frequently so precipitous as to compel us to walk. A strong desire to examine all the scenery about these celebrated lakes, impelled us to undertake this arduous journey, which never occasioned a moment's regret.

Borrowdale, up which the first six or eight miles of our tour extended, is unrivalled in grandeur and sublimity by any mountain scenery I have ever visited, always excepting the pass of the White Hills; and in romantic wildness, by nothing save the head of Langdale, to which it is scarcely inferior. Crag after crag rises to view, and in the most savage forms impends over the vale. In many places fragments of the mountains have tumbled down, and covered whole acres with ruins. One rock in particular, which Milton's warring angels, or the itans of the Greek poets, could scarcely have moved, has descended from its bed, and now lies by the side of the road, like the bulk of a stranded ship. It is keel-shaped, and so narrow at the bottom, that my friend and I shook hands beneath it. A ladder has been made purposely for ascending it,, which we climbed and reposed awhile upon the blooming heath, growing on its top.

It was not without some reason, that Gray said in passing up the jaws of Borrowdale, close under its frightful precipices, he held his breath and hastened on in silence, lest the sound of his voice should loosen a fragment. His excursion, however, did not reach far enough to embrace either the grandest or the wildest of the scenery. Had he known what there was beyond the boundary of his tour, he certainly would have turned back, in the case above alluded to. A furious stream, which rushes and roars down the ravine, adds much to the wildness of the scene. A rude, one-arched stone bridge hangs loosely across it, near the head of the vale. It seemed hardly sufficient to sustain the weight of our ponies. On a rock below, girt with the foam of the stream, sat a solitary traveller sketching the bridge, and the head of Borrowdale above. The picture may perhaps be seen, on our return to London. A young lady of fortune, who is now in Paris, was so enamoured of the romantic charms of this glen, that she has erected a handsome house in one of the wildest parts of it. She deserves to be immortalized for her taste. Besides her's, there are few dwellings in the defile, except the cottages of shepherds, and one or two little villages of workmen, engaged in a valuable mine of plumba

go in the vicinity, where great quantities of black-lead pencils of an excellent quality are manufactured.

On reaching the brow of Stye-Head, which is at an elevation of about 2000 feet, and up the rocky sides of which our poor ponies had as hard work as ourselves to clamber, a view opened down Borrowdale, which the richest combinations of the imagination could scarcely surpass, and which it is impossible for me adequately to describe. From this point, the eye reaches the whole extent of the immense gorge, and rests upon Skiddaw and Saddleback in the distance, to the north of Keswick. Into the vale on either side, mountains and crags of every possible shape and variety project towards each other, intermingling their bold fronts and forming a serrated vista of hills, which exhibits the finest perspective, and seems lengthened far beyond the reality by a variation of light and shade. The view so far transcended the ordinary lineaments of nature, as to bewilder the mind and lead the spectator to think he was gazing on an unearthly scene. Could an exact transcript be reached by the pencil, few persons would believe that the picture had a prototype, and was not the work of fancy. Every thing is în exact accordance with the outlines--the stream, the bridge, the scattered huts in the depth of the glen, and the flocks hanging on the dizziest precipices.

We were now both literally and figuratively in the clouds, being between the Pikes of Scawfell and Great Gavel, the two highest mountains in the whole region of the lakes, and the former the loftiest in England. It commenced raining, and volumes of mist rolled along the dark ledges of rock, forming battlements still above us, and bordering the gloomy defile through which the pathway leads over a heath, and by the side of a solitary tarn. On reaching the brow of the precipice, which looks down for thousands of feet into the tremendous gulf at the head of Wastdale, where the clouds were seen tumbling and breaking beneath us, to a depth which the eye could not reach, my mind at first recoiled from such a descent. But onward was the word, and we proceeded step by step for a mile and a half down the track, which passes obliquely along the side of Great Gavel and conducts the traveller to the region below. The whole declivity, inclining with an angle of more than forty-five degrees, is covered with loose fragments, which have crumbled and slidden from the mountains,

?

The head of Wastdale is entirely desolate, where nothing is seen but clouds and rocks, mingling together in gloomy grandeur, and nothing heard but the dashing of torrents. After riding a mile or two farther, we reached the borders of A church scarcely as

cultivation, and a group of cottages.

large as an ordinary toll-house lifts its mimic turret from the bosom of the vale. The whole congregation consists of only forty-five persons, including men, women and children. They are entirely insulated from the rest of the world, and form a little flock under the charge of a pastor, who leads a life of primitive simplicity like themselves.

Our ride to-day exhibited so much wild and romantic scenery, a faithful description of which seems like exaggeration, that I hardly dare attempt to delineate a picture, which burst suddenly upon us, on reaching the shore of Wast Water. It had rained hard ever since arriving at the Pikes of Scawfell. All at once the cloud rose from the western horizon, and a light, half way between a dark and clear sky, disclosed the whole lake, stretching several miles towards the west, and skirted at that end with woods and green hills. Its southern shore is bounded by a long range of hills called the Screes, which push their perpendicular cliffs into the lake. The clouds still hung upon the brow of these rocks, descending in wreaths part way down the sides. Towards the head of the vale, all was darkness and gloom. The view which the lake presented, under such a light, and shaded by such drapery, made an impression upon my mind, that can never be effaced. I was anxious to fix it, as an image of a perfect picture, which the tints of no pencil could reach. Our aged guide remarked, that long as he had lived about the lakes, and often as he had gone this same round, he never had witnessed a scene, which struck him so forcibly.

At 4 o'clock in the afternoon, we reached a little village at the west end of the lake, which afforded us some refreshment, and detained us for a short time to examine its tiny church. Beneath the green sod in front, the forefathers of the valley repose, whose tomb-stones show, that many of them lived to a patriarchal age, protracted by a life of simplicity and contentment. Our ride at sunset along the road towards Calder Bridge, affording us a view of Black Comb, a lofty insulated mountain, and glimpses of the Irish sea, was by no means unpleasant. After pausing for a few minutes at the village of Gosport, to look at some curious pillars, in the

church-yard, supposed to be of Roman origin, and to admire a neat sarcophagus, which affection had planted under a sheltering yew, in memory of a young lady, we arrived at a small inn upon the banks of the Calder, and were lulled to sleep by the music of a waterfall.

Taking an early breakfast, the next morning we pursued our journey, bending our course back towards Keswick. At the distance of a mile from the inn are the ruins of Furness Abbey, situate upon the immediate banks of the Calder, a rapid stream descending from the mountains. Several of the ivy-mantled arches are yet standing, affording a lodgment to flocks of rooks, which are hovering about the decayed tower, as if in mockery of its former grandeur. The edifice appears to have been of a mixed order of architecture, partly Saxon, and partly Norman Gothic. An album is placed in one of the cells, by means of which the visitant may send his name down to posterity, by paying a shilling postage. A handsome mansion has been erected near the ruin, through the garden and fruitery of which the man in attendance conducted us.

Soon after leaving this place, the path stretches for many miles over a bleak and barren moor, called Cold Fell; a name by no means inappropriate. A squall of wind and rain here overtook us, against which our cloaks furnished but a poor defence. Frequent turns in the ro d compelled us to beat against the storm, somewhat in the manner of the old Admiral in Peregrine Pickle, till all sides were pretty thoroughly drenched.

The squall, however, soon blew over, and gleams of shade and sunshine exhibited the scenery about Ennerdale and Lowes Water to good advantage. There is nothing peculiarly striking in the former. Its western shore is bold, formed by the base of a lofty hill; its borders rural; and its outlet a beautiful stream. The latter is a romantic little lake, and the mountain scenery at its head extremely fine. A deep and rugged gorge opens from its end into Borrowdale. Lowes Water is the favourite of our guide, and with the doting fondness of age, he took particular pains to show off its charms in the most favourable light. Passing along the whole extent of its border, and crossing several fine streams, hastening on to the Irish sea, we arrived at Scale Hill in season to dine sumptuously on trout and char.

The

latter is without exception, the most delicious fish I have ever tasted—at any rate, it so appeared to me on that day.

The

At the distance of half a mile from the inn, we embarked on board of a row-boat, and launched upon the waters of lake Crummock, for the purpose of visiting the fall of Scale Force which could not be approached on horseback. wind was against us, and two hours were occupied in navigating four miles, the length of the lake, including a walk of three quarters of a mile to the cascade, which is decidedly the finest we have found in this region. It is situated in a deep, rocky, and woody ravine, or gill, as such passes are here called. The water, what there is of it, descends 156 feet in an unbroken silver stream, varying but five degrees from a perpendicular. It produces a pretty echo among the rocks, which form its bed; and the foliage overhanging it, sparkles with the spray. There is nothing very peculiar in the mountains about lake Crummock, with the exception of Red Pike, which differs entirely in complexion from the other hills, as its name imports. Its naked and ruinous peak is composed of dark-red sand-stone, which has led to a conjecture that it was once a volcano. There however appears

to be little foundation for such a hypothesis.

As the afternoon was now nearly wasted, we crossed the lake to its head, remounted our ponies, and rode a mile to Buttermere, the last in the long circuit. The alluvial tract between Crummock and Buttermere is peculiarly rural and picturesque, being seen in connexion with both lakes, the latter of which is small, but finely cradled among the mountains. A headlong torrent, pouring from a tarn on the brow of Red Pike, adds much to the romantic beauty of the scenery. Our stay here was short. Crossing a fell denominated the Haws, we descended into the vale of Newlands, and just at evening arrived again in sight of the glassy Derwent, and of the village of Keswick seated upon its shores. Another half hour's ride took us to the hotel, where a little repose after a fatiguing but delightful jaunt was not unwelcome.

The next morning I despatched a letter of introduction to the Poet Laureate of England, who has a beautiful seat upon the banks of the Greta, half a mile from the village. In a short time a polite and friendly note was received, containing not only an invitation to tea at 6 o'clock that evening, but also a memorandum of the most interesting objects