immortal essence comprehends the truth of the being and attributes of God, and links each orb, as it rolls majestically along the infinitude of space, with its divine Creator? Take away this knowledge, and where is nature's enchanting grace? Enlarge the conception, increase the love, etherealize the whole man, and then tell us if you do not, with a quicker ken, and a higher affection, and a loftier spirituality, behold in this magnificent universe a brighter illustration of the Eternal's power and goodness, than ye did when girt around with ignorance and bounded in by a feeble and glimmering light?

If, then, it is the soul that adorns this outspreading creation, may it not be conceived that as the soul progresses in purity and holiness, so will it throw around the visible universe a deeper and a sweeter beauty? Let man awake to love, and immediately what was dull and meaningless before, becomes at once speaking and full of expression; tints of Paradise are seen streaking the horizon with orient hues; flowers of Eden waft their perfumes over the earth; a fairer and a softer light beams from the sky; each cloud is more divinely bright; each star sparkles with an intenser lustre; the grass is clothed with a greener verdure; a deep, delicious music is in every sound; the winds chant a more exquisite song; the roll of ocean's waves is subdued to a gentle liquid cadence; love veils the creation with a thousand graces; there is a freshness and a loveliness as of spring.

Now it is well known that the world was the same before we dreamt of love, and yet what difference!-how is this?-what is the cause? -the soul-that has become spiritualized; the mind is changed, not the universe; in its purer feelings and aspirations, the earth has put on all the dewy charms of a new creation.

If, then, the universe appears so much more beautiful when the spirit becomes alive to its own nature, with what a deeper majesty will it be invested when that spirit is made perfect in love! In heaven we shall be thus perfect; and it will be there, too, that each sense will be gratified with every sweet and lovely form. The perceptions will be more exquisite, the taste faultless, the ear more attuned to godlike music, the eye breathing out a deeper ocean of eternal tenderness, and the soul more capable of adorning earth, sea, and sky with inexpressible glories. Jehovah's creation shall then stand in our estimation higher than it ever stood before, and stir up every feeling of our heart to praise, and magnify, and laud the Everlasting

One.

Spiritualize our nature, and you, as it were, create anew the earth; deaden its finer energies and thoughts, and you darken the universe of God.

But, it may be said, that at death man will be changed. We cannot admit this: for if he has been renewed by the Holy Ghost, he already possesses eternal life; that principle which will wholly influence him in heaven has already dawned; his celestial being has commenced; his holier existence begun. It is, we know, but a mere glimmering of light, but still it is the beam of that same sun: this cannot be dis

guised. That which throws so sweet and soft a glory on his path now, is the same which will illumine his future home with all the splendours of an infinite day.

And if this principle delights in the hills and dales of earth, it cannot fail to reap a kindred pleasure when quickened and enlarged under the eternal sunshine of heaven. Did death change this new nature, this new being, then our argument fails; but death does not change it; the divine life is already a part of the future existence; and if it is gratified with a leaf or flower here, it will be equally gratified with a leaf or flower there.

But still there may remain the objectionwe shall be as the angels. We believe this, because Christ has told us so: but it is no real objection; it is rather a proof of our proposition. We have seen that those spiritual natures possess a perception of beauty, and an appreciating taste for the outward loveliness of the universe, when they sent up immortal harmonies as the birth-star glistened in this lower world. If, therefore, they can reap joy and delight from the manifold glories of creation, and as we are to be like them, it follows that we, too, shall receive a deep and glowing gratification from the same exquisite objects.

The Banks of Tamar breathes the same spirit and tone as Dartmoor, and has all its descriptive beauty and liquid tenderness. Our limits forbid us to cull any of its fragrant flowers; we therefore turn to the minor pieces, several of which are, perhaps, more strikingly characteristic of their author. There is much sublimity in The Storm and The Gamester, both of which are written in a masterly manner. How fine is the following

Narrow the entrance. Two misshapen rocks Rushed up on either hand, and overhung Awhile the darkened path, but all within Lay in the golden sunshine. Soon was heard The low, sweet music of a thousand rills Crossing the sward luxuriant, and the rush Of mightier streams was heard, that, far off, leaped Into the echoing valley. Wider spread The glen; and darker, higher rose the cliffs, And greenly grew the beautiful moist grass; And brighter bloomed the flowers-such flowers as love A mountain home; and from the clefts the broom Looked out; and in the sunshine smiled the heathThe bonny heath; and in that valley's breeze Waved from the precipice the light-leaved ash; And here and there the aged, stunted oak Leaned o'er the crumbling brink. At once the war Of rock and river burst upon the eye And ear astonished. High above, the streams, Fed from exhaustless founts, rushed headlong on, Where, all uninjured, lay the mountain rocks Magnificently strewed, and broke the power That broke in thunder through them, and upflung Their sun-touched foam-wreaths to the pleasant gale That played around inconstant.

Broader now The broken stream rolled onwards, yet deprived Of half its fierceness. By the opposing rocks It swept, in beautiful motion, and the eye Looked on the bright confusion-looked and beamed With pleasure, and a gentle calm diffused Its influence o'er the spirit, as the tones Most musical, through all the languid noon, Rose of the broad blue waters.

A cavern; and bright, and bursting from its jaws
Into the day, a highland torrent flashed
Upon the eye. Adown the wooded slopes,
Leaping from steep to steep, it came, and flung
Its music on the air of that wild place-
Wild, yet most beautiful. A silver shower
Eternal drizzled there; and near it grew
The moisture-loving moss, arrayed in green
That rivalled the clear emerald; and plants
Of freshest leaf, and flowers that fill their cups
With mountain dews, but wither in the beam
Of southern skies. One solitary bird,
To the deep voices of that waterfall,
Responsive sung a strange but lovely strain,
Like the soft gurgling which the streamlets make,
Sweet playing with the pebbles. Never sound
Within that holy sanctuary rise

Ruder than bird's heart-refreshing strains.
Or voice of winds, or the undying flow
Of the complaining waters!

This graphic description recals to our mind the beautiful valley of the Dove. Many years have flown by since we wandered along the banks of its limpid waters; but time has not robbed those long-remembered hours of their charming sweets; rather hath it added a deeper and diviner witchery. There is ever something peculiarly soothing in reviewing those spots one visits in youth: the spirit instinctively turns with a pleasing, though pensive, delight to those bright and sunny seasons; their scenes become part of the soul; and when the dark clouds of sorrow shut out the clear, blue heavens, we return to them as to some shady, forest-embosomed home, where the storm and the blast and the hurricane are never heard, and around which the wild flowers blossom and bloom eternally.

In this manner have we often lived over again the period we spent at Dovedale. Associations roll a deeper beauty over its fair features. We have since visited its region of loveliness; no blight was there: changes had taken place in the interval among mankind, but this spot stood untouched. The face of friendship had grown pale, and the grave had upheaved its earth to receive the forms of those beloved ones whose smile was light to our dwelling; but this secluded and peaceful dell looked as fresh and as gay as when first beheld. We gazed on each well-known rock, and each unforgotten scene, as upon some long-cherished companion. Ah, how often had it refreshed the soul when oppressed and heavy laden! Yes, and we have turned from the lofty Ben Lomond, and the blue summits of Snowden, and the secluded banks of Eamont's stream, and deemed this simple valley, with its splintered rocks, its dark green foliage, its beautiful flowers, its clear river, and its memories of olden times, even a sweeter and calmer rest from the toil of existence, and a more peaceful and unbroken haven for the aspirations of the spirit.

It was the leafy month of June that we chose for our visit to Dovedale, when the gale is burdened with the scent of new-made hay;

when the birds sing in the woods, and the butterfly roves amid the myriad flowers; when the corn waves in the fields, and the hedgerows fling out their unnumbered sweets; and when the sky is all one unclouded blue. The very month is entwined with memories of joy and gladness; and although May is more refreshing and invigorating, still June breathes a softer and more delicious voluptuousness.

On the first day of this glorious month we set off; it was a beautiful morning; the carols of the birds, the fine azure heavens, the luxuriant foliage, the woodbine and rose and elder waving in the hedges, and the quiet loveliness of nature, filled the heart with a rapturous joy. We rode onward, passing the gates of old and venerable halls, and through several villages, with their rustic cottages and ancient churches. The road was finely wooded until we entered Derbyshire; then, instead of green hedges, and thick underwood, and wide spreading plantations, we saw nothing but dull stone walls and far-stretched fields. We continued our journey, and at length saw before us Dovedale-the valley of the Dove! and to one whose love of creation is a passion, and the all-absorbing in fluence, there is no scene more soothing than a still and lonely dell. Every tumultuous emotion is calmed; every feeling subdued; there is an air of undisturbed repose which contrasts strangely with the bustle of life. The appearance of the vale from the distance is very striking; its wild simplicity, its high hills, its dark green shrubs, its scattered sheep, its grey sides seen just as the sun is sinking westward, and the breeze begins to play, are not without a thrilling and binding power.

The memories of the past came over us. Here, in days gone by, lingered the good old Izaak Walton, and his friend Cotton; here, too, the open-hearted Goldsmith, and Sir Humphrey Davy, and Byron, and James Montgomery have rambled. All have spoken of its charms, but none with so much grace and beauty as the venerable angler: he has shed a hallowed influence on stream, and hill, and dale; and to one whom he had enchanted with his mellowed page, this dell could not otherwise than be deeply interesting. Around the region he has thrown a classical loveliness; by its clear waters did he stroll, and often would he pause and drink in the glory of creation. How eloquently would he talk of honey-suckle hedges, and April showers, and sunny skies, and odorous grass, and meadows sprinkled with the daisy and the cowslip; indeed, so great was his love for this stream, that a cottage was raised in one of its most romantic nooks for the reception of fishers, and over the door was inscribed the cipher of his own and his brother's name. It remains much the same as when first erected, and the description of Viator is not unsuitable to its present condition: "It stands in a kind of peninsula, with a delicate clear river about it; I am the most pleased with this little house of anything I ever saw. I dare hardly go in, lest I should not like it so well within as without; but by your leave I'll try. Why, this is better and better: fine lights, finely wainscoted, and all exceeding neat, with a marble table in the middle!"

The beautiful spots of Nature receive much of their fascinating charm from the associations wherewith they are surrounded: the mind of man throws a more hallowed loveliness over creation; the lovely scene becomes yet more lovely by his power, the universe may be sublime, the earth may be fair, the ocean may be shrouded in with grandeur as of eternity; but sublime and fair, and grand as these may be, still do they put on a more thrilling magnificence when touched by the Immortal.

Dovedale is about four miles north-west of Ashbourne-a pretty, old-fashioned town, containing one of the most beautiful churches in the kingdom, and an ancient grammar-school. Ashbourne also possesses a peculiar interest from the visits of Johnson, and from Prince Charles Stuart having twice passed through its streets with his brave followers, in the memorable 1745.

The length of the sweet valley is nearly three miles; and its breadth in no part exceeds more than a quarter, whilst in many places it is so narrow as scarcely to leave a passage for its beautiful river. Its stream divides Staffordshire from Derbyshire, the sides of which present somewhat different features: whilst the banks of the former are clothed with a luxuriant vegetation, the banks of the latter are destitute of shrub and tree. The hills that shut in this romantic dale are very steep, and their sharp-pointed rocks, overgrown with ivy, and moss, and lichen, peering upwards amongst the green summer foliage, have the appearance of ruined castles and time-worn minsters: over all is cast an unruffled stillness, which the low dashing of the water does little to disturb.

We put up at the inn called after the venerable name of Izaak Walton, and from which the entrance of the dell is seen. In a few moments, we commenced our walk down the valley, first passing across a rustic bridge. Silence sat upon every object, which the murmurings of the stream seemed to deepen: nothing can be more picturesque and beautiful than its varied scenes: at one time all is ruined and desolated with dashing waters; at another, gentle and romantic in the extreme. At length we reached the Reynard's Cave: before it rises a magnificent arch, and from beneath, one of the finest views may be obtained. This spot possesses a mournful interest from the following fact; and beautiful as is this scene, yet does the sad account invest it with a lovelier shade. A dignitary of the church, Dr. Langton, Dean of Clogher, while on a visit at Longford Hall, in July, 1761, spent a day at Dovedale, and on returning, he proposed to ride up this steep acclivity, when Miss La Roche, a lady of the party, proposed to accompany him on the same horse. In its attempt upwards, the animal fell, and the clergyman received such injuries that he died in a few hours; the youthful companion was, however, more fortunate, and escaped with a few slight bruises. Gazing from under this vast archway upon the scene below, the mind soon puts on a solemnity of thought and feeling.

We began to return about nine; only one single star shot forth its solitary light, and the

-

We sat at the evening repast in silence; our thoughts were strangely solemn, our dreams partook of the same character. In a lonely dell we walked, and then the soul seemed lifted aloft into the pure ether, and there were scenes of wonder, and glorious beauty, and mighty shapes, and low liquid melodies, and flowers of every hue and every form, and skies serenely bright, and dwellings rose-clustered, lovely as the opening dawn; and then again we were rambling along the dark, dim, solitary valley, and we listened to its rushing waters, and gazed upon the silver light of its single star, and thought- -!

The soft, still radiance of day came stealing in at the window, and awoke us: our eye turned instinctively towards the dell. Soon after breakfast, we started on our way to Ilam Hall, the seat of Jesse Watts Russell, Esq., M.P. After crossing the river Manifold, by a neat bridge, we soon arrived at the entrance gates. A pretty path led to the church. We love to see a good old English church! Those dear grey piles, with their spires and towers, are the pride of our villages, the beauty of our cities, and the glory of our land: "Crowning a flowery slope it stood alone in gracious sanctity." The ancient fane, overgrown with dark green ivy, presents a very picturesque appearance; its exterior is plain and neat; the principal object of attraction here is the mausoleum, containing a sculptured group, by Chantry, in memory of Pike Watts, Esq., the father of the late Mrs. Watts Russell. It is a small gothic chapel, of octagonal shape, erected on the north side of the church: the monument is exquisite. The venerable old man is represented as bestowing his parting blessing on his daughter and her little ones during the midnight hour. The effect is strikingly solemn; every surrounding object is shut out from view by the dim religious glass of the windows: the light falls on the features of parent and children with peculiar softness; it is richly radiated with a calm, quiet loveliness; it is a spot, once seen, never forgotten; its stillness, and its mellowed beams, and its touching memorial, leave their remembrance on the soul for ever.

From here, we proceeded to the mansion, "which is built of stone; its outline and elevation are remarkably good; its style is a compound of Saxon, Tudor, and Elizabethan. A fine oriel window occupies a conspicuous and central position in the principal front, to the right of which appear the painted windows of the entrance; a hanging garden supported on arches forms a bold projection on the left; while, towering high above the other parts of the edifice, rises the flag-turret, a noble and characteristic feature in the pile. When the flag is hoisted, fanned as it is by the mountain breezes, its crimson drapery may be seen waving at a great distance, and in some points of view, where it peeps forth, the effect is most beautiful; to the left, and likewise in the rear of the mansion, a hanging wood of great richness and beauty clothes the declivities of a precipitous hill, at the base of which lies the rocky bed of the river Manifold: the same wood sweeping round to the eastward, forms an admirable background to the picture; while on the right are seen the mountains of Dovedale, which have an air of dreary grandeur, contrasting strangely with the luxuriance of the wooded

hills on the left."

After spending some time in the grounds, and viewing the spot where Congreve wrote several of his plays, we passed along fields covered with daisies and yellow kingcups, and sweetly scented with their many hedges, until we came to Blore church. It is a fine old church, and its village quite rustic; it was formerly the demesne and seat of the Bassetts; but their glory has faded. We were shown over the sacred edifice, which, although much dilapidated, is not devoid of beauty; here are a few monumental records of its former lords; the solemn quietness, and calm, mellowed light which prevailed, suited our mood; the ivy had stolen through the roof, and within its walls a bird had built her nest.

We turned from the sacred pile, and rested ourselves for awhile at the parsonage; the social blessedness of its inmates was no mean appendage to the church. We then ascended some hills that led us back to Dovedale, and rambled again among its romantic scenes. The sun was now in mid-heaven; every breeze lagged; the murmuring of the waters sounded strangely in this spot of unruffled silence; the trees and shrubs, and rocks uprearing their sides to the sky, clothed with lichens and moss and thyme, and the clear stream, sweetly flowing through its banks, adorned with wild flowers, looked beautiful and gay beneath the serene blue of day it was a place for silent musing and delicious dreams; its charms had power to loosen imagination's wings-and how wide were its flights! Combinations of all richest sounds rolled on the ear; and there was music in the cloudless firmament and the fair earth: we rambled along winding sheep-tracks, and often sat us down beneath some impending rock. The river glided onwards, now purling in sweet melody, and now rushing down some small cataract with hoarse music: the voice of birds had ceased; creation lay still and motionless beneath the noontide heat. Walton and Cotton were not forgotten in this quiet season

their memories added a deeper romance to the dell.

In the evening, we ascended Thorpe Cloud, a steep hill that overlooks the valley; a few sheep were scattered on its sides. The winds had risen, and blew tremendously; the shadows of night came slowly down; the waters, and the dell, and the splintered rocks, and the foliage, and the wild flower, were soon enveloped in gloom; the fine sun had departed, and a few gleams of sullen grandeur were all that could be distinguished in the distant horizon; the gale rushed furiously up the mountain; a light or two glimmered in the darkness, issuing, perhaps, from some secluded home. We sat in silence; our thoughts were tinged with a sweet solemnity; the calm beauty of the day, and the fair loveliness of creation, and the romantic dell, and the time-worn buildings of former years, and the ancient churches, and the exquisite monumental record of a child's affection, had disposed the mind to serious musing; the sheep-bell, borne upwards by the sounding wind, awoke us from our meditative trance, and we descended to the inn, softened, subdued, and calmed.

The following day, we took our last look at Dovedale; we lingered among its winding sheep-tracks, and its hills, andits beautiful walks along the gushing stream, and its meadows, and its romantic scenes, in that gaze. On our way to Friar's Wood, we visited Alton Towers and Wotton Lodge; and though not connected with this quiet dell, still, as they were beheld during the same visit, they are for ever associated with it. After a ride of nine miles, we came upon the former-it is the splendid seat of the Earl of Shrewsbury; its style is the modern Gothic, and when seen at a distance, with its rising towers, its effect is very imposing. Its grounds are, however, the chief attraction; and here we have the dark, green foliage, and the beautiful flowers, and the cooling waters, and the murmuring fountains, and the highdomed conservatories, and the sculptured marble, and the antique vases, and the romantic cottages, reposing in the quietude and enchanting loveliness of a long-extended valley—it is as some oriental dream.

From here a short stroll brought us to Wotton Lodge. Never were we more delighted with a mansion; it is a castellated building, standing embosomed in well-wooded hills. It was garrisoned by the royalists during the civil wars, and defended by Sir Richard Fleetwood, but was soon taken by the Parliamentarians. "It is situated in as solemnly striking a solitude," writes Howitt, "as one can well conceive it stands up aloft, on a natural terrace overlooking a deep winding glen, and surrounded by sloping uplands, deep masses of wood, and the green heights of Weaver, in a situation of solitary beauty, which exceedingly delighted me. Not a person was visible throughout the profoundly silent scene; scarcely a house was within view. I ascended to the front of the lodge, and stood in admiration of its aspect: its tall, square bulk of dark grey stone, with its turreted front, full of large, square mullioned windows; its paved court, and ample flight of steps ascending to its porched door;

its old garden, with terraces and pleached hedges on the south slope below it; and deep again below that, dark ponds visible amongst the wild growth of trees. The house stood, without a smoke, without a sign of life or movement about it, in the broad sunshine of noon. I advanced, and rang the bell in the porch, but no one answered me. It was, for all the world, like a hall of old romance laid under an enchanted spell. I rang again, but all was silent. I descended the flight of steps, and paced the grey pavement of the court, and was about to withdraw, when an old woman opened the casement in the highest story, and said, in a slow, dreamy voice, I am coming down.""

Ere twilight had again darkened the earth, we reached our pleasant home, with the beauty of Dovedale and its adjacent scenery engraven on the heart for ever.

COLERIDGE.

COLERIDGE-the dreamer, as many term him -was one of the most remarkable of men. It is his very dreaminess that we love: many are the beautiful, wild, and sublime combinations that we have in gentle slumberings. Indeed, some of our loveliest pictures have been presented in dreams: there has been richer colouring, and a softer tint, and a browner shade, and a more unruffled calm, and a more hallowed quietude, and more magnificent bursts of melody, and fresher breezes, and more silvery tones, and more delicious scents, and a fairer moon, and a more resplendent sun, and more spiritual beauty breathing from the stars, and deeper music in the hum of bee and song of bird, and a darker forest foliage, and a more soothing twilight, and more enchanting daybreaks, and looks more piercing, and glances more tender, and vows more fervent, and aspirations higher, and loftier, and more majestic.

Keats, too, was a dreamer-he could" dream deliciously." He may be wanting in masculine energy, and tremendous power; but he fully makes up for this in sweetness of thought and diction; he melts his readers; his lines are luscious; he is the very spirit of love; his Endymion is full of all charming things; it is the dream of a soul redolent of earth's freshness, and earth's glory. He is one of the most luxurious of writers; his verses tremble with sweetness; they are flower-scented and flower-tinted; there is the odour of the rose, and woodbine, and pink; "they are like the scent of a bank of violets, faint and rich, which the gale suddenly conveys in a different direction;' the soft blue sky, and the light green meadows, and the silver voice of the lark, and the gentle music of the trees, and the melody of streams, and the black tresses of woman, and woman's tenderness and devotedness, and the unutterable bliss of pure attachment, and the eternal language of imperishable faith, are visioned in his poetry: they become vital; they live. It is like some old garden, where every shape and form of beauty suns itself beneath the summer heaven, but which has been neglected and forgotten. There is a wild luxuriance, a straggling and endless wealth; his words seem dipped in honey; he revels in the calm serenity

of creation; you hear the murmuring of the rippling waters, and the deep, low sounds of the wild woods.

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He was nature itself-as divine, as rich, as delicious; like some airy voyager on life's stream, his mind inhaled the fragrance of a thousand shores, and drank of endless pleasures under halcyon skies;" he seemed to float on softest clouds; he was the incense of flowers; everything he said was music-"The same that rises over vernal groves, mingled with the breath of morning, and the perfumes of the wild hyacinth;" he weltered in sweets; he talked of beauty; and there were silver sounds. No man, before nor after, imaged the universe more truly the fair and blushing charms of heaven and earth glow in all his paintings, and he was sublime; his Hyperion is a magnificent and massive fragment. The boy had a gigantic soul; it was endowed with grandeur and tremendous power.

It is true, he has written much nonsense; but it is sweet nonsense. Other men's is harsh and grating; but this is as a lively strain of music; it took the hue and colouring of his own star-lit fancy; he bathed in the blue empyrean, and afterwards slept and dreamt on a bed of amaranths. How exquisite his opening line in Endymion: "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever!" It is dropping with nectar: the sweet, soft streams meandering through flowery meadows; "trees, young and old, sprouting a shady boon for simple sheep;" "a crocus bursting out of the ground and blushing with its own golden light;" the serene blue of heaven; the chiming brook; the slant beam of the sun lighting up some dark copse; the murmur of gnats in the calm eventide of summer; the chirping of birds in the low dell; "wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still than Leda's love;" the dew sparkling gem-like on the grass, "caught from the early sobbing of the morn;" the kindling dawn; the new fresh spring "when first the whitethorn blows;"

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a bush of May-flowers with the bees about them;" "the mid-forest brake, rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms;" the purple butterfly; the orange-blossom; the silver ray glancing through the green leaves, as they tremble in the breeze; "daffodils that come before the swallow dares, and take the winds of March with beauty;" the sound of the village bell; " 'clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind upon their summer thrones;" shells on the sea-sand;" the low cottage, with the vine climbing its windows; the steeple of some old church; the child playing with its companion; the infant reposing on the fond bosom of its mother; the first prayer; the domestic hymn, are all things of beauty, and are joys for ever!

"the

Coleridge is master of imperishable thought; many of his strains cannot die away; they breathe the music of immortality: his verse is inspired with all the divinity of poetry; it is steeped in the essence of eternity; its mighty influences sweep over the spirit as everlasting symphonies from an angel's harp. There is both a subtle beauty and a stirring grandeur about them: they kindle the enthusiasm of the soul; they move the keenest sensibilities of the heart.

G