From Tait's Magazine. A NIGHT IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD OF DERWENT WATER. FOR the next century we fear the annalist | throated instruments, startling echo with unof pedestrianism will have but few materials wonted violence from her peaceful retreats, to work upon. With benevolent consider- where the wild notes of the cascade, the ation we shall therefore furnish him with a blended harmony of melodious birds, and feat we were honored to achieve in the the shrill shriek of the mountain spirit, were summer of last year. After spending a alone congenial. The romance of a tour night on the banks of Windermere, at about among the lakes is sadly interrupted by eight o'clock in the morning of a beautiful, these painful tokens of a money-loving age, but somewhat sultry day in June, we set and a matter-of-fact world. The steamboat out on foot from Bowness, intending, if pos- proprietors, and the prosaic parties that consible, to reach Keswick in the twilight. tribute to their support, have unquestionably From our starting-place to Ambleside, the the impression that Nature has so few charms, road presents a variety of noble prospects, that of herself she is insufficient to afford any both of the lake and the circumjacent real recreation and enjoyment. They don't scenery. The unbroken quietude that slept believe the poet when he says " Thou on every object; the aspect of perfect re- mad'st all Nature beauty to his eye and pose that sat upon "the river-lake," and music to his ear." Her beauty must be imthe gigantic heights glassed in its transpa- proved and supplemented, to suit the temper rency-induced a placid calm upon the and tastes of the age; her pellucid specula spirit, and ameliorated the heart with profit- must be broken, and shivered and smashed to able reflection. Suddenly the neighbor- powdery spray by the tormenting wheels of ing hills rung out their echoes in a deafen- a thundering steamboat; her clear, cloudless ing, continuous peel-shattering sounds sky and lustrous sun must be agreeably rebroke unwelcomely over the lake, and lieved by a smutty tinge of infernal smoke, drowned the cadences of the waterfalls, that to remind the manufacturing and commercial had only served to voice the silence and tourists of the charming impervious crassiproclaim its presence. We looked and list- tude that oppresses and begrims the caliginened; we could scarcely credit our senses. ous atmosphere of Leeds or Glasgow. Her A grim black monster was seen vomiting music, too, must be mended; her melodious forth volumes of dunnest smoke, that dark- birds, her vocal cataracts, her quiet singing ened the deep blue of the sky, rushing tor- brooks, and all the wild and wayward strains turingly through the bosom of the lake, of her spiritual harp, must join in concert breaking into fragments the watery mirror with the stunning roar of trumpets, fifes and with the remorseless dash of its iron wings, drums, before these worthy and enlightened as the sun glared indignantly from his throne people can derive any pleasure from her upon his broken and distorted image. It sights and sounds, and force themselves into was freighted with a cargo of well-dressed such tame furiousness as to ejaculate, with people, who, from their unnatural conduct a pseudo-poetical obstreperousness, "How ought to have been behind the counter, at pretty!" "Come now, that's well got the exchange, or lounging away the morning up! on their ottomans in town, instead of recklessly marring the natural features, and disturbing the tranquillity of this quiet region. To relieve, as it should seem, the tedium of the excursion, a large band of musicians poured a horse clangor from their brazen It has long struck us, and our visit to these districts greatly strengthened the conviction, that mountain and lake scenery should, if possible, be witnessed alone. like-minded companion may do very well for some time, but even of him you may tire, A and wish sincerely a solitary hour, to expose yourself, without restraint, to the soliciting influences around you. An incident occurred during a tour through the Western Highlands of Scotland, which corroborated our opinion, and determined finally our resolution always to travel in such a country alone. In passing through Edinburgh, we accidentally stumbled on an individual with whom we had been very slightly acquainted at college. We knew him to be a vigorous student, but destitute of a scintillation of fancy. Being informed of our route, he proposed to accompany us. With some hesitation we consented. A very few hours' mutual converse among the wilds of nature soon discovered the antagonism of our dispositions. A rupture seemed every moment inevitable. An occasion soon offered, and the tie was immediately severed. We stood together on a bold craggy promontory commanding a magnificent view of a beautiful loch, enriched with clusters of poetic associations, and encircled on all sides by mountains of great sublimity and historical interest. The scene suggested silence and reverie. Absorbed in the wilderness of wonders, spirited upwards by an invisible but omnipotent agency, no sound escaped us to indicate that we were not parts of the glorious whole. The solitude was perfect, the stillness unbroken-we could have heard even the measured beat of the muffled heart in its funeral march, had we not been exclusively occupied in the outer world. After a long pause of sacred communion, a voice suddenly, with the most perfect sang froid, exclaimed, "This is nice.' Scared, as if by a phantom's hollow accents of terror, heard in the midst of a dream of bliss, away we sprang with the speed of an antelope, darted through bracken bush, prickly furze, and tangled brushwood, scaled with furious velocity the neighboring heights, and, all breathless and exhausted, reached the mountains of Ben Dhu, where, far from the sacrilegious interlocutor, we fortunately seized again the skirts of Nature, who had fled in indignation from her violated sanctuary. "L'ame se montre en peu," says De Staël-here it was exemplified. To return it was with feelings considerably chafed, that we afterwards pursued our way to Ambleside. It stands pleasantly at the northern extremity of Windermere, and affords some very fine views of the lake and its environs. We then visited Rydal Mount, the residence of Wordsworth, who, unfortunately for us, was engaged in certainly not the most poetical, though, perhaps, the most necessary occupation in the world. In short, he was at dinner, and therefore invisible. Having traced the valley of Grasmere, and placed its solitary emerald isle and lake as gems in the cabinet of memory, we ascended the mighty Helvellyn," where the whole lacustrine tableau in a moment depicted itself indelibly upon the mind; and just as the sun was sinking behind the western mountains, we looked down upon Derwent Water and the lovely vale of Keswick. Descending into the neat, picturesque town, where Southey spent some of his happiest and many of his saddest days, and his sweetest strains were sung, we found the principal street dotted with groups of gossipping idlers, keenly engaged in discussing the merits of the various equipages that swept past from the eastern lakes, crammed with tourists--whether veritable or ostensible, we leave sub judice--of both sexes, of all grades, and of all ages, that looked pleasant and amiable at sight of the substantial hostelrie, where savory viands and grateful beverages awaited the clamant organ and the parched lip. The clit-clat-rat-a-tat of horses' feet pattering down the sloping turnpike, and along the dusty street; the jingle-jangle of harness, like the bells of a Swiss tamborine; the grumble-rumble-tumble of lumbering chaises; the smothered dull sound of patentspringed private phaetons, mingled with the obstreperous vociferations of hostlers, understrappers, and uncombed urchins, clamorously bickering with one another as to who should ride the old hacks to water, gave the mountain village quite an air of bustle and activity, contrasting strangely with the surrounding scenery. The verdant brow of Skiddaw, the meek mild lake over which a cloud rested, as well as the distant rugged wilds of Borrowdale, seemed to frown on the insensate intruders into their quiet domains, where the solitary traveller seems the only welcome visitant. The genius of the dark fells scowled horribly, but without the success of Di Gama's apparition at the Cape; for no one seemed to care a fiddle-pin whether he scowled or smiled. But the dissonance and din of bustling travellers, loquacious townspeople, and wrangling imps, soon ceased, and silence resumed her tranquil sway. We were alone in Keswick. None of the happy faces we had seen jauntily peering from the dashing vehicles, or watching their arrival from the windows of the Royal Oak and the Queen's Head, had greeted us with a smile of recognition We stood unnoticed and unknown, and we, were really glad of it, though, in spite of all our enthusiasm, we experienced a slight sinking of heart when we thought of entering the public room, where instruments, untuned by the invisible spirits of the scenery around, were playing harsh music. There we knew no creature cared for us; and the peculiar melodies, wild, stirring, plaintive, or soothing, which had been evoked from the viewless chords of our inner being during that day's journey, lingered so sweetly in our ears, that with our steps on the threshold of the inn, whence a jocund peal was ringing, we paused, and suddenly "We heard the trailing garments of the night Sweep through her marble halls; We saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From her celestial walls; We felt her presence, by its spell of might, The calm, majestic presence of the night, and the lake, and on the lonely summit of the wild mountain. Pacing leisurely down the quiet street, where a solitary individual might still be seen, that "Eyed the blue vault, and blessed the useful light,” we reached its western extremity; and, hearing the river "Making sweet music with the enamelled stones," we turned our footsteps in that direction, and soon found ourselves on the banks of the Derwent. Long interlaced lines of brushwood fringed its borders, and, in some places, denied easy access to its waters. The moonbeam trembled in silver on its wimpling wave, giving it the appearance of the evening sky glittering with argent brightness through a stripe of forest trees. We wandered with the river, and listened attentively to its utterances. A feeling crept stealthily over us--a feeling we have often experienced, and which seems peculiarly the product of rivers, when The poetic genius of the place whispered- no intervenient agencies destroy or diminish "How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; In full-orbed glory the majestic moon How beautiful is night!" Another spirit continued— "How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh With Eve, we then inquired- "But wherefore all night long shine these? for whom This gorgeous sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?" True, "Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep." But is this scene of glory spread out for them alone? Can we not join their band, hymn the great Creator, and "lift our thoughts to heaven?" A moment, and we were decided to spend the night by the river, their natural influences. It was a conscious existence in the world of the future. We have elsewhere said that the genius of the cataract is retrospective; we add, the genius. of the river is prospective. Surrendering ourselves to the sway of the former, we feel no inclination to soar into the possible and the future; what has been, and is not, usurps the imagination, while, on the contrary, under the impulse of the latter, our thoughts naturally roll onwards with the rolling river, and lose themselves in the ocean of eternity. What shall be, but is not, claims the dominion of the soul. Along the banks of that suggestive river, we mused on the fate that might await us in the coming scenes of the great drama of existence, and the developing destiny of the world. At that moment, the crumbling thrones and melting dynasties of the Continent seemed to augur a speedy consummation. The majestic river of life was apparently approaching the termination of its course. A new era appeared about to rise upon the world. We seemed to have reached the confines of the hour destined to herald the doom and regeneration, the death and the life, of humanity. If that hour has not yet arrived, may we not believe it is swiftly advancing? The convulsions of society, multiplying in number and violence, will not retard it. They are its infallible forerunners, the preparatory movements of that power that shall achieve the complete and final renovation of the world. they have also power to substitute in their stead a code of truths, a system of morals constituting a kingdom of liberty, righteousness, and peace. We look with no sceptical eye upon the threat- the scheme which the enlightened Christian ening aspect of European affairs. Through philanthropist, in obedience to the dictates of the darkness of the gathering tempest we dis- infallible truth, has fearlessly promulgated. cern harbingers of tranquil skies. We look He has declared that the principles of the with the eye of calm, assured hope upon the Bible, the great truths of the New Testavessel freighted with the best interests ment, the sacred doctrines, and the halof humanity, tossing, reeling, creaking, and lowing ethics of the inspired volume, are shuddering to her centre under the angry alone the mighty levers adapted and destined swell of the furious waters; for we behold, to upheave the institutes of error and ignositting at her helm, a skillful pilot, who, rance, to hurl the stately systems of superthough invisible to sense, will guide her in stition into undistinguishable ruin, to oversafety to the haven of rest, where man's throw the blood-based thrones of tyrants, brightest hopes shall all be fulfilled, and his and to destroy with irresistible convulsion ideal of social elevation more than realized. | the last remnants and the lowest strata of The desolation of the hurricane is the prelude established despotism. But these principles, of fertility; the agitations of society, the her- it is maintained, are not merely negative— alds of a glorious millennium. Rage on, then, they are omnipotently positive. Not only ye wrathful waters; rock tempestuously the have they power to expel all false maxims in fragile, shivering ship; howl and shriek, ye religion, morals, and politics, from the world baleful blasts, and tear her canvas into shreds; thunder, ye grim clouds, upon her groaning timbers, dart your forked lightnings through her shrouds, and rend her spars of oak into splintered fragments--for confusion yet shall hear a voice, and wild uproar stand ruled, and the shattered bark shall ride once more as proudly on the subject waves as when launched at first from her mighty builder's hand, and hailed by the joyful shout of the sons of God and the song of the morning stars. We feel a strange delight even in the prospect of mingling with the clashing elements out of which this glorious event is to spring. Action, action is our watchword. We are here not to dream, but to live-not to idle, but to labor-nor to loiter, but to march, to pant, to pray for the hour of man's full stature, for the day of perfected humanity. The period of adolescence is past—we are on the verge of maturity. We have already borne "the banner with the strange device" through wildering snow and falling avalanches; let us grasp it still, with the energy of death, and shout," Excelsior!" But it may be said, this is all good, delightful, desirable; but instead of bodying forth the future in these shapings which imagination may mould and clothe with a vestment of illusive enchantment, present us with the great engines, the positive principles by which this predicted result is to be accomplished. This is a legitimate question, and one which genius often leaves unanswered, or but partially resolved. Statesmen, political economists, philosophers of every name, educationists, white, grey, and black, have each proposed a different instrument and a different theory-all have been more or less tried, and all have more or less failed. The only illustrious exception is We left the banks of the stream deeply moved, and with nerves more tensely strung to enter the arena of life. This is one of the many precious fruits of meditative solitude. We there drink in those generous thoughts, those lofty aspirations, that dilate the soul, swell it with unutterable longings after higher good, and stimulate all the dormant energies of the intellectual and moral being into invincible action in the cause of humanity. The clock struck one as we re-entered the precincts of Keswick. "Night's sepulchure" was full-no breathing thing was to be seen. Silence, that meetest emblem of death, sat in undisturbed sovereignty upon the habitations of men. Sleep is awful! ""Tis as the general pulse of life stood still, And Nature made a pause." But the pulse stands not still-Nature makes no pause-the pulse beats onwards to the grave-Nature hastens silently along her "dim and perilous way" to the hour when she shall shake into dissolution. Miserable mankind, and miserable creatures, were this the termination of your existence! But no; as this night of inactive slumber shall be succeeded by a day of vital activity, so shall the gloom of the grave and the darkness of a judged world depart before the dawn of an eternal light, the advent of an endless life. Sleep is awful, but to most it is the sweetest boon that Nature can bestow. Strange that oblivion should be so grateful! Why is it so? The consciousness of existence, forced upon man rather by pieces of spar may be distinctly seen, nearly twenty feet below the surface. This arises, we understand, from the purity of its tributaries, which flow in channels of slate and granite. It is surrounded on all sides with towering mountains of every shape-pyramidal, conical, semicircular, and nondescript-presenting all the varieties of Alpine scenery. Pennant very truthfully says: sorrow than by joy, is, in his present imper- | fect condition, the great burden under which he groans. Anything, therefore, that relieves the sense of being is welcome. How few can endure to feel that they exist!-how few can voluntarily dash the cup of oblivion from their lips, and invite the full consciousness of present actual being! How few can combat successfully the temptation to drink, when the waters of Lethe flow at their feet! The earth surely labors under some mortal malady. Till this curse be removed, till this malady be healed, man shall never rejoice in his existence, he shall never bless the day of his birth. At present, his happiness seems chiefly, or wholly, negative. The forgetfulness of what he is, where he is going, and what he is to become, seems to constitute the sum of his blessedness. The steady, fixed effort to resolve these problems, gene-bounding all that part of the vale, rises gently to rates, in most cases, melancholy, disappoint-bounding ment, and despair, and serves only to aggravate the mystery in which they naturally stand enveloped. Baffled in the attempt, he retires spiritless, hopeless, bewildered, and undone. He yields to the craving of his nature after rest of some kind. He flies to excitement by day, partly to revelry and partly to sleep by night, that now by maddening mental intoxication, and now by deadening insensibility, he may secure an utter oblivion of the past and of the future; and thus, like the fleet ostrich, with its head beneath its wing, he tries to realize his safety when the rushing hunter dashes remorselessly upon his prey, and strikes it at a blow into the dust of death. Some few strong spirits grapple successfully with these momentous questions. Carrying along with them the torch of revelation, the volume of conscience, and the inscriptions of the outer world, they solve the mystic problem of life, and find "The clue to all the maze of mind." These, and these alone, court not sleep for its oblivion, but for its sweet, restoring influences, that they may feel more intensely that they are. Passing through the town from west to east, we diverged to the south, in the direction of the lake. It is of an oblong form, nearly three miles in length, a mile and a half in breadth, and interspersed with five beautiful islands. The water is more transparent than that of any other mountain lake. În a bright day, when the sun is flashing down through its depths, balls of quartz and "The two extremes of the lake afford the most discordant prospects. The southern is a composition of all that is horrible. An immense chasm opens in the midst, whose entrance is divided by a rude conic hill, once topped with a castle, the habitation of the tyrant of the rocks; beyond, a series of broken mountainous crags soar one above the other, overshadowing the dark winding deeps of Borrowdale. But the opposite or northern view is, in all respects, a strong and beautiful contrast. Skiddaw shows its vast base, and, a height that sinks the neighboring hills; opens a pleasing front, smooth and verdant, smiling over the country like a generous lord; while the fells of Borrowdale frown over it like a hardened tyrant." No tourist has given a more graphic description than this veteran traveller of the last century. He saw it, however, only by day. In moonlight its features are wonderfully transformed. The lake, studded with the bright circlets of the sky, lies like an expanse of molten silver; the groves that fringe the skirts of the mountains appear like sable plumes whitened with the frost of winter; the cliffs, that beetle ruggedly over the shining wave, smile like grim warriors viewing from their watchtowers the quietude and beauty of the land they guard; the islands look like mocha-stones chased in the finest silver. Every bay and headland suggests some pleasing fancy. The whole scene is invested with a mantle of enchantment. When we arrived on its banks, by some fortunate chance a little skiff lay unmoored, as if the goddess of the lake invited us to visit her watery home. In a few minutes we sped right into the middle, beyond the shadows of the mountains. As we skimmed smoothly along the illumined path, Southey's beautiful epitaph on "Emma" came vividly to recollection. Fancy brought back that fair "beloved and lovely being," as she plied her little skiff on the same lake: "Nymph-like, amid that glorious solitude, A heavenly presence, gliding in her joy." We have little sympathy with Southey's |