open to the sky, we seek the visionary world of sleep and dreams! Ως δ ̓ ὅτ' ἐν οὐρανῷ ἄστρα φαεινὴν ἀμφὶ σελήνην "Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting," says Wordsworth, in that famous ode obscure but in its sublimity; and we often feel the force of that dark but wise saw, on returning to open-eyed life from one of those trances that to the lookeron might seem leaden-lidded death. There have been people unconscious of ever having had one single dream. They sleep just like stones-or if that be an offensive word-like trunks of trees. Their animal blood continues to circulate just like vegetable sap-they are alive and growing like timber-but both alike are insensible in the spirit to the skyey influences, that all the while may be lifting up their locks or their leaves. Infants smile in their sleep-for they suppose themselves sucking-that is all. Children whimper through their delight in slumber, and seem then to be dancing in more lustrous life, like insects in sunshine. As we grow in stature of soul and body, strange spiritual expansions-wrenchings-rendingsagitate as if they would destroy us in dreams. Mounting and mounted to meridian, we launch away in the ship of imagination over seas unnavigable by waking mariners, and palmcrowned walk awhile in the Isles of Paradise. How dim the brightest bliss known to the beatings of the heart still conscious of this mortal clime, compared with the ecstasy that blends our being with the visions composing the Holy of Holies in our dream-created heaven! Spiritualised are then our frames, mortal no more, and floating along the depths divine in company with the radiant clouds. Dreaming proves we shall never die. Not for that we merely think and feel; but because our thoughts and our feelings then far transcend all other experience; our capacities are then expanded into powers that exult in celestial origin, and are destined for celestial end. The dullest wight, says that Pearl-diver Coleridge, is a Shakespeare in his sleep. Then, what in his must have been Shakespeare! Yet we have said above, that some people say they never dream. Perhaps they wish to lie themselves into singularity -perhaps they forget. But if they speak the truth, how must we children of centuries pity those poor sons of a day! Such folks live at the most but half a life. We, again, live thousands of lives; for, as the bard saith, 66 Sleep hath its separate worlds, as wide as dreams," wider than the "visible diurnal sphere" escaping over the rim of the universe. Reason and conscience survive in dreams, but their sovereignty seems sometimes shaken, and though they overlook, they cannot always control the wild work over which dominant are the passions. They still know that they are commissioned; but while they retain the privilege, alas! they may have lost the power; and stand shuddering aloof during "the transacting of some dreadful thing." We awake-and wisdom, while it saddens o'er the strange review, is stronger from the lessons it has learned from the fluctuating tumult, in its sway over the duties of a steadfast being. The phantasmagoria glide away, and we recognise in them symbols of realities. All that confusion was caused by the obstruction of the will. That power in sleep is often paralytic; and we are whirled away like a leaf on the wind. Thence we venerate the waking will as holy; for in the sunlight that breaks the bands of sleep, of a sudden all its divine attributes are centred, and we confess the presence of the Godhead. But away, now, all such dreams about dreams-for we have taken a look through the jessamine-flowers out of the lattice; and lo! the still sublimity of the Sabbath morn! "The innocent brightness of the new-born day!" WastdaleHead! It seems as if the very mountains knew the great day of rest. Serene assemblage of forms magnificent! The reign of Calm over the dominions of Delight! Mickle Door "has lifted up his everlasting gates," and between their pillars what a lovely sky! On the Pikes a sunny softness seems to soothe the precipices till they smile. Rugged are they still in their repose, but the tale they tell of tempests is like a tradition. Theirs now is the power of peace. Great-End has a gentle look, for joy has subdued the giant, gladdening in greenness, of which all his rocks partake. Gable with shadowy lustre shuts up the dale. But not till the sun has risen higher in heaven will the yellow light be enlivening Lingmell's solemn woods. "And have you no glance to give to us," seem now to breathe the low-lying meadows, the fields, and the pastures; while whispers the same voice from these roof-loving trees, "Yesour eyes not unwillingly retire from the mountains, and repose, as on the stillness of water, on all these sweet enclosures, blessing the lichens on the walls!" Come in! The door is not barred-for we are never afraid of being murdered even in London-far less in Wastdale. Nay, this is being too kind. Mr Tyson himself, with his own hands, on a tray bringing in our Breakfast! Nay-nay-our dear sir―nay—nay-our good sir-you cannot be seriousnine o'clock! We must be indeed the sleepiest-headed of immortals. But know, our dear sir, we have had little or no sleep and never more than a brace of hours at a stretchsince we left Edinburgh about 150 hours ago. Is that Mrs Tyson's voice on the stair-head? Good morning, my dear madam we shall be down in a jiffey. The young gentlemen, you say, Mr Tyson, were up at six. Gross affectation of early rising in the Adelphi! They must have remembered the jug. We understand that look-and shall be grateful for a razor. But we do nothing abruptly-you know, Mr Tyson-" the more hurry the less speed,"-therefore our fast shall we break fluently and solidly, for the next twenty minutes, and then sedately shall we shave. How easily, during any pleasant employment, can twenty minutes be included, without crowding, in one! Thank you -thank you again, dear Tyson-that razor, we know, is worth ten times told its weight in the finest gold. The back of the blade is a quarter of an inch broad-but eye can no more see its edge than a quadrille of angels dancing on the point of a needle. Such lather! Our face looks like that of the High Man, with his chin in a ridge of snow. You may well admire how the wreathes fall away under that edge, as if loosened by sunshine, and sinking into the vale. Finest of the fine is the ruddy skin—but not a drop is drawn; and now you see "The bloom of young desire, the purple light of love " WE ARE SHAVED! But in this dress it is impossible-it would violate bonos mores-to go to Chapel. Never shall we be able to repay a tithe of this kindness, Mr Tyson; but indeed often as we have been your guest, never once have you been ours. 'Tis Sabbath -and we are the stranger within your doors!-only for stranger, read brother. And you have brought us, too, apparel! A full suit of black, silk stockings and all, down to the very shoon and buckles. Your father's! They are just the thing we like -these flaps to the waistcoat. Single-breasted with thredded buttons-the coat; to be worn as fitting with shorts. That cravat will flow down our breast like a cascade. And now we descend like a Doctor in Divinity—the Dean of YewBarrow-the Bishop of Great Gable-the Archbishop of Scafell. Serene symptoms of the Sabbath? A certain gravity hangs over the usual gladness of the household. With sober step master and mistress cross the floor. The heads of the men are sleek—of the women ringleted; those decently clad, these prettily; we are speaking of the maids-for in caps that hide, without meaning it, their silvery hair, sit the silk-gowned matrons; and she in the arm-chair must have been-nay was -for we remember her a month after marriage—a bride to do a bridegroom's heart good even to look at—so sweet are yet the mild remains of that loveliness that won and kept for her the name of the Beauty of Borrowdale. All around in the open air is just as sabbatic. The bees alone are at work-for the very swallows-perhaps 'tis fancy -seem not to be skimming about so restlessly as usual; and as for the colleys-like douce dogs as they are they are all going with us to the chapel. We hope there will be no fighting. No animal enjoys Sabbath like the horse. Cows, we fear, feel little, and know no distinction between it and weekdays for all they have to do, at any time, is to chew the cud, and to be milked, a mild but a monotonous mode of life. No fishing-rod is suffered to be seen, out or in doors, about the place, and the baskets are hanging in the back-kitchen. No mark of cart-wheels less than twelve or fourteen hours old, and the dews have dimmed their glazings on the gravel. As for the carts themselves, they are at rest on their trams in the shed; and on the front of one of them we perceive a bunch of poultry dressing their feathers. The cock-we know not why -but no doubt he does-has ceased to crow, and looks as grave as an alderman with his gold chain. The feeling of the place and time is one of pensive cheerfulness; no other day of the seven could be so delightful; for, though kindred to them, and one and all children of the sun, it is felt to be set apart! As we approach the chapel, we are reminded of a beautiful passage in Wordsworth's little prose-book about the Lakes. The architecture of these churches and chapels, where they have not been recently rebuilt or modernised, is of a style not less appropriate and admirable than that of the dwelling-houses and other structures. How sacred the spirit by which our forefathers were directed. The religio loci is nowhere violated by these unstinted, yet unpretending, works of human hands. They exhibit generally a well-proportioned oblong, with a suitable porch, in some instances a steeple-tower, and in others nothing more than a small belfry, in which one or two bells hang visibly. But these objects, though pleasing in their forms, must necessarily, more than others in rural scenery, derive their interest from the sentiments of piety and reverence for the modest virtues and simple manners of humble life with which they may be contemplated. A man must be very insensible who would not be touched with pleasure at the sight of the chapel of Buttermere, so strikingly expressing, by its diminutive size, how small must be the congregation there assembled, as it were, like one family; and proclaiming at the same time to the passenger, in connection with the surrounding mountains, the depth of that seclusion in which the people live, that has rendered necessary the building of a separate place of worship for so few. A patriot, calling to mind the images of the stately fabrics of Canterbury, York, or Westminster, will find a heartfelt satisfaction in presence of this lowly pile, as a monument of the wise |