that if a scene on this earth could deserve to be sealed up, like the valley of Rasselas, against the intrusion of the world if there were one to which a man would willingly surrender himself a prisoner for the years of a long life that it is this Easedale-which would justify the choice, and recompense the sacrifice. But there is a third advantage possessed by this Easedale, above other rival valleys, in the sublimity of its mountain barriers. In one of its many rocky recesses is seen a "force," (such is the local name for a cataract,) white with foam, descending at all seasons with respectable strength, and, after the melting of snows, with an Alpine violence. Follow the leading of this "force" for three quarters of a mile, and you come to a little mountain lake, locally termed a "tarn" the very finest and most gloomy sublime of its class. From this tarn it was, I doubt not, though applying it to another, that Wordsworth drew the circumstances of his general description:

"Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud,
And mists that spread the flying shroud;
And winds

That, if they could, would hurry past:

But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

And far beyond this " enormous barrier," that thus imprisons the very winds, tower upwards the aspiring heads (usually enveloped in cloud and mist) of Glaramara, Bow Fell, and the other fells of Langdale Head and Borrowdale. Finally, superadded to the other circumstances of solitude, arising out of the rarity of

human life, and of the signs which mark the goings on of human life, two other accidents there are of Easedale, which sequester it from the world, and intensify its depth of solitude beyond what could well be looked for or thought possible in any vale within a district so beaten by modern tourists. One is, that it is a chamber within a chamber, or rather a closet within a chamber- a chapel within a cathedral — a little private oratory within a chapel. For Easedale is, in fact, a dependency of Grasmere — a little recess lying within the same general basin of mountains, but partitioned off by a screen of rock and swelling uplands, so inconsiderable in height, that, when surveyed from the commanding summits of Fairfield or Seat Scandal, they seem to subside into the level area, and melt into the general surface. But, viewed from below, these petty heights form a sufficient partition; which is pierced, however, in two points once by the little murmuring brook threading its silvery line onwards to the lake of Grasmere, and again by a little rough lane, barely capable (and I think not capable in all points) of receiving a post-chaise. This little lane keeps ascending amongst wooded steeps for a quarter of a mile; and then, by a downward course of a hundred yards or so, brings you to a point at which the little valley suddenly bursts upon you with as full a revelation of its tiny proportions, as the traversing of the wooded back-grounds will permit. The lane carries you at last to a little wooden bridge, practicable for pedestrians; but, for carriages, even the doubtful road, already mentioned, ceases altogether and this fact, coupled with the difficulty of suspecting such a lurking paradise from the high road

through Grasmere, at every point of which the little hilly partition crowds up into one mass with the capital barriers in the rear, seeming in fact, not so much to blend with them as to be part of them, may account for the fortunate neglect of Easedale in the tourist's route; and also because there is no one separate object, such as a lake or a splendid cataract, to bribe the interest of those. who are hunting after sights; for the "force" is comparatively small, and the tarn is beyond the limits of the vale, as well as difficult of approach.

One other circumstance there is about Easedale, which completes its demarcation, and makes it as entirely a landlocked little park, within a ring-fence of mountains, as ever human art, if rendered capable of dealing with mountains and their arrangement, could have contrived. The sole approach, as I have mentioned, is from Grasmere; and some one outlet there must inevitably be in every vale that can be interesting to a human occupant, since without water it would not be habitable; and running water must force an exit for itself, and, consequently, an inlet for the world; but, properly speaking, there is no other. For, when you explore the remoter end of the vale, at which you suspect some communication with the world outside, you find before you a most formidable amount of climbing, the extent of which can hardly be measured where there is no solitary object of human workmanship or vestige of animal life, not a sheep-track even, not a shepherd's hovel, but rock and heath, heath and rock, tossed about in monotonous confusion. And, after the ascent is mastered, you descend into a second vale- long, narrow, sterile, known by the name of "Far Easedale:" from which point, if

you could drive a tunnel below the everlasting hills, perhaps six or seven miles might bring you to the nearest habitation of man in Borrowdale; but, crossing the mountains, the road cannot be less than twelve or fourteen, and in point of fatigue, at the least twenty. This long valley, which is really terrific at noon-day, from its utter loneliness and desolation, completes the defences of little sylvan Easedale. There is one door into it from the Grasmere side; but that door is hidden; and on every other quarter there is no door at all, nor any, the roughest, access, but what would demand a day's walking.

Such is the solitude- so deep, so seventimes guarded and so rich in miniature beauty of Easedale; and in this solitude it was that George and Sarah Green, two poor and hard-working peasants, dwelt, with a numerous family of small children. Poor as they were, they had won the general respect of the neighborhood, from the uncomplaining firmness with which they bore the hardships of their lot, and from the decent attire in which the good mother of the family contrived to send out her children to the Grasmere school. It is a custom, and a very ancient one, in Westmoreland and I have seen

the same usage prevailing in southern Scotland - that any sale by auction, whether of cattle, of farming produce, farming stock, wood, or household furniture and seldom a fortnight passes without something of the sort-forms an excuse for the good women, throughout the whole circumference of perhaps a dozen valleys, to assemble at the place of sale with the nominal purpose of aiding the sale, or of buying something they may want. No doubt the real business of the sale attracts

numbers; although of late years—that is, for the last twenty-five years, through which so many sales of furniture the most expensive, (hastily made by casual settlers, on the wing for some fresher novelty,) — have made this particular article almost a drug in the country; and the interest in such sales has greatly declined. But, in 1807, this fever of founding villas or cottages ornées, was yet only beginning; and a sale, except it were of the sort exclusively interesting to farming men, was a kind of general intimation to the country, from the owner of the property, that he would, on that afternoon be "at home" for all comers, and hoped to see as large an attendance as possible. Accordingly, it was the almost invariable custom-and often, too, when the parties were far too poor for such an effort of hospitality to make ample provision, not of eatables, but of liquor, for all who came. Even a gentleman, who should happen to present himself on such a festal occasion, by way of seeing the "humors" of the scene, was certain of meeting the most cordial welcome. The good woman of the house more particularly testified her sense of the honor done to her house, and was sure to seek out some cherished and solitary article of china—a wreck from a century back in order that he, being a porcelain man amongst so many delf men and women, might have a porcelain cup to drink from.

The main secret of attraction at these sales many a score of which I have attended. was the social rendezvous thus effected between parties so remote from each other, (either by real distance, or by the virtual distance which results from a separation by difficult tracts of hilly country,) that, in fact, without some such