WORDSWORTH.


The morning found me, after an early breakfast, on the road to Studley
Park. Now there are some "moods of my own mind" in which I detest all
vehicles of conveyance, when on an excursive tour to admire the antique
and picturesque.--Thus what numerous attractions are presented to us,
sauntering along the woody lane on foot, which are lost or overlooked
in the velocity of a drive! On the declivity of a meadow, inviting our
reflection, rises a little Saxon church, grey with antiquity, and
solemnized by its surrounding memorials of "Here lies."--Across the
heath, encircled with fences of uncouth stones, stands a stern record
of feudal yore; at the next turn peeps the rectory, encircled with old
firs, trained fruit trees, and affectionate ivy; beneath yon darkened
thickets rolls the lazy Ure, expanding into laky broadness; and, beyond
yon western woods, which embower the peaceful hamlet, are seen the
"everlasting hills," across which the enterprising Romans constructed
their road. I next passed the boundaries of Newby Park, the property of
Lord Grantham. Here beneath enormous beeches were clustering the timid
deer, "in sunshine remote;" and the matin songs of birds were sounding
from the countless clumps which skirt this retreat. Within that solitude
had I enjoyed the society of a brother, alas, now no more! and yet the
landscape wore the same sunny smile as when I carved his name on the
towering obelisk before him. I felt that sorrow so exquisitely described
by _Burns_:


"How can ye bloom so fresh and fair;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,