*

For my part I could see no profanation. The vale of Grasmere, if fuller of life than it was in Gray's time, was not, to my mind, the less full of beauty; and even the homeopathic establishment, which has lately been opened in a large and comfortable-looking mansion, upon the shore of the lake, did not, in my idea, detract from its charms, but rather added to

In reference to this water-cure establishment and other matters, the following querulous note by Mr. De Quincy, appears in an article upon Shelley's poetry and life, in Tait's Magazine, for January, 1846.—" If no water has been filched away from Grasmere, there is one water too much which has crept lately into that loveliest of mountain chambers; and that is the "water-cure," which has built unto itself a sort of residence in that vale; whether a rustic nest, or a lordly palace, I do not know. Meantime, in honesty it must be owned, that many years ago the vale was halfruined by an insane substruction carried along the eastern margin of the lake as a basis for a mail-coach road. This infernal mass of solid masonry swept away the loveliest of sylvan recesses, and the most absolutely charmed against intrusive foot or angry echoes. It did worse: it swept away the stateliest of Flora's daughters, and swept away at the same time, the birth-place of a well known verse, describing that stately plant, which is perhaps (as a separate line) the most exquisite that the poetry of earth can show. The plant was the Osmunda regalis ;—

'Plant lovelier in its own recess

Than Grecian Naiad seen at earliest dawn
Tending her fount, or lady of the lake

Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.'

It is this last line and a half which some have held to ascend in beauty as much beyond any single line known to literature, as

them; and I fancied many a melancholy invalid wandering by the side of its placid waters, or toiling up the green mountains that swathe its loveliness about, gathering recovery in the breezes that blew into it, and learning to love nature and mankind the more, as his health and strength increased.

I inquired of a decent-looking person whom I met, and whom from his appearance I suspected to be an inhabitant of the village, where the Wishing Gate was? He answered me very civilly that he did not know; and on further inquiry whether he were an inhabitant of the place, he answered that he was. Whether this were a sign of the uninquisitive nature of this particular denizen of the vale, or of the gradual oblivion into which the old superstitions of rural districts are falling, I cannot say, but I felt more disappointed and chagrined at this little circumstance than I like to confess. I afterwards found, by referring to Mr. Wordsworth's guide book, which I

the Osmunda ascends in luxury of splendour above other ferns. I have restored the original word lake, which the poet himself under an erroneous impression had dismissed for mere. But the line rests no longer on an earthly reality—the recess, which suggested it, is gone: the Osmunda has fled; and a vile causeway, such as Sin and Death build in Milton over Chaos, fastening it with "asphaltic lime" and "pins of adamant," having long displaced the loveliest chapel (as I may call it,) in the whole cathedral of Grasmere, I have since considered Grasmere itself a ruin of its former self."

bought at Ambleside on my return, that the Wishing Gate is at a place about a mile from the village of Grasmere, in the middle of three roads leading to Ambleside; and before I left Ambleside I did not fail to pay it a visit.

The church of Grasmere is dedicated to St. Oswald, and has been very celebrated, not only for the beauty of its position, and its neighbourhood, but for the annual celebration of the ceremony of rush-bearing. This ceremony has long been known in Lancashire, Yorkshire, Westmoreland, and Cumberland, and even farther north. St. Oswald's day is on the Sunday nearest to the first of August, and upon this day the rush-bearing, as I am informed, annually takes place in Grasmere, and I believe in Ambleside and other places. Anciently, when the floors of the churches in England were neither paved nor boarded, rushes were indispensable articles of comfort to churchgoing people; but with the progress of elegance in architecture, it became rare to find unpaved churches, and the ceremony of strewing the rushes fell consequently into disuse. A correspondent of Mr. Hone, in the Year Book, under date of the 27th of April, 1831, states that the sweet-scented flag, or acorus calamus, was commonly made use of on these occasions, having been selected originally in consequence of their roots giving out, when bruised by the tread of feet, a very powerful and fragrant odour, resembling that of the

myrtle. This plant, however, from its great demand in breweries, under the name of quassia, has not been obtainable for many years, and the yellow water iris has been substituted in its place. The rushbearing at Grasmere generally takes place in the evening, when the children of the village, chiefly girls, parade through the street to the church, preceded by a band of music, bearing garlands of wild flowers, as well as bundles of rushes; the latter of which they deposit on the altar, or strew about the floor of the church. Full accounts of the ceremony, as observed in various parts of the North of England, will be found in Hone's interesting volumes, and in Brande's popular antiquities of England.

On my return to Ambleside, I found sooner than I had calculated upon, the expected note of Mr. Wordsworth awaiting me. It was too late to pay my respects at Rydal mount that evening; and I devoted the hour and a half or two hours of daylight that remained after dinner to the exploration of Stock Gill Force: the waterfall, some short distance at the back of the Salutation Tavern, where I had taken up my quarters. Turning round to the left by the stables, a board on which were painted in large letters the words, "To THE WATERFALL," sufficiently indicated not only the way, but the fact, that the place was a "lion" to visitors. I happen to have a

passion for one kind of hunting-that of "hunting the waterfalls." I love not only the exercise, but, in spite of Mr. Wakley's irreverent laughter, the expression, which I consider both beautiful and appropriate; and though I hunted this alone, [rather a drawback, I must confess, to the real pleasure which the sport is calculated to afford,] I experienced nothing to render me less fond of the amusement, but rather to increase my passion for it. At the distance

of a quarter of a mile or less, I came upon a watermill, so singularly picturesque and beautiful, with its large wheel, its dripping waters, its placid little dam,

D