And now, let us rest a moment on this mossy bank and survey the scene. Above the trees, in grim and solemn majesty, float two glossy ravens, whose harsh coarse notes are heard far through the air. There is the swift-eyed hawk watching for his prey, and darting like lightning through the skies. I hear the plover's sweet, melancholy wail—a sound of sorrow and of joy -like the cry of an infant hushed to silence at its mother's breast. I hear the moorcock far on his native hills,—a cry of triumph and defiance, as if these mountains were his heritage and home,-and low, amidst them all, is the voice of this pleasant stream-this gentle prattling water :— "And now it is all instrument, Now like a gentle lutè, And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute." Lo, too, that ancient cottage! Its walls are ruined and desolate, the rafters are broken down, the door-way open to the hoarsest winter winds, the floor, where pretty children danced or played, exposed to all the "pelting of the pitiless storm." Perchance, love in its intensest passion once lingered there,-there long ago the venerable patriarch recorded in heaven his orisons of prayer, -there manhood hath struggled on through its boldest prime, there, years and years long since past, have happy hearts murmured in silence their hopes and fears, -the scene of infancy, of youth,-of love and suffering, -manhood, old age, the grave! And, far beyond, the solemn and august mountains rear their stately fronts to the skies. On these very heights, perchance, the old Aborigines held their mystic rites beneath the rising and setting sun,-here, perchance, the sanguinary orgies of the Druids were perpetrated in open day-here, it may be, the bold Britons marched to the standard of the valiant Caractacus, or the warlike Boadicea,-and here, we may dream, the hardy patriots of old, struggled long and fiercely with the armed legions of the south, nor yielded one inch of their barren dwellings, unless gained by the falchion or the sword. Verily, even now, these hills would pour forth their hundreds of stern and daring patriots, did foreign foeman venture one footfal on his native territory. Tis now past mid-day, and but halfour labour is done. But our basket becomes heavier at almost every throw, and the bright beauties of the flood eye the bait with pleasure, and leap at our lure with delight. Never was the water in finer colour. A gentle tinge of the marish clay is on the current, and a gentle breeze from the south fills all the animal kingdom with eagerness and health. No one need fish here with east or north winds. It is in vain, too, to waste your time at moor fishing in clear weather, or when the streams are low. Such a day as this, cloudy and breezy, after a little rain, and if you angle carefully, we will bet a rump and dozen, that you come off like ourselves with a full hamper, as many as the broadest shoulders can carry. But we have not space to describe further. Com mondale, Sleddale, and thou, pleasant mill with thy trout-filled waters,-hill, valley, and rural farm-houses nestling amid their guardian trees, sounds and sights of glory and joy all must pass away! Nor can we tell of Castleton placed high like Ehrenstein, on its rocky crag -of its quaint ancient bridge, of its honest primitive inhabitants-of its broad, magnificent river, flowing through vales of unutterable beauty, till its sparkling waves mingle with the billows of ocean,-all must glide away from our memory, but not we trust 'Like the baseless fabric of a vision Leave not a wreck behind.' The furthest hill is past, the sound of the gorcock is heard no more. Away! away! over the broad heath we wander onward, and now we stand on the last summit that divides us from our native vale. And oh, what glorious sight is this! Behold, the sun is now sinking in the west, and all the clouds that pavilion him glow like an ocean of burning gold! Bar on bar of glorious colours curtain the monarchs head, and isles of beauty, the abodes surely of angels and blessed creatures of the skies, lie spangled around his sovereign domains. Surely never Poet gazed on a more sumptuous sight;-woods, and groves, and meadowsthe luminary of the heavens in all his magnificence— yon noble river-his canopy the sky, and for his couch the everlasting sea! 'Glory beyond all glory ever seen By waking sense or by the dreaming soul! D Fabric it seem'd of diamond and of gold, O, 'twas an unimaginable sight! Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turi, Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge Fantastic pomp of structure without name. my heart Swell'd in my breast. I have been dead,' I cried, 'And now I live,-O wherefore do I live!' RURAL SKETCHES. ANGLIANA, No. III. "We have often thought that angling alone offers to man the degree of half-business, half-idleness, which the fair sex find in their needlework or knitting, which, employing the hands, leaves the mind at liberty, and, occupying the attention as far as it is necessary to remove the painful sense of a vacuity, yet yields room for contemplation, whether upon things heavenly or earthly, cheerful or melancholy." So writes the best of miscellanies, the Quarterly Review, and, barring the somewhat disparaging similitude of our noble art to the effeminate pastime of needlework, nothing can be more true than that angling "yields room for contemplation, whether upon things heavenly or earthly." We never yet knew an angler who was not a platonist, a dreamer of sweet contemplations, and possessed of a mild, gentle, and meditative spirit. The very nature, nay the habits and necessities of his art, beget a love of nature, and administer to the best and loftiest of our hunan sympathies. At morn, he sets out fresh and vigorous as a lark-his eye clear and strong for the splendours of the air and |