KESWICK-BORROWDALE. 347 us, that the proceeds of this mine amounted last year to L. 90,000,-a sum hardly credible. It is not worked continually, but at intervals only, and so as not to lower the price. They are looking for a new vein, the old one being, we understood, exhausted. The mountains here, which are of slate, form a ridge between Langdale and Borrowdale, whence the waters run every way; and, although not the highest in themselves, must be on the highest level of this alpine region. The farthest part of this vale is not equal in beauty to the nearest, and it is not worth while perhaps to penetrate further than the Bowder-Stone; yet the whole country is so beautiful, that no ride can be uninteresting. On our return, we had a glorious sun setting across the lake and its mountainous banks. All was richness and splendour of light above, and dark shades below. Skiddaw in front of us, a huge, insulated, round lump of earth, 3300 feet high, so smooth and even, that it seems as if a coach and four might drive straight to the top and down again, on the other side, without track or guide. The uniform neatness of the surface seems uninterrupted by either rocks or trees. * The English Alps are to the Swiss, nearly in the proportion of a foot to a fathom. Their features reduced to that scale, are less hard, and the opposition between desolate barrenness and exuberant vegetation, less marked and striking. We set out early this morning for Crummock * A few months after we saw Skiddaw, it was sold at auction to a company of agriculturists, who are going to plant its surface all over. A hundred years hence, it may be improved by a pine forest, but, in the intermediate time, the nursery will spoil it. 348 SCALE HILL-MARY OF BUTTERMERE. Water and Buttermere. At Scale Hill, 12 miles from Keswick, we took a boat and rowed to the end of Crummock water (three and a half miles by three quarters), a beautiful scene of stilly solitude. The surrounding mountains, particularly towards the head of the lake, are bold and bare. Our boatman told us that there are sometimes, in winter, tremendous whirlwinds upon it; and he pointed out some heights covered with the spray of the water on these occasions, which I am sure would be out of the reach of the spray of the sea in the greatest storms. Mary of Buttermere is one of the curiosities of the lake region, and had excited ours. Her tale of woe is become, perhaps, rather trivial in England, but it may still interest strangers. Some twelve or thirteen years ago, Mary the daughter of a peasant on the banks of one of 'the lakes, was a rare beauty, just expanding into womanhood, whose fame had begun to spread among the neighbouring rustics, and the polite travellers. One of the latter saw Mary, and fell desperately in love. The honourable offer of a gentleman's hand and fortune, although rather in years, was not to be refused; nor could his condition and circumstances be inquired into very narrowly. The unfortunate Mary became the gentleman's wife; but she had not been a lady many weeks, when her husband was arrested. He was a noted swindler, accused of many crimes; and, having been convicted of forgery, his fate became inevitable. He was hanged. Mary has since married a small-innkeeper. She brought us a bowl of milk, holding a young child on her arm. She is about thirty, tall, and a good figure,-regular features,-rather fair-bashful-conscious at least that she is an ob ject of curiosity, we fancied, she looked mild, dejected, and interesting. A hair-brained sentimental trace Her eye Shone full upon her; e'en turned on empty space, I would not at all answer for a similar impression on other travellers, less favourably disposed; and to be candid, I must own that our boatman, a respectable inhabitant, spoke rather disparagingly of fair Mary. He said she had shown more resentment against her worthless partner, than pity at his awful end; and repeated some furious exclamations she had uttered, when she found she had been so cruelly duped. Buttermere is another miniature of a lake, about one mile every way, embosomed in high mountains; a dew drop in the calyx of a flower. Returning to Scale Hill in our boat, we had another glorious sunsetting. In fact, we have had uninterrupted fine weather for the last six weeks, or two months; quite an American autumn. A fine moonlight succeeded, and accompanied us to Keswick. All these lakes, but principally Crummock water, are famous for char, a sort of fish very like salmon trout. Oct. 15.-Windermere. We spent a great part of yesterday in rambling about the banks of the lake of Keswick and in a boat, on its clear water, which extends about three miles and a half in length, and half that in breadth. There are two or three islands about it, one of which was formerly the residence of the Lords Derwentwater, then proprietors of the whole country. This magnifi 350 MESSRS SOUTHEY AND COLERIDGE. cent estate was confiscated to the king about a century ago; the last lord being implicated in the rebellion of that time. To lose such a beautiful lake for a foolish political dispute seems, after all, a great pity. "Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle." "Should there ever be a revolution in the other world," said Danton to his friend, on their way to the guillotine, "take my advice, and have nothing to do with it." The land was afterwards appropriated to the use of Greenwich hospital, by which means more wood has been preserved than if it had belonged to individuals. Another island called Vicar's island, of the extent of six acres, is very agreeably planted, although rather too much, and has a pleasant house upon it. This little property was sold a few years ago for L. 1700. We had the pleasure of seeing several times the celebrated Mr Southey, a distinguished favourite of the English muses. Mr Coleridge, whose talents are equally known, although less fruitful, was at Mr S.'s, with whom he has some family connection. Both of these gentlemen, and, I believe, Mr Wordsworth, another of the poets of the lakes, had, in the warmth of their youthful days, some fifteen years ago, taken the spirited resolution of traversing the Atlantic, in order to breathe the pure air of liberty in the United States. Some accident delayed the execution of this laudable project, and gave them time to cool. At present, these gentlemen seem to think that there is no need of going so far for liberty, and that there is a reasonable allowance of it at home. Their democracy is come down to Whiggism, and may not even stop there. Mr S. has resided in Spain, and is well acquainted with the literature of that country, and its people. He thinks the Span WINDERMERE-POETS-MERINOS. 351 iards are well aware of the defects of their government, and that a thorough reformation of them, and in fact a revolution, would have united the whole people against the invaders, and have rendered them invincible. He and his friend are enthusiastic in the Spanish cause. This sentiment is, in them, I am persuaded, quite sincere, and founded on just and honourable principles. But it is remarkable, that this same Spanish cause is one of the watch-words of party, to which I have alluded before. By a strange perversion of the human mind, those liberal and independent opinions in matters of government, which one of the parties professes, are generally found associated with a certain toleration of usurpation and tyranny in certain situations; which is, on the contrary, held in utter abhorrence by the other party, although accused of being, otherwise, less nice on those points than its adversary. This might well raise uncharitable suspicions of the candour and sincerity of both. I learned here, that there are good grounds to believe, that the valuable race of Spanish Merino sheep was originally introduced there from England (Gloucestershire, I think,). Passages in several contemporary writers, both English and Spanish, (one of them of the year 1437,) imply this singular fact. If that is the case, there is certainly reason to suppose that the breed, improved by its transplantations into Spain, will degenerate again by its return to the same food and climate. Mr S. has rectified the error I was in respecting the Spanish play from which Corneille drew his Cid. The old father, (Don Diego,) in the French Cid, seeking an avenger of his outraged honour, addresses his son in these words: Rodrigue, as-tu du cœur?" To which the young hero answers, "Tout |