twisting slipperiness between you and the sun. Ha! there's a two-year-old off-at-score, as if on a half-mile race with a swarm of subscribers. But he will soon lose his fastness, Jonathan-and we have him hard in hand-that he may not bolt off the course in among those birch-roots. You see that small circle of sand, "sharpening its mooned horns"-thither shall we persuade the sumph to sail ;-Jonathan, don't you almost find him already wallopping in your wallet? There he has swum himself ashore-and there, like a serpent wriggling about, his own mother would not know him, so enshrouded is he in sand. That comes of one's suffering himself to be led by the nose-even in retirement-during these troubled times. Yes, Jonathan, about a pounder. You seem surprised, Jonathan, at our incessant sport. 'Tis the tackle as much as the touch. In such clear, warm water as this, the very sight of a great, big, fat fly, like a drowned bummer, would sicken a trout-and if tied to the end of a cable, four horse-hairs thick, 'twould frighten a pool out of its seven senses. But these flies-scarcely flies-these midges, moving like motes on the water, solicit the fishy stomach with almost airy allurement, which the largest lobbers- -as you see-even when lying indolently beneath the bank, retired from the glare of noon that stupifies their panting brethren in the unprotected channel, have not the philosophy to resist. They sail slowly up to the slow speck, and just putting out their tongues-so-lick in the inextric able barb. It gives them no pain, Jonathan-merely a puzzle ; and you may well think, that, for a while, they can with difficulty believe their eyes, when they see, by the receding stones, that they are journeying towards the opposite "banks and braes o' bonny Duddon," from which, almost before some of them have leisure to distinguish the sward from the stream, they are transferred into thy wallet, Jonathan, that seems quick with child. You think we have killed somewhere from ten to twelve pound; and such slaughter-pretty well in a sunbright hour -will suffice to eke out the ham and eggs into no despicable dinner. Bless us-Seathwaite Chapel! and there are our friends sitting with the landlord in the honey-suckled porch of the alehouse, each with what seems a jug in his dexter hand. The scamps! that would not stay for the sonnets, though recited by an angel's tongue. Alas! there is little love of poetry left in this low life of ours-so now for the Ham and Eggs. The kitchen clock is striking six as we stoop our anointed head beneath the slate-roofed doorway-and at six, to a second, stands our watch, such is the sympathy between the worthies. We cheerfully confess that we have occasionally seen a clean tablecloth in a Scotch small wayside or hedgerow inn. But nine hundred and ninety-nine times in the thousand they have shown mustard. In England, againthe dirty is supposed to be as one to a million. April snows are tolerably white, and so are April clouds and April lambsbut they are grey in comparison with this cloth bleached in May sun and shower, whose drapery descends in graceful folds from this Round Table standing as firm on one leg as if it had four, at equal distance from hearth and door, bed and window. Such bread! baked of finest flour for the nonce in a pan-oven that raises the light-brown crust almost into the delicacy of the coating of bride-cake, while close-grained even as that "mighty magic," kythes, as you break it, the crumbling inconsistency of the fair interior! Graceful from the gridiron that crump circle of oatmeal wafers, broad as the bottom of a bee-hive; and what honey-comb! The scent is as of thyme, and, by some conjuration, preserved has been the cellular framework all winter through, and therein lies the dewy flower-distilment, as clear as when the treasure was taken at harvest-close from the industrious people, who in a moment hushed their hum. That is our pot of porridge; and oh! it is exquisite when supped with cream! Of all liquid lustres, the loveliest sure is that of elder-flower wine. And delicately blending hospitality with the welcome due to all who peaceably enter here, the Mistress has placed that crystal at the Elder's elbow, saying, with a smile, that "quality have commended it," and 'tis in truth delightful sma' drink, and tastes racily of the tree. Aren't these pretty patterns of suns and sunflowers, stars and roses, impressed on the glistening countenance of that glorious butter? Till now never saw we yellow. Put a spoon into that cream-it stands for a few moments straight-and then slowly declining, leans on the edge of the jug, like a young lady about to go into a swoon. The sight reminds us of the phial of concentrated Essence of Coffee in the fob of our jacket. There it is, and nobody must mistake it for the ketchup. All the hens in Seathwaite must have been laying to-day; else how these plates of poached, and these bowls of boiled? Seldom to be seen such a Teapot. But for the stroop, you might mistake it for a Tureen. Who expected to see you here? Yes— it is THE ROUND-towering by himself on that chest of drawers. No-not by himself-beneath his shadow reposes an unmistakable Brandy-bottle; nor will the froth on that ale-jug melt, till into it Christopher has dipped his Roman proboscis. 'Tis pleasing thus to compress all the meals that are usually scattered over the day into One mighty anonymous meal, in matter multiform, multifarious, and multitudinous, as in spirit the myriad-minded Shakespeare. Hark! how deliciously salutes our ears the hissing, and the fizzing, and the pabbling of the great pan in which the basted trouts are writhing as if in torments, while the gude wife herself, though she has had her tea and toast, feels herself called on now, as she values her temporal and eternal welfare, to bring household honour and conjugal pride to the aid of conscience and religion, that the Christian heroine may prove victorious over the temptation of the fish, and gain an immortal conquest over the savoury sin soliciting her, as Satan did Eve, with insidious whispers from the heart of that seducing Fry! She turns, but tastes them not-and just putting the fork to her lips, with a scientific whawmle empties the great pan into the great platter, and bearing the feast at arm's length and bosom-high, makes her entrée into the Parlour like a Queen. Assuredly, next to the satisfaction of a good conscience is that of a well-filled stomach. They are likewise kindred. So are hunger and remorse. We feel that now we have well performed our part in life—and are willing to leave the world to write our epitaph. Seem made for us, as if the carpenter had taken our measure, back and bottom of this easiest of all easychairs. Yet we see from these quaintly carved numerals 'tis a hundred years old. Contemporary with it all the rest of the oaken furniture; for we know that the wife of the landlord of New-Field was sole heiress of a Statesman, and though the Hill-Farm and all its sycamores were sold to pay "ten mortgages rolled into one," in consequence of many strange cala mities that kept befalling her humble house, the "family plenishing" was preserved, and fortune smiles now on the worthy pair, yet in the prime of life, though with sons and daughters ripe for love or war. That was a pretty creature who now took away the cheese—and the stripling who shook hands with Jonathan, when he has filled up a bit, will be a likely lad for the Belt at Carlisle. The scene shifts to the seat beneath the sycamore that hangs its twilight o'er the inn, ere it has touched the open atmosphere, which begins, however, to breathe of the stilly spirit of the late afternoon. Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! The mellow monotone is not unmusical-but what means Shallowbill by that flitting cry? "With soul as strong as a mountain river," from the top of the pine beside the chapel-tower bursts out the bold blackbird into a delirium of song-and seems delighted at intervals to listen to its echoes tinkling hurriedly among the rocks. Who shall sing a second to that song? Not Sontag's self—though surnamed the Nightingale. "In nature," says Coleridge, "there is nothing melancholy," wisely meaning that no living thing is created for unhappiness, and that the ordinary language of inferior life is expressive of pleasure. We wish we could say that in nature there is nothing discordant; but were we to say so, the bray of that ass would give us the lie. If he be gifted by nature with a musical ear, there must be some peculiarity in his throat and lungs that prevents him from carrying his ideas into execution. The distinguished donkey has finished his solo, and we trust will not be offended by our declining to call "encore." Yet he has been unconsciously exerting his vocal powers to enhance the delight of the ensuing silence: and in the hush, how pleasant the lowing of the kine, for 'tis the season of calves; the milky mothers are musical in their affection, and seldom have we heard a more harmonious concert of cows. But now 'tis gloaming—at least so thinks that bat-as dips the flittermouse fearlessly within a foot of our heads, and then keeps wavering to and fro between the sycamore and the barn. The most cheerful objects seem almost solemn in the dusk-while "The day is placid in its going, The loveliest of all light is that which precedes the moon, while yet her unseen orb is journeying up from behind the hill, and you are uncertain over what place she will raise her silver rim. Expect her rising as you will, the suddenness always adds a slight surprise to your delight, and for a moment you are doubtful if it be indeed the moon. Full seen now in slow ascension, how she deepens the whole blue serene of heaven! For a while you know not that there are any stars. But look! there is one large and lustrous-and now is the sky bedropt with diamonds, dim as if dewy; but there will be no rain tomorrow, for no aerial tresses are dishevelled along the "lift;" and the few clouds there are braided into folds of perfect peace. From heaven we withdraw our eyes, and they fall quietly on the house of God. Troutbeck Chapel-Langdale Chapel-Wythburn Chapel-Buttermere Chapel-Wastdale Chapel-Seathwaite Chapel-we bless you all! and every other holy edifice that cheers the Sabbath silence of the mountains with its single bell. Children are ye of one motherchurch, and true to her religious faith in your humble ritual, as minster or cathedral, "Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, A sort of slumbrous softness seems as if it were dewily sealing our eyes, and sleep whispers us to steal away with her into the land of dreams. Seven long leagues of a mountain-walk are something to a man of seventy-'tis seventeen hours since Christopher and the Sun arose—and more than an hour ago "the wearied sun betook himself to rest.” The remaining luminary-not the Moon-must follow the example; his age entitles him to the single-bedded room - and his night's rest is broken by the mildest snore. Good-night, boys and, Jonathan, see they do not get into mischief when their guardian has gone to roost. "To-morrow for fresh fields and pastures new." |