is a railway across those sands longer sees the moving groups of over the almost level space w reclaim, and obliged to wade whe makes a channel in the roadway. the Leven made their way over peasant-girls were wont to wad cently unconscious. All that th no doubt. The journey had in t of peril, for the incoming tide 1 sloping sands faster than a horse luckless traveller has been caugh you are only too safe. Mr. Brigh a first-class railway carriage tha world-safer than in the House church. So some of the temptatio route to Windermere have passed

The sinuous stream, twelve miles long, alive from south to north with yachts and steamers, with many beautiful islands resting on its waters, with superb mansions on its marge, and a ferry crossing it just before you reach Bowness, is in strange contrast with the lonely Red Tarn, more than 2000 feet high on the giant shoulder of Helvellyn, mysterious beneath a sombre precipice; and between the two extremes there are infinite gradations. I cannot go through the gamut of meres. Sometimes the memory of wild and stormy Wastwater haunts me; sometimes a thought of placid Grasmere, round which I have walked, listening to Wordsworth's pregnant converse, in days ere I deigned to write mere prose. Ah, that was a magical time !-but I was unconscious of its delight. Wordsworth sleeps in the shadow of Grasmere Church; and I no longer can sing, as I sang in happy youth :

"Dream, dream, heart of my own love!

Sweet is the breath of the odorous South;
Sweet is the island we sail to alone, love;

Sweet is a kiss of thy ruddy young mouth."

The most beautiful village in the world, to my thinking, is Troutbeck, on the east, above Windermere. Its quaint old cottages, in their yew-shaded courtyards, are without parallel elsewhere. Still the beck flows down to Windermere; still, I hope, it is alive with trout. But does the inn of The Mortal Man still offer hospitality to the wayfarer-mutton-ham and oatmeal-cake and homebrewed ale? Many a time did Coleridge, I feel certain, take his ease at that inn. The lines which were written

and snatches from the descen colossal stalactites. That bat force and the restraining frost and the fantastic forms into wh as it grows into crystals are qui description.

After all, Dreamland, and not true country. Well did he stanzas which Wordsworth wrot margin of The Castle of Indolenc

"A noticeable man with larg
And a pale face that seeme
As if a blooming face it ou
Heavy his low-hung lip did
Deprest by weight of musi
Profound his forehead was,

In that somnolent realm, deligh son, that land of "dreams that eye," Coleridge has a place of followed Christabel into the r

ancient mariner across the solitary sea where he killed the albatross, or has seen that stately pleasure-dome which Kubla Khan decreed in Xanadu

"Where Alph, the sacred river, ran,

Through caverns measureless to man,
Down to a sunless sea,"-

will recognise in Coleridge the most divine of dreamers. Yes, though I have traced him in terrene regions, which he has royally made his own, yet do I repeat what I said, that Dreamland was Coleridge's country.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR is poets the one least read by the the fewest impostors care even read. The reasons for this ar a literary position so many ye generation have never known hi not at any time been the fashion rendering it unintelligible to t himself has aptly compared it to tree, which is known when it bu flame and the paucity of its as Shelley, Byron and Tennyson, ha and it is noticeable that, when this the vices and weaknesses of hi admire and imitate. Herein p eccentricities are caught and aggr folk exaggerate the chignons and falbalas, of some imperial or illu muse was dressed like the huntr succinct apparel and quiver on