upon him, or by affronting him in his pride of place. There is sad confusion for a long time about the airts, and the perplexed "Monarch of all he surveys" grossly errs in his guesses -partitioning England anew into provinces, according to a scheme that sets all ancient distinctions at defiance. Meanwhile, the poor man, by poring over the provinces, produces a determination of blood to the head; and alarms his friends by an appearance of apoplexy, which, however, is not permanent, but gives way to a change of posture, as soon as the topographer has been lifted to his feet. The truth is, that to make anything of a map, on the top of a mountain, a man must have been Senior Wrangler. 'Tis as difficult as to set a Dial in a garden-an exploit which, judging by the audacious falsehoods of all such time-tellers, would appear to be impossible. The loss of time, too, in attempting to put your finger appropriately on the Isle of Man, can be ill afforded on the top of a high mountain, by a person whose usual residence is far below. Life is proverbially short; and to verify Mogg by the circumference, would be the work, not of a day but a year. Pocket the northern counties then, and forget the wonders of Art in those of Nature.

"My soul leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky."

Leaps up! Seeing the beautiful apparition from below, the soul, in the power of its love and joy, is suddenly with itin heaven. But our soul needs not to leap up now-for we are standing in close connection with the cerulean—the celestial concave; and earth lies far below our feet. Therefore, our soul leaps down-not like a chamois-but like a bird-and that bird an eagle,-who, unhungering for aught else but flight, weighs anchor from the cliff, and away-away-away -wide over his wing-commanded world. How we glory while we gaze. Not in ourselves-but in all creation. There is expansion and elevation of spirit, yet no pride. Self is the centre of our joy, but it radiates to the circumference, shooting out on all sides bright lines of love over the boundless beauty of earth, till imagination loses itself in what seems the obscure sublimity of the far-off uncertain sea. Yes! it is the sea! sunshine brightens the blue deep into belief; and-God be with her on her voyage!-yonder sails a single ship-for one moment-gone already—as white as

snow! But as a blank be ocean and all her isles. And let us lavish our loves on these lakes, and vales, and glens, and plains, and fields and meadows, woods, groves, gardens, houses of man and of God-for conspicuous yet in every deepdown dwindled village is the white church-tower-and the heart blesses that one little solitary chapel, where you may see specks that must be sheep, lying in the burial-place, for there are no tombstones there, only grassy heaps!

Nine o'clock o' morning, all through the year, is a strong hour-and, be the season what it may, the best time for breakfast. It is nine now; we conjecture that we have been gazing half an hour; so four hours have been consumed in ascending the Old Man. You might ascend him from Coniston Waterhead in two, or less, were it a matter of life or death; but we have been graciously permitted to be for a month strollers and idlers on the earth; and a long day of delight is before us, ere thou, O Sun! shalt be again o'er Langdale-Pikes empurpling the west.

"To-morrow for severer thought-but now
For breakfast."

Jonathan-Long Jonathan-best of guides since old Bobby Partridge died-disembowel the haversack. You are a great linguist, Jonathan; you have got-the gift of tongues. A HAM! None of your minnikin March chicken for mountain breakfast with the Old Man of Coniston-these two are earocks-alias how-towdies-and the colour contrasts well with that of a most respectable pair of ducks. A fillet of veal? It is. Perhaps, Jonathan, it may be prudent to postpone that pigeon-pie. Well, well, take your own way-put it down alongside that anonymous article, and distribute bread.

IMPRIMIS VENERARE DEOS!

Ere we commence operations, what would not we give for a smoking gurgle of ginger-beer, or of Imperial Pop! Jonathan -thou Son of Saul-are these stone bottles? How Hunger exults in the extinguishment of Thirst! There are four of us, we believe, so let us first discuss the cacklers and the quackers-a dimidium to each; and thus shall we be enabled, perhaps, to look without any very painful impatience on the pigeon-pie, which we ventured hesitatingly to express an opinion might be postponed-though from that opinion we

retain liberty to diverge, without incurring the charge of apostasy, should we feel reason to do so from the state of Parties. There is no possibility of being gluttonous on the top of a high mountain. Temperance herself tells you to take the full length of your tether-to scorn knife and fork, and draw the spawl of the how-towdy through the shiver-de-freeze of your tusks. That tongue might have been larger, we think, Jonathan, without incommoding the mouth of the Stot. The fourth part of a tongue has an insignificant look ;-ay-that's right-we prefer the root to the tip. Why, it tastes like ham! It is ham! You have given us ham, Jonathan-but we pardon the mistake-for now that the surprise has subsided, be the ham Westmoreland or Westphalian, a richer never bore bristle since the progenitor of all porkers descended with his curled tail from the Ark.

The silence-the stillness-is sublime! Broken but by the music and the motion of our jaws. Yet they too, at intervals, rest; shut-or wide open for a few moments, as our eyes, spiritually withdrawn from that "material breakfast,” wander round the visionary horizon, or survey steadily the lovely landscape, to return with keener animation to the evanescent scenery immediately under our nose. Evanescent!-for tongue and towdies, ham and ducks, have disappeared! The fillet is fast going the way of all flesh; and under a fortunate star indeed must that pigeon-pie have been baked, if it escape this massacre of the Innocents.

Tin-lined is the leathern belt round the shoulders of Jonathan -and 'tis filled with water from the spring in that old slatequarry-and here is a "horn full of the cold north." The Cognac tames without killing it—miraculous mixture of Frost and Fire! And here goes the flash of preservation into our vitals to a sentiment that can be understood but on the mountain-top, The Cause of Liberty—all over the World.

We are all intoxicated-but not with brandy—for each took but one gulp of unchristened Cognac and a horn of the baptised; we are divinely drunk with ether-not the ether purchased from Apothecaries' Hall, but the ether given gratis by Apollo-the Sun-God-to all who visit his palace in the regions of Morn.

Down the stone-strewn greensward we dancingly go, and like red deer bound over rocks. The proper place for a guide

is in the rear; and Jonathan follows astonished, with the Remains. We are again at Levers Water before any of us has said Jack Robinson-no need of scaling-ladders in descending precipices-but that our beards are only about an inch long -and none of us by possibility can have horns—the sheep might suppose us goats. But here let us pause. How magnificent in full view the rocks called Dove Crag rising above Goat's Tarn! and how beautiful the wavy windings up the breast of WALNA SCAR! We have gloriously enjoyed the morn -it wants centuries yet of meridian-let us not "lose and neglect the creeping hours of time," in pottering about on a level with the silly sea-but let's up to the above Goat's Tarn to SEATHWAITE TARN too, over Walna Scar—and then down to the chapel, and see what sort of a stream that DUDDON is, to which "the Bard" has addressed an eulogistic Libel of Sonnets.

Jonathan never was at Goat's Water, but Christopher has many a time; and this is its rivulet. The last ascent to it is very steep; but our lungs laugh now at all difficulties—and we are soon at the foot of the Tarn. In sunshine such as this, 'tis a sweet spot-nay, one might almost without offence to the genius loci, call it pretty-"sweetly putta!" True, that the margin on the east is a rude assemblage of stones-and that on the opposite side the towering rocks are hushed in a sort of "grim repose." But then the water is clear as a well—and that knoll of birches is admiring itself in the mirror. There are some sheep and lambs-and yonder a "bit birdie" is hopping from spray to spray, who could sing if he chose-but he has manifestly got us in his eye, and, laying his head on his shoulder, gives us a sly glance as if he was quizzing the whole party. Last time we stood here -facing these cliffs some dozen years ago. how they frowned by glimpses through the driving rack! The tarn itself was pitch, which grew blacker still on tempest-stricken spots-while now and then a wave gave a wallop like an animal and broke in brown foam, with a savage murmur. There was a continual hissing somewhere-and as for croaking, we could have believed that some old raven had established a croaking-school up among the hidden cliffs, and that he and his pupils were trying to sing psalms-probably to a dead horse. We declare there is one of the devils tugging at something

on a ledge at the mouth of that fissure! He views us-but he won't budge. A gruff old tyke, with a bill, no doubt, like a weaver's shuttle. And see—a fox.

We are on our way, you know, to Seathwaite. From Coniston Waterhead, our pleasant inn, there are three ways to that vale-one by Broughton for all manner of carriages—and a noble one it is, leading over elevated ground, and commanding a view of the river Duddon, at high water itself a lake, "having the beautiful and fertile lands of Lancashire and Cumberland stretching away from its margin. In this extensive view, the face of nature is displayed in a wonderful variety of hill and dale, wooded grounds, and buildings; amongst the latter, Broughton Tower, seated on the crown of a hill, rising elegantly from the valley, is an object of extraordinary interest. Fertility on each side is gradually diminished, and lost in the superior heights of Blackcoomb in Cumberland, and the high lands between Kirkby and Ulverstone. The road from Broughton to Seathwaite is on the banks of the Duddon, and on its Lancashire side it is of various elevations. The river is an amusing companion, one while brawling and tumbling over rocky precipices, until the agitated water becomes again calm by arriving at a smoother and less precipitous bed; but its course is soon again ruffled, and the current thrown into every variety of form which the rocky channel of a river can give to water." So far Green, whose eye was ever that of a painter. The middle way deviates on the right about four miles from Broughton, and leads to Seathwaite over some fine hilly ground from Broughton Mills. The most laborious way of the three is over Walna Scar—the way of the present heroes. A fourth is up Tilberthwaite, over Wrynose, and so down Duddon, from near its source. All are good—but ours is the best—and there are few grander walks in the North of England. What is the name of that giant? Blakerigg. He seems to have drawn himself up to his full altitude to oppose our progress-but we must turn his flank. Yet his forehead is mild and placid-smooth, seemingly, as that of a small pastoral hill. But what a burly body hath the old chieftain surnamed Ironsides! Such ribs ! a park of artillery would in vain batter in breach there'twould scarcely smite off a splinter. In what sort of scenery does he set his feet? By-and-by you shall see-between him