REVIEWS. 51 



well this holiday. The village is left ; and the lane leads us by an abrupt turn, 

 down to the rat-rat-rattling mill, all grey and dusty, and quite a picture, with the 

 lusty miller leaning on the half-shut door, eying us complacently, while the two 

 cats that bask at his feet seem to be half alarmed at the novel route. How hurriedly 

 the water runs from beneath that heavy revolving wheel, as it were glad to have 

 escaped from thraldom and from beneath the wheel of torture ; 



' It flows through Alder banks along 

 Beneath the copse that hides the hill ; 

 The gentle stream you cannot see, 



You only hear its melody, 

 The stream that turns the mill. 



Pass on a little way, pass on, 



And you shall catch its gleam anon ; 



And hark ! the loud and agonizing groan 



That makes its anguish known, 

 Where, tortured by the Tyrant Lord of Meal, 

 The Brook is broken on the Wheel.' 



Southey, Works, p. 126. 



The eye seeks relief from the painful image in the caul beyond, over which the 

 river rolls itself, in a round and oily wave, into the linn beneath, where, fretted 

 by the fall, it ruffles itself into a white foam, and murmurs, not loud and scarcely 

 displeased, at the accident and delay ! After a short whirling play, the water goes 

 on in a smooth and placid flow, that, after a space, quickens into a tumbling, 

 brattling stream, as if suddenly become conscious that it had dallied here too long, 

 and must make up the lost time. We take the hint, and we start to follow 

 the river, leading by a pathway, which the inscription, carved on a rock, in rustic 

 fashion, informs us was made by my Lord Frederick Fitzclarence — not for our 

 ease, who are all too regardless of a trespass. So onwards we saunter, changing 

 companions as whim and chance dictate, now in front — now lost in the rear — now 

 plucking a new variety of flower — and now entrapping the gorgeous insects that 

 flit about everywhere. The air is full of life, but 'twas unlucky to be so engaged 

 just at this particular moment, for I cannot participate in that laugh which some 

 story of Douglas's has provoked, and I lost the fun, too, for the sake of a fly 

 that I have not captured. (' One should take care not to grow too wise for so 

 great a pleasure of life as laughter.' — Addison.) Onwards again ; and now the 

 wood is passed, when we cross, with a quicker pace, the open fields, and scarcely 

 tarry at the queer little house and mill, which is sunk, as it were, in the bank, over 

 which the road is carried. But we greet the good woman who stands there, with 

 her infant in her arm, all a- wondering at the throng ; and our greeting is returned 

 with a cheerful smile that bespeaks the good woman to be happy with her lot. And 

 the opposite bank, covered with the bonnie broom, is sunny, and alive, too, with 

 yur-yur-yurlings, and chirps, and melody ; and the river is alive with the leaping 

 trout and the up-and-down flies — and it plays in its course with alternate streams 

 and stills, rapids and circling deep pools ; and the sun shines on all things, living 

 and dead, and we know not what to say but that this is beautiful and fine, and we 

 say this to one another very often and never dream that we repeat a twice-told 

 tale. Now a precipitous rock, partly quarried, and clothed with flowering sloes, 

 with a golden whin or two, with hazel and budding hawthorn, with honeysuckle clam- 

 bering amidst the shrubs, and with ivy that festoons the dark rock, and much varied 

 herbage, draws us to remark with what successful art nature has grouped and 

 mingled all this heterogeneous furniture, producing a very pleasing and picturesque 

 effect with materials, which, separately viewed, are of a mean and regardless 

 character. Turned by this rock, the river now runs in a rougher channel, banked 

 on one side by a green pasture slope, while the steeper bank, along whose base we 

 travel, is wooded with almost impenetrable shrubbery and trees of minor rank, 

 where the varied botany that luxuriates in their shelter calls us to frequent admi- 

 ration. The primrose and violet banks, the trailing ground-ivy with its modest 

 flowers, the tall and graceful rush, the starwort with its blossoms of vestal purity — 

 are all beautiful, and although often seen before, their beauty comes fresh and new 



