and us there is a wide and a deep abyss. We have reached the summit of this long ascent, and you behold Blakerigg in all his majesty - a foreground to Scafell and its Pikes, the highest land in England, softened by some leagues' distance, and belonging to another region-another province—another kingdom another world of the sublime. For the intercepting sky sometimes divides the great objects of nature in a mountainous country, into districts so distinct, that they lie without confusion before Imagination's eyes, while of each some mighty creature seems to be by right divine the monarch, and to bear sway in calm or tempest. Let us descend into the gulf profound, till we touch the foot of Blakerigg, and then shall we skirt his kingship all the way to the head of Seathwaite Tarn. We are now in a lonesome region-nor is it easy to imagine a much better place for a murder. But lo! the Tarn. What should you call its character? Why, such a day as this disturbs by delight, and confounds all distinction between the Sublime and Beautiful. These rocky knolls towards the foot of the Tarn, we should say are exquisitely picturesque; and nothing can be supposed more unassuming than their quietude, which is deepened by the repose of that distant height beyond-can it be Blackcoomb? And then how prettily rise out of the Tarn on the farthest side, those little islands, under the shadow of the first range of rocks that may be safely called majestic; while the second -as slowly your eyes are venturing up the prodigious terraces -justify the ejaculation-magnificent! Let's strip and have a swim. 'Tis all nonsense about danger in "dookin" when you are hot. Besides, we are not hot; for, in disapparelling, the balmy breezes have already fanned our bosoms, till we are cool as leeks. Saw you ever my Lord Arthur Somerset ? Here he goes. No bottom here, gents. Where the devil are you? All gone! You have taken advantage of our absence down below for a few minutes, and descended to Seathwaite. Well, we cannot call that handsome behaviour anyhow; and trust you will lose your way in the wilderness, and find yourselves among the quagmires of the Black Witch. Whew! are you there, ye waterserpents, snoring with your noses towards Ill-Crag! Save us -save us-save us! The cramp-the cramp-the cramp! Gentlemen, we confess that was an indifferent joke—and we return you our best thanks for your alertness in diving to "pull up drowned Honour by the locks." But you seem flustered; so let us land and rig-Mercy on us, what hulks! Now for the Pigeon-Pie. Give us the crown of crust. Behold with what dignity we devour the diadem! A queer pigeon this as one may see on a summer's day-as flat's a pancake. Ho! ho! a beefsteak we perceive about the breadth of our palm-let us begin by biting off the fingers -and the thumb. Spicy! But, friends, we must beware of dining; let us remember this is but a lunch. And a lunch, recollect, is but a whet. They must be cushats--they must be cushats; and now let us finish the flask. We smell Seathwaite. Below that aerial blue it lies-and were this the Sabbath, we might hear-Fine-ears as we are for all words of peace-the belfry of the old church-tower. We are about to descend into the vale by the access beloved by nature's bard. Here is volume fourth of Wordsworthand since Jonathan declines "readin' oop," we shall give the passage the benefit of our silver speech. After all, the traveller would be most gratified who should approach this beautiful stream, neither at its source, as is done in the sonnets, nor from its termination; but from Coniston over Walna Scar; first descending into a little circular valley, a collateral compartment of the long winding vale through which flows the Duddon. This recess, towards the close of September, when the after-grass of the meadows is still of a fresh green, with the leaves of many of the trees faded, but perhaps none fallen, is truly enchanting. At a point elevated enough to show the various objects in the valley, and not so high as to diminish their importance, the stranger will instinctively halt. On the foreground, a little below the most favourable station, a rude foot-bridge is thrown over the bed of the noisy brook foaming by the wayside. Russet and craggy hills, of bold and varied outline, surround the level valley, which is besprinkled with grey rocks plumed with birch-trees. A few homesteads are interspersed, in some places peeping out from among the rocks like hermitages, whose site has been chosen for the benefit of sunshine as well as shelter; in other instances, the dwelling-house, barn, and byre, compose together a cruciform structure, which, with its embowering trees, and the ivy clothing part of the walls and roof like a fleece, calls to mind the remains of an ancient abbey. Time, in most cases, and nature everywhere, have given a sanctity to the humble works of man, that are scattered over this peaceful retirement. Hence a harmony of tone and colour, a perfection and consummation of beauty, which would have been marred had aim or purpose interfered with the course of convenience, utility, or necessity. This unvitiated region stands in no need of the veil of twilight to soften or disguise its features. As it glistens in the morning sunshine, it would fill the spectator's heart with gladsomeness. Looking from our chosen station, he would feel an impatience to rove among its pathways, to be greeted by the milkmaid, to wander from house to house, exchanging "good-morrows" as he passed the open doors; but, at evening, when the sun is set, and a pearly light gleams from the western quarter of the sky, with an answering light from the smooth surface of the meadows; when the trees are dusky, but each kind still distinguishable; when the cool air has condensed the blue smoke rising from the cottage-chimneys; when the dark mossy stones seem to sleep in the bed of the foaming brook; then he would be unwilling to move forward, not less from a reluctance to relinquish what he beholds, than from an apprehension of disturbing, by his approach, the quietness beneath him. Issuing from the plain of this valley, the brook descends in a rapid torrent, passing by the churchyard of Seathwaite. The traveller is thus conducted at once into the midst of the wild and beautiful scenery which gave occasion to the sonnets from the 14th to the 20th inclusive. From the point where the Seathwaite Brook joins the Duddon, is a view upwards, into the pass through which the river makes its way into the plain of Donnerdale. The perpendicular rock on the right bears the ancient British name of THE PEN; the one opposite is called WALLOW-BARROW CRAG, a name that occurs in several places to designate rocks of the same character. The chaotic aspect of the scene is well marked by the expression of a stranger, who strolled out while dinner was preparing, and at his return, being asked by his host, "What way he had been wandering?" replied, "As far as it is finished!" But before indulging our own eyes with the Duddon, let us, in view of the very scene thus beautifully painted in "Prose, by a Poet," look at its spirit as it haunts these Sonnets. The series-thirty-four-we are told, was the growth of many years. Mr Wordsworth says, he had proceeded insensibly in their composition, without perceiving that he was trespassing upon ground preoccupied -at least as far as intention went-by Mr Coleridge; who, more than twenty years ago, used to speak of writing a rural poem, to be entitled "The Brook," of which he has given a sketch in a recent publication. But a particular subject cannot, I think, much interfere with a general one; and I have been further kept from encroaching upon any right Mr Coleridge may still wish to exercise, by the restriction which the frame of the Sonnet imposed upon me, narrowing unavoidably the range of thought, and precluding, though not without its advantages, many graces to which a freer movement of verse would naturally have led. May I not venture, then, to hope, that, instead of being a hinderance, by anticipation of any part of the subject, these Sonnets may remind Mr Coleridge of his own more comprehensive design, and induce him to fulfil it? There is a sympathy in streams-" one calleth to another;" and I would gladly believe that " The Brook" will, ere long, murmur in concert with "The Duddon." But, asking pardon for this fancy, I need not scruple to say, that those verses must indeed be ill-fated which can enter upon such pleasant walks of nature, without receiving and giving inspiration. The power of waters over the minds of Poets has been acknowledged from the earliest ages;-through the "Flumina amem sylvasque inglorius" of Virgil, down to the sublime apostrophe to the great rivers of the earth, by Armstrong, and the simple ejaculation of Burns (chosen, if I recollect right, by Mr Coleridge, as a motto for his embryo"Brook"), "The Muse, nae Poet ever fand her, Till by himsel he learn'd to wander This reminds us of the title of one of Shakespeare's plays"Much ado about Nothing." Mr Coleridge is an original Poet; but there is nothing original in the idea of "a Rural Poem, to be entitled the Brook ;" and if there were, it would be hard to deter all other Poets from writing about brooks, and, should they do so, to punish them as trespassers "on ground preoccupied" by the Ancient Mariner, "at least as far as intention went, more than twenty years ago." This would be carrying complaisance to Mr Coleridge, and cruelty to the rest of mankind, too far; and would subject us to transportation for our article "Streams." Were this principle of appropriation and exclusion once admitted, why, an indolent or dreaming man of genius might put an end to poetry, by imagining all kinds of subjects, and annually publishing a list which nobody else was to meddle with, on pain of death. Such tyranny far transcends even our ultra-Toryism—and we hereby declare all the rills, rivulets, brooks, streams, and rivers on the globe, free to all the poets and poetasters on its surface or in its bowels. Neither is there anything at all original-nothing daring -in composing a series of sonnets on the River Duddon. Many a river has been celebrated in song-and there are poems in almost all languages, on particular rivers. The difficulty, indeed, of singing of a stream from source to sea, in one continuous strain, is considerable; and Mr Wordsworth has given it the go-by, in a series of sonnets. This he states --but he puts it on strange grounds. "I have been farther kept from encroaching on any right Mr C. may still wish to exercise, (poo!) by the restriction which the frame of the Sonnet imposed upon me, narrowing unavoidably the range of thought, and precluding, though not without its advantages, many graces to which a freer movement of verse would naturally have led." Fudge! But some hundreds of fine sonnets have been distilled from the pen of Mr Wordsworth; and had he written nothing else -an absurd supposition-his fame had been immortal. Some of the most beautiful are to be found in this series-perfect gems. "I seek the birthplace of a native stream," is a simple line in the first sonnet; and these conclude the last "And may thy Poet, cloud-born stream! be free, What "fancies chaste and noble" imbue with beauty the strains of music that float between those opening and concluding words! The river shows "The image of a poet's heart, How calm, how tranquil, how serene!" But let us have the course of the Duddon given, in the first place, in Green's plain but picturesque prose. The Duddon is a fine river, and its feeders flow precipitously in their descent to the valley. It rises at the Three County Stones on Wrynose, from which place to its junction with the Irish Sea, it separates the counties of Cumberland and Lancashire. Mosedale, which is in Cumberland, though appearing the highest part of Seathwaite, is, from its head down to Cockly-Beck, a tame unmeaning valley, and would be wholly void of interest, were it not for the grand mountains of Eskdale, which are seen over its northern extremity; but from Cockly-Beck by Black Hall to Goldrill Crag, which is about two miles, the scenery improves at every step; but not the river, which, though occasionally pretty, is, upon the whole, tamely featured and lazy. At Goldrill Crag it brightens into agitation, and, after various changes, becomes at Wallow-barrow Crag one scene of rude commotion, forming in its course a succession, not of high, but finely formed waterfalls. But these furious waters suddenly slumbering, become entranced, displaying little |