we were assured by the same authority, that he had never witnessed any sight more imposing than our Dive. Grasmere Lake is full of springs, so in spots not only cool, but cold even in the dog-days; and we, who had entered its sweet waters, a child of dust, left them an etherealised creature of the element. 'Twas now post meridian quarter less one, and since six of the morning what had we not gone through? Seven hours in the saddle—with nothing to eat but breakfast and lunch, a few horns of ale, a suck of Glenlivet, and a tumbler of elder-flower wine. The strongest constitution cannot be wholly proof against such privations, and we had felt, we confess, a certain sinking of the heart-near the region of the stomach-which had somewhat affected our spirits. But not more sovereign remedy is "spermaceti for an inward bruise," than that spring-fed lake for lassitude and weariness even to the verge of death. We could have imagined ourselves a Minor on the eve of his majority, glorying in the thought of the Gaudeamus nature was preparing for the morrow, when the sun was to see him of age. Scores of crazy years, with all their infirmities, had been drowned, or shaken off; Crutch himself felt efflorescence, and as we held him up, we fancied he began to bud. Yes! we believe it now-so exults the Eagle-when, moulting centuries that fall away from him like feathers, he renews his youth. We stood on the green navel of the lake. So clear the air, and so keen our eyes, that without losing anything of their grandeur, the encircling mountains showed all their beautiful individualities; distinctly was visible the tall lady-fern, as if within hand-reach; we saw, or thought we saw, the very glossiness on the silver stems of the scattered birch-treesthere was no mistaking one of all the many varieties of foliage; apparent along the brighter verdure were the innumerous sheep-paths; it might be imagination, but we believed our eye rested in its wanderings on the Fairy rings. The Beautiful closed in upon us, and our heart leapt up to meet it, our arms opened to fold it in our embrace. We were in love with Nature, and she with us, and in our intercommunion we became one living soul. You may call this extravagant—and it may be so; but extravagant you can never call the sweet delight that breathed on us from all the still island itself-with its serene scenery VOL. VII. T -but a barn and outhouse, and a few firs-no more; and as for living creatures-on the low lying pasture, undulating into uplands, some score of silly sheep. Of how few and simple materials may consist a pastoral picture, that shall deeply stir the heart. Never, in all our born days, heard we such a neighing and whinnying of horses, mares, and foals! In Tail-End-an estate on the shores of the Mainland-resides a speculative breeder and yonder field sloping down to the lake is full of all manner of manes and tales, not unobserved of Colonsay, who has been startled by the outbreak of the music of his mother-tongue, and lends his lungs to the concert. But that cannot content him, and we must make up our minds for another swim. However, this time he takes matters more quietly, and walks slowly into the water, belly deep, sipping some of it, and cooling his nose with now and then a dip, till the bottom slides away from his hoofs, and he assumes the otter. The flotilla, in the form of a crescent "sharpening its mooned horns," attends us to the landing-place--and having thus at two innings fairly crossed the lake, we are once more on the continent. But here new dangers surround us in the shape of all sorts of quadrupeds—and a vicious horse, well known by the name of the Baldfaced Stag, runs at us with his teeth. Rising in the stirrups, like King Robert Bruce on the approach of Sir Henry de Bohun, we deliver on his skull such a whack of the Crutch, that he staggers and sinks on his knees -while Colonsay, turning tail, flings out savagely, and puts him hors de combat. Seeing their leader fall, the whole squadron of cavalry take to ignominious flight, and we soon find ourselves on the plateau in front of the house. And who should we find there but two who had "been absent long, and distant far"-SAMMY AND THE SHUFFLER!! What a change had time, toil, and trouble wrought on the once gallant pair! Sam, had it been night-time, might have passed for his own ghost. So reduced, he was a mere featherweight. "Poor putty-face!" we involuntarily ejaculated"sallower than thine own doeskins!" Seeing us, he smiled as if he were weeping-but not a word did he speak, and we began to suspect that he had received a coup de soleil. The hospitable and humane resident-our much esteemed friend, Mr Younghusband-whom we had not at first observed-we now saw standing at a small distance, surveying Sam and the Shuffler with a countenance in which there was no hope. After mutual congratulations had been exchanged between us, he informed us that he had presented Sitwell with various refreshments, but that the infatuated man would neither eat nor drink, and persisted in being speechless-that he had offered to send for medical and clerical assistance (we thought he whispered the word undertaker), but that the offer had been met by that mournful but decided negative, a mute shake of the head. Deaf, therefore, Sam was not-but he was dumb-regularly done up-completely finished. Nor in less piteous plight was the Shuffler. She still, indeed, had a leg to stand on, but of all the four not one that could have obeyed her will, had she attempted to walk. She had hobbled to that extreme point, beyond which exhausted nature could not go an inch. She was alive, and that was all that could be safely asserted either of her or Sam. That shoeing had finally done its business-the iron cramps had proved too much for her corns and bunions; though fired on all fours, no sinews could stand for so many hours the unrelieved pressure: moreover, she had foundered-and except in the tail, which shook violently, the patient now appeared in general paralysis. Sitwell was not cruel-but he had committed a sad error in going round by the Close, and taking the left bank of the Lake. Besides, he had been carried away, as he afterwards told us, by a trail-hunt. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, and we prudently and generously offered to let him off for fifty. No human foresight could predict what might happen to ourselves on the way home. Sam revived at the proposal, and in presence of a good witness nodded assent. But nods are often deceptive and illusory altogether, so we insisted on the blunt. "Slowly his fobs the fumbling hand obey, Forbid But shall we miss the festivities of Grasmere Fair? it, heaven. Mr Younghusband, with Herculean arms, lifts Mr Sitwell off the saddle, and places him behind Mr North, promising himself to follow. The sun is shedding intolerable day, and we unfurl our umbrella. Sam, whose strength is fast returning, carries the parasol-we flourish the Crutch. Colonsay, after a few funks, gets under weigh, and in three minutes is in the heart of the Fair. What a crowd round the Victor! Nobody looks at the bear. But there is the Witch of Savoy in the air, waving her turban, heedless of her leman angrily lamenting for Jacko. On all sides we see "the old familiar faces." Conspicuous above all, that honoured Statesman, John Green-who assists us to dismount and, leaning on his arm, we walk into the mouth of the Red Lion. Then, facing about, we bow to the Fair, who ratifies our victory “with nine times nine;" and at that moment we wished to die, "lest aught less great should stamp us mortal." COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. [OCTOBER 1834.] POETS win to themselves by their works a personal regard and affection from all who have derived delight from their genius. All their readers may be said to be their friends; and admiration is almost always mingled with love. Nor is it wonderful that it should be so. We converse with them in their purest and highest and holiest moods; we are familiar only with the impress of their character, stamped, without alloy of baser matter, on gold. We speak now, it is manifest, but of those poets-and thank heaven the greatest are among the number-who have been faithful to their calling on earth-have not profaned the god-given strength by making it subservient to unworthy or unhallowed endsnor kindled any portion of the sacred fire on the altars of impurity or superstition. Genius and imagination do not save their possessors from sin. That fatal disease is in all human veins and circulates with the blood from all human hearts. But genius and imagination can beautify even virtue -that is the noblest work they were intended to perform for man-and poetry has performed it far beyond any other power that spiritualises life. A great or good poet, in his hours of inspiration-and that word has been allowed by the wisestis as free as mortal man may be—except when under the still holier influence of religion, its services, and its ministrations -from all that ordinarily pollutes, or degrades, or enslaves our moral being;-and we are willing, not without deep reason, to believe that the revelations he then makes before our eyes of the constitution of his soul are true-that by them he is to be judged on earth what manner of man he is ;;-so that should aught at other times appear perplexing in his character or conduct, and inconsistent with that ideal which his own genius, in its purest apparition, |