I said, in closing my last, that I would write a little more about Westmoreland; but so much, has happened since, that I must now dismiss that region with all possible brevity.

The first day of which I wished to speak was passed in visiting Langdale, the scene of Wordsworth’s “Excursion.”  Our party of eight went in two of the vehicles called cars or droskas,—­open carriages, each drawn by one horse.  They are rather fatiguing to ride in, but good to see from.  In steep and stony places all alight, and the driver leads the horse:  so many of these there are, that we were four or five hours in going ten miles, including the pauses when we wished to look.

The scenes through which we passed are, indeed, of the most wild and noble character.  The wildness is not savage, but very calm.  Without recurring to details, I recognized the tone and atmosphere of that noble poem, which was to me, at a feverish period in my life, as pure waters, free breezes, and cold blue sky, bringing a sense of eternity that gave an aspect of composure to the rudest volcanic wrecks of time.

We dined at a farm-house of the vale, with its stone floors, old carved cabinet (the pride of a house of this sort), and ready provision of oaten cakes.  We then ascended a near hill to the waterfall called Dungeon-Ghyll Force, also a subject touched by Wordsworth’s Muse.  You wind along a path for a long time, hearing the sound of the falling water, but do not see it till, descending by a ladder the side of the ravine, you come to its very foot.  You find yourself then in a deep chasm, bridged over by a narrow arch of rock; the water falls at the farther end in a narrow column.  Looking up, you see the sky through a fissure so narrow as to make it look very pure and distant.  One of our party, passing in, stood some time at the foot of the waterfall, and added much to its effect, as his height gave a measure by which to appreciate that of surrounding objects, and his look, by that light so pale and statuesque, seemed to inform the place with the presence of its genius.

Our circuit homeward from this grand scene led us through some lovely places, and to an outlook upon the most beautiful part of Westmoreland.  Passing over to Keswick we saw Derwentwater, and near it the Fall of Lodore.  It was from Keswick that we made the excursion of a day through Borrowdale to Buttermere and Crummock Water, which I meant to speak of, but find it impossible at this moment.  The mind does not now furnish congenial colors with which to represent the vision of that day:  it must still wait in the mind and bide its time, again to emerge to outer air.