498 COQUET SIDE. 



all her glory among her attendant stars the maidens of her harem. 

 The fitful lullabies of distant torrents is hushing Nature into repose ; 

 and it is time for the rambler, unless he wishes to lie on the hill-side 

 in his plaid, to seek out some shelter for the night. 



At a turn in the glen we meet with an old shepherd, carrying in 

 his arms a lamb, whose birth has cost its mother her life. He is 

 taking it to his cottage, where, on the green plot of grass between 

 his door and the fresh brook, like Wordsworth's pet lamb, it will be 

 " by a slender cord tethered to a stone," and may haply meet with 

 some " child of beauty rare," like Barbara Lewthwaite, twice a day 

 to bring it fresh water from the running stream ; and twice a day, 

 when the dew is on the ground, draughts of warm and new milk. 

 Into his cottage the shepherd will welcomely receive us for the night; 

 ham and eggs, with a fresh trout or two taken from the brook before 

 his door, and washed down by a draught from our own pocket-bottle, 

 will form our repast ; and an hour or two's converse with the intel- 

 ligent old man about his flocks, or the storms that occur among the 

 mountains, will furnish a proper prelude to the prayer with which we 

 seek our places of repose. There is in the language of such men as 

 our host one who has lived a long life in solitary places, and who 

 feels his utter and immediate dependence upon the Ruler of the ele- 

 ments, a solemnity and natural piety, which the inhabitants of popu- 

 lous districts can never meet with, and scarcely imagine. The as- 

 pects of Nature in her wildest, sternest, and loveliest forms, have all 

 and each been so vividly before him in the magnificence of his 

 mountains, the terrible storms to which they are subject, and the 

 deep hush and holy repose which at other times they wear, that his 

 very voice has caught a solemn gravity, and his features an expres- 

 sion of reverence that reflects the influences which sink down into 

 the heart of the " dweller out of doors." He speaks and looks like 

 one in the visible presence of some awful and yet beloved being. He 

 is the very spirit of Wordsworth's poetry individualized. To the 

 light and frivolous his manner and converse seem austere; but be- 

 neath that grave outward show, for austerity it is not, there beats a 

 heart warm, glowing, universal in its love to nature and man there 

 dwells a spirit devout and philosophical, in the best and most ample 

 meaning of those terms. Such men there are many such men, 

 among the solitary glens of the Cheviots ; and such a man the rambler, 

 if he chooses to follow the margin of the Cairnpeth burn two or three 

 miles upwards from the Coquet, will find in old Kenneth Ross. But 

 we have bid the old shepherd farewell, and are hastening to the Co- 

 quet. The grass is " dewy with Nature's tear-drops;" the early 

 sounds of mountain and valley are abroad, the streams are singing 

 down with a merrier din than before, and, dearer than all to the 

 angler, they wear that swollen and slightly discoloured appearance 

 which insures him a creelful of the best and the biggest. The glo- 

 rious morning and the sport it promises demand a song ; as we lash 

 together, therefore, the pieces of our rod (for never shall brass-rings 

 or steel-screws cramp the elasticity of water-whip of ours), let us 

 shout aloud to the mountains an old fisher's song. 



