added that our practical politicians were accustomed to say, that there was a principle of safety in our conflicts, in the necessarily conflicting opinions of the mass-that they neutralised and balanced each other, I admitted, however, that there was danger; that all popular institutions involved danger; that freedom was a trust and a perilous trust. Still I insisted that this was only an instance of a general principle; that all probation was perilous; that the greatest opportunity was always the greatest peril. I maintained also, that think as we might of political liberty, there was no helping it; that in the civilized world, the course of opinion was irresistibly setting towards universal education and popular forms of government; and nothing was to be done but to direct, modify, and control the tendency. He fully admitted this; said that in other centuries some glorious results might be brought out, but that he saw nothing but darkness, disorder, and misery in the immediate prospect, and that all he could do was to cast himself on Providence. I ventured to suggest that it seemed to me that all good and wise men had a work to do. I said that I admitted, friend to popular institutions as I was, that the world was full of errors about liberty; that there was a mistake and madness about popular freedom, as if it were the grand panacea for all human ills, and that powerful pens were needed to guide the public mind; and that the pen of genius could scarcely be more nobly employed. But he has no confidence in the body of the people, in their willingness to read what is wholesome, or to do what is right; and this, I took the liberty to say, seemed to me the radical point on which he and I differed. I told him that there were large communities in America in whom I did confide, and that I believed other communities might be raised up to the same condition; and that it appeared to me that it should be the grand effort of the world now, to raise up this mass to knowledge, to comfort, and virtue— since the mass was evidently ere long to rule for us.

After this conversation, Mr. W– proposed a walk to Grassmere Lake, to see it after sunset; and in that loveliest of all the scenes I ever witnessed on earth, were lost all thoughts but of religion and poetry. I could not help saying, with fervent sincerity, "I thank you, sir, for bringing me here, at this hour;" for he had evidently taken some pains, pushing aside some little interferences with his purpose, to accomplish it. He said in reply, that so impressive was the scene to him, that he felt almost as if it were a sin not to come here every fair evening. We sat by the shore half an hour, and talked of themes far removed from the strife of politics. The village on the opposite side lay in deep shadow; from which the tower of the church rose, like heaven's sentinel on the gates of evening. A single taper shot its solitary ray across the waters. The little lake lay hushed in deep and solemn repose. Not a sound was heard upon its shore. The fading light trembled upon the bosom of the waters, which were here slightly ruffled, and there lay as a mirror to reflect the serenity of heaven. The dark mountains lay beyond, with every varying shade that varying distance could give them. The farthest ridges were sowed with light, as if it were resolved into separate particles and showered down into the darkness below, to make it visible. The mountain side had a softness of shadowing upon it, such as I never saw before, and such as no painting I ever saw, approached in the remotest degree. It seemed, Mr. W said, as if

it were "clothed with the air." Above all, was the clear sky, looking almost cold, it looked so pure, along the horizon-but warmed in the region a little higher, with the vermillion tints of the softest sunset. I am persuaded that the world might be travelled over without the sight of one such spectacle as this—and all owing to the circumstances-the time-the hour. It was perhaps not the least of those circumstances influencing the scene, that it was an hour, passed in one of his own holy retreats, with Wordsworth!

Amid these lakes and mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland, nature seems to delight herself in contrasts, and that, as in many human works, is here perhaps the secret of power: the wildest mountains and mountain crags, with the sweetest valleys and dales amid them-as Borrowdale, Patterdale, Langdale, and sometimes one little sheltered spot, all verdure, only large enough for one farm-as in coming from Conniston through one of the Langdales; the roughest passes through mountain defiles, opening suddenly upon smooth and green vales, as in going from Buttermere to Borrowdale, or entering Patterdale from the south; a lake and a valley beneath your eye, and a world of mountains beyond, as in entering Keswick from the south: and then, when were ever seen such crystal streams-waters of such transparent and living purity!

All this, to be sure, is mere memorandum; but for the same purpose I will take up half a page with marking my route, which was adopted on competent advice, and may possibly be of service to some friend who shall follow me-which friend I advise to take for his excursion, as I did, a pony at Ambleside. From Ambleside, then, I went to Conniston and back- -a day's ride; then to Keswick; thence, a day's excursion, around through Newlands, by Buttermere, and Honister Crag-through Borrowdale, by the Bowder Stone-an immense rock, evidently fallen from the precipice above, sixty-two feet long, thirty-six high, eightynine round, weight, 1,971 tons-by Lowdore Falls, a little nothing for a fall-as were all the falls I went to see about here-scarcely any water, but a romantic little scene; back to Keswick by the shore of Derwent Water. This is the most beautiful part of the ride; the bold wooded islands in the lake, with the glades and cultivated swells beyond appearing between them, and Skiddaw in the back ground.

From Keswick to Lyulph's Tower on Ullswater-the first view of Ullswater very striking; the waters very dark; a dark, leaden-coloured mountain rising up from the very edge of the water-a fine ride along down the shore, four miles, to Patterdale-through Patterdale, back to Ambleside. On the whole, perhaps, Ullswater presents more impressive scenery than any other lake. The scenery certainly is more bold.

Nothing can exceed the beauty of the cottages, and of their situations about these lakes. So also the sail-boats, passing in all directions, seen among the wooded islands and shooting out from behind the headlands, freighted with beauty, and mirth, and music, communicate an inexpressible life and charm to the scenery. And I fancy that such tokens of social happiness are very necessary to give these scenes the power they have, over the heart and imagination. It fills up the measure of the contrast. But that is not it-or it is not all. These signs of humanity and happiness make the scene image to us ourselves, as well as the Supreme Power. In the unvisited wilds of nature, in dell and

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grot, in grove and greensward untrodden by the footsteps of men, the mind is prone to imagine that fairy creatures walk; poetry has peopled them with life; the strong sympathy of the soul calls upon the whole creation to give it back the image of itself.

August 3.-I left the lake country and came down to Kendal.

The ride from Kendal to Lancaster is a pleasant one, especially about the banks of the Kent. At Lancaster is a castle, now turned into a jail, which belonged to the house of Lancaster, and was built in the reign of Edward III. The central tower, the only portion of the old castle remaining, is square, and huge enough to have belonged to "Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster."

It is called John of Gaunt's Chair. Appropriately to this title, there is from the top of the tower a very delightful prospect. A fine symbol of office for an old baronial sovereign-patriarch, chieftain, landlord, all in one; a tower for his chair, where he sits, a king farmer, to overlook the rich glebe, pasture and valley. Those forms of power, with the rough and stern-hearted times that gave them birth, are passing away. May other and nobler forms arise to take their place!

CHAPTER V.

RAILWAY FROM LIVERPOOL MANCHESTER - -DERBYSHIRE CHATSWORTII-** HADDON HALL-MATLOCK-SCENERY AND GUIDES-WILLERSLEY CASTLE —— LICHFIELD-BIRMINGHAM-MUSIC HALL-CONCERTS IN AMERICA-KENILWORTH-WARWICK-STRATFORD ON AVON

SHAKSPEARE.

Railway from Liverpool. The tunnel disappointed me. It is not so great a work as I expected-not so long. The motion on the railway is so rapid as to set everything in the country about-houses, trees, groves-dancing a waltz. It seems as if the whole surrounding creation were revolving in circles-the distant objects going one way, and those nearest, the opposite way.

MANCHESTER wrapped in the cloud of smoke proceeding from its innumerable manufactories. For the sole power is steam here; every factory has its engine and its high chimney, sending out its dense black volume of smoke, as it were, in the very face of the pure heavenswhich foul mass of sulphurous vapours descends into the streets, infesting the nostrils, choking the lungs, blearing the sight, clouding the vista, so that sometimes you can scarce see an hundred yards.

They say it rains oftener in Manchester than in any other place in the kingdom. I should think it. And, indeed, I have several times heard it observed of one city and another, that it rains oftener in them than in the surrounding country. So far as appearances are concerned, and, I think, comfort too, it is fortunate for our cities that the anthracite coal is to be the staple fuel.

BAKEWELL in DERBYSHIRE, August 6.-In approaching Derbyshire, you leave the immense levels of Lancashire for a more diversified and beautiful country, and when you enter this country, the limestone cliffs, with deep hollows and vales worn between, appear everywhere-marking the country of the Peak.

It must be, I think, that the body of people in this country, the nine-tenths, are less intelligent than the same body in our country. I certainly find more well-dressed and well-behaved people here who are ignorant, to an extent that would shame such looking people in America. For instance, I heard a very self-sufficient Scotchman here this evening, boasting of Walter Scott as his countryman, and yet very soon saying, that the scene of one of his novels could not be in Derbyshire, because none of them was laid in England.* I have heard very plain, hard-working people in America, in the conversation of the bar-room, quote Locke and Stewart. There are not so many books here—in the taverns, in the farmhouses, in the houses of the common people, on the shelves everywhere-as there are among us.

Have I spoken of women, working in the fields? Not in Ireland, nor in Wales only, but in Scotland and in England, this is constantly seen not in harvest only-but they hoe, and dig, and delve, in all fields and at all seasons-sometimes four, five, ten-nay, twenty I have seen in a field. It must tend to give them a rough and coarse character; to their persons it certainly does.

While at Bakewell, I visited Chatsworth, the seat of the Duke of Devonshire, and Haddon Hall, an ancient and deserted castle, on the estates of the Duke of Rutland; one, five miles, and the other two miles distant.

Chatsworth is an immense castle, of the Ionic order, the oldest part built round a hollow square-the new part, a continuation, one story lower, of the rear-block or portion of the pile; and so extensive, that, when finished, there is to be a suite of rooms, through the whole of which the eye will range, at a single view, six hundred feet. The hall of entrance is from the hollow square; the sides and ceiling painted in fresco, by Verrio and La Guerre. The ceilings, also, of the whole range of staterooms, on the second story, are painted in the same style, by the same artists. The designs are mythological. There cannot be less, in all, I should think, than five hundred figures-of gods and goddesses, in every possible attitude and predicament-pursuing, flying, fighting, making love, &c. As far as one can judge, who almost breaks his neck in looking upward, and looking at objects eighteen feet distant, the paintings, many of them, are beautifully executed. What must have become, by the bye, of the necks and brains of the artists, looking upward while painting such an immense number of figures, Í do not know. I must say that to my simple American taste, if not to any other taste, this appears to be a very improper exhibition-the forms being, generally, represented without any costume. The housekeeper, however, observed that these rooms now were never used on any occasion.

I must just make a memorandum of some other things that struck me in going over the house. In the range of staterooms, the sculpture, by Cibber, of the alabaster and marble doorways, and the carving, by Gibbon, throughout are beautiful; but of the latter especially, the carving of birds, over and around the fireplace in the principal stateroom, quite exceeds anything of the kind I have seen, or could have conceived. There is a large number of paintings, but nothing that

Only an instance I allow.

struck me much-a Henry VIII. by Holbein; a Holy Family, by Murillo; a piece by Salvator Rosa, but in so bad a light as to be lost, if it is anything. There are a great many statues. Canova's Hebe is here, and a copy of the Venus de Medici by Bartolini.

Chatsworth is situated on the Derwent, on a rising ground, with terraces before it, formed by walls of wrought stone, which walls are surmounted by balustrades of stone. There is a finely wooded hill in the rear. The view southward, through grand avenues of trees, of the vale of the Derwent, is most beautiful.

In the conservatory, there were splendid specimens of the India rubber plant and the fan palm; and there was the curious nepenthes (pitcher plant), which at the end of every branch has an actual pitcher growing, large enough to hold more than half a wineglass of water— said pitcher nicely fitted with a lid.*

In the park were immense herds of cattle and of deer. The park is fourteen miles round; besides which the Duke of Devonshire has large possessions in this neighbourhood. As I turned away from the fine range of buildings, the smooth-shaven grounds, the gay flower-beds on the terraces, fenced round with chiselled stone, the noble groves, with the water of two or three fountains rising and falling in spray amid them, the vast range of the park, with the Derwent flowing through it, and above all, the rich and magnificent view southward, I thought that nothing could be more beautiful. But I had soon to correct my impression; for Haddon Hall is more beautifully situated; and Willersly Castle, Mr. Arkwright's seat, near Matlock, leaves it, in natural scenery, almost out of comparison.

Haddon Hall, two miles from Bakewell, on the way to Matlock, is a very ancient seat, on a somewhat precipitous bank of the Wye. It has been built in successive periods by different families-the Peverils, the Avenels, the Vernons, and lastly, the family of Manners. There are two hollow squares, and some towers. The whole is in great preservation, and especially the tapestry. In the dress of some of the figures wrought into the tapestry, are seen the fashion, and several of the varieties, too, of the modern ladies' sleeve. I had thought before that it was entirely a modern monster. But it seems that there is nothing new under the sun. There is a large dancing hall, with a finely carved oaken wainscoting and cornice-in which Queen Elizabeth led down the first measure. This hall was to-day put to a use which, amid de

The reader may be pleased to see the following beautiful description of this plant from the French of Richard :

"NEPENTHES sont tout originaires de l'Inde ou de l'isle de Madagascar. Leurs feuilles se terminent à leur sommet par un long filament qui porte une sorte d'urne creuse, d'une forme variable dans les diverses espèces, et recouverte à son sommet par un opercule qui s'ouvre et se ferme naturellement. Ces urnes ont toujours causé l'admiration de voyageurs, par le phénomène singulier qu'elles présentent. En effet, on le trouve presque constamment rempliés d'une eau pure, claire, limpide, at tres bonne a boire. Pendant quelque temps, on a cru que cet eau provenait de la rosée qui s'y accumulait; mais comme leur ouverture est assez étroite et souvent fermée par l'opercule, on a reconnu que le liquide avait sa source dans une veritable transpiration, dont la surface interne de l'urne est le seige. C'est ordinairement pendant la nuit que l'urne se remplit, et dans cet état, l'opercule est genéralement fermé. Pendant le jour, l'opercule se souléve, et l'eau diminue de moitiê, soit qu'elle s'evapore, soit qu'elle soit résorbée."