CHAPTER THE LAST. 391 



on the hills, and sees objects, in portentous size, loom- 

 ing through the mist. Indeed no other poet has 

 passages so full of the spirit of mountain scenery as 

 Wordsworth. It is true they are the phenomena of 

 such heights only as Westmoreland and Cumberland 

 present; but though these are not high mountains, 

 they have a solemn character of their own, and the 

 mists assemble there, and silence is round them, except 

 when the sough of the wind is heard. The generality 

 of persons tarry amid the grandeur but a short time, 

 and then describe their impressions of its sublimity 

 and their own great wonderment. But it is not by 

 mere passing visits that intimate acquaintanceship can 

 be formed : he only who lives with Nature long and 

 frequently can obtain an insight into all her hid- 

 den ways. Nor does she reveal herself but to him 

 who truly loves her : he must learn to interpret her 

 changeful countenance, not by scientific rules, but by 

 the force of sympathy, the sympathy of deep affec- 

 tion. And it is such familiar intercourse that forms 

 one of the great charms experienced by him who, with 

 rifle at his back, stalks up the mountain, or sits watch- 

 ing on its summit. 



The forest, like the mountain, has a delight of its 

 own, a peculiar, mysterious influence, which grows 

 around the heart, and holds it with the power of a 

 sweetly-influencing spell. The voices and breathings 

 there are different to those heard among the rocks, 

 that peculiar rustle, as of passing wings, still heard 

 when not a breath is stirring, the murmur among 



