A YEAR AT AMBLESIDE. AUGUST. BY HARRIET MARTINEAU. THE season has arrived when our district is in its richest beauty; but when it yields the least pleasure to the resident gentry. The fatigue of life at the Lakes during August and September is such that all of us who can leave home go to the sea-coast, or to the Continent (when there are not revolutions in every kingdom there) or to the Isle of Man, or to play the tourist ourselves in Scotland or Ireland, or to visit family and friends. The railway is not to be blamed for our fatigues. They existed before the railway was planned. Wordsworth and his comrades, the poets who are strangely called "the Lake School," though they differ from each other as much as poets well can,could have told, any time within the last quarter of a century, how strangers can intrude themselves, on the excuse of admiration of genius. As more authors have retired hither, and as the works of the veterans become better known, the nuisance increases: but it is an old grievance. People who call themselves gentry prowl about the residences of celebrated persons who live here for the sake of quietness, waylay the servants to ask half a hundred questions about the habits of the household, ring at the bell to petition for autographs, stare in at the windows, take possession of the gardens, thrust themselves into the house with complimentary speeches; and there is seldom a season when some of them do not send to a newspaper, or to a correspondent who ventures upon putting it into a newspaper, an account of all they see and hear, and sometimes that which they have merely imagined. About the end of July, therefore, family after family of residents departs. Some let their houses; and those who remain at home may thus enjoy pleasant intercourse with intelligent strangers. In other cases, shutters are closed, and garden gates are locked; or the bustle of white-washing and cleaning may be seen going on, during the absence of the family. Those are the days in which such of us as remain at home love and cherish the early morning hours, as the only opportunity for a quiet walk. At the earliest hour, one can never be sure of not seeing a party on the terrace, or in the field, staring up at one's window: but, once beyond one's own gate, the roads and meadows are clear enough for pleasure till eight o'clock. So early as that, we meet jaded horses and a sleepy postilion coming from Patterdale or from Keswick-tired already because they can get no sufficient rest, night or day, during these two months. Sleek as horse and man are in spring, they look sadly harassed and reduced before October. So early as this, the little market-place is full of bustle, with omnibus and coach setting off; and the rubbing down of every horse in the stables is going on within sight,-that nobles and gentry may pursue their journey after breakfast. The poor cooks at the inns are half crazy with hurry and heat, and fatigue. Travellers were arriving till midnight, wanting supper: and other travellers, pedestrians, and those who go by the early coaches,-have been served with hot breakfasts since five o'clock. All the day, and half the night, is broiling and stewing, and roasting and boiling going on, though the hottest season of the year. Well may the wages given to these cooks be the amazement and ambition of younger functionaries in private houses, whose business is done when they have sent up three meals in a day, and who have the cool of the evening to themselves. Every bed in the town is yielding up its occupant, and no one could believe how many beds are supplied in so small a place. In one season, when I let my house to the Dean of L, and he had good rest in its best room, the Bishop of L― was actually compelled to sleep on a mattress laid on the floor at the chief inn. Since that, some of the residents have done what I do not like to think of. After having given up their beds to travellers, and slept in sheds, they next gave up the sheds, and slept under trees. The nights were warm and clear when they did that: but ours is no climate for such a risk as this; and I hope it will not happen again. This was after the European revolutions, which closed the continent to all but adventurous English travellers. The meadows are the place for early walks at this season. There is no dust there. Strangers do not know the intricacies of the knolls, or how to find the little falls or windings of the streams. The drawback about the walk is that one must return by the market-place; must slip into the town by the back way (a pleasant way enough), and pop in at the butcher's to bespeak his mercy,-to remind him of one's constant custom throughout the year, and ask if it is not hard that now, when we want to be hospitable, and when we believe we have provided a dinner,-sufficient, however, homely we should find ourselves without enough to go round. We were promised a fine piece of sirloin; there comes a piece of two ribs. We had engaged a leg of mutton: there comes up little more than a shank. We had bespoken a goodly dish of trout: we are allowed only two. About the fish, the butcher smiles. He has nothing to do with that. About the meat, he looks grave. He is very sorry: but what can he do? He can only parcel out his resources as fairly as he can, and try to be sufficiently provided next year. He assures me that he has no comfort of his life at present. People cut him up as he has to cut up his meat. He must say he wishes the residents had some resources of their own to rely on at this season: and he tells me that at a certain country inn, three miles off, five dozen fowls per day are killed and eaten. And this reminds me of what Lady R. told me of her method of proceeding, when called on to receive eighty-four chance strangers in the course of three months,-to give them more or less entertainment in her secluded valley. Bacon and eggs, eggs and bacon,-this is what she relies on, if butcher and fish-cart fail. Her guests, be they nephews and nieces, or bishops and countesses, must make up their minds to bacon and eggs, if they come to the Lakes. So I promise the butcher to think of keeping pigs and fowls to an extent which may relieve him of my demands at this season. A neighbour of mine was wishing, the other day, that we could get the Queen here, and lead her among the dales;-put her and her husband on ponies, and feed them on bacon and eggs. No luxury but trout from the streams: no triumphal arches, no attending magistracy, no bands of music; but instead of these, the rainbows which span the waterfalls, the wild goats on the fells, and the gush of waters hurrying down from the tarns above to the meadows and lakes below. We have no doubt she would like it; for she has something of a mountaineer spirit, and loves to spend a night in a hut (as it is called) of her own among the Scottish wilds. The mention of this to nephew and niece at breakfast sets us longing for the coolness and stillness of a mountain town. We declare that, one of these days, we will go into hiding in Easedale, and leave the strangers to prowl about here, and do without us as they may. "Some day," says one. "What day will that be?" "Any day but this," we agree. "We must be industrious all the morning." No such thing, as it happens. Looking out, we see the clouds of dust and the whirl of carriages on the road. We see blue and pink muslin gowns and summer bonnets moving about in the meadows: and the telescope discloses three sketching parties within view. Of all these people, some will certainly be coming here. We shall be balked of our industry if we stay at home. Let us be off into hiding! F. runs down to the inns, to try for a car to carry us four miles, to Grasmere church; or perhaps five, to the brink of the meadows, while S. and I dress in light walking trim, fill the flask with the whiskey which is appropriate to tarn expeditions; order the hard eggs and beef sandwiches, and send to the gardener's for fruit. The car is obtained; and before an hour is over, we have passed Grasmere church, and left the dusty road, and are within the sound of the brawling stream which comes down from the tarn. At that stream, we dismiss the car; and in a moment we seem to have stepped back into June, with its milder warmth, and its quietness, and even its hay-making. What a contrast is life here and where we were but an hour ago! The few people who are making hay on these levels,-these perfect levels between abrupt mountain sides,-live in yonder farm-house,-that secluded place, niched in among stone fences, canopied over with massy sycamores: and for many weeks together, they see no face but those of the household; and their monotonous lives are seldom varied but when the autumn or spring sales take place, and they cross the rampart under which they live for once to meet their fellows, and to hear the voice of mirth, and to dance to the fiddle, and to find they have social capacities. It was from such a dwelling, in this very dale, that a farmer and his wife, not many years ago, went over into Langdale, to attend a sale. It was by that path that they went, and were to have returned. It looks an easy path, winding by the ravine; a path hard to miss, broad enough, and not very steep. So says F.: but I tell him that it is impossible to tell in August, among these mountains, what any place on them would be like in snow. The children sat up long that night,-the elder ones. They, the elder ones,-were too young to be duly apprehensive. They saw the snow falling all the afternoon: when they looked out in the evening, they found a heavy drift at the door: so heavy a one, that the eldest girl laid the baby in the cradle, and set to work to get in fuel, lest the wood-house should soon be blocked up. When at last she lay down to rest, she had no fear. It was too late for her | rafters, -a muslin frock hung up, trimmed parents to return that night: but perhaps they had remained in Langdale. Those who live secluded, in a position of danger or inconvenience from climate, become patient to a point of apathy. A whole family of men and boys will sit round the fire in bad weather, without employment or ideas,-without fret or worry, -waiting till the weather mends. Just so these children stayed within, waiting for their parents' return, till they were so hungry and so cold, that something must be done. I think they had food and fuel on which they held on for two days. Then, a boy was sent,-and it was some good way,-to the nearest house. A stir was made at once. The women went and fed and warmed the children; and the men ran round to summon other dalesmen, and all turned out upon the mountain. They followed the track into Langdale,-found that the farmer and his wife had set off in good time on their return, on the same day, refusing to spend the night in Langdale, because the children would not know what to do without them. Back turned the searchers, with heavy hearts: for now they knew what to expect. The snow was partly melted; but some tracks were found-lost-and found again. At one point, the snow was so trampled, that it was thought some doubt or difficulty had occurred here; and somewhere near, then, might the missing ones be looked for. But darkness came on before either man or dog had made any discovery. At daylight, the search was renewed; and at last, the barking of a dog brought the searchers to a spot where the woman's body lay at the foot of a precipice not more than fourteen feet high. Her skull was fractured. At a little distance, quite away from the track, lay the man, dead from mere cold, to all ap- | pearance. It was thought that they had separated a little, to explore; and that the woman was returning to her husband,-probably guided by his voice, when the precipice, lying between, proved a trap, in which she perished. The funeral was attended by the whole population of the neighbouring dales; and the people's hearts were so touched that they took the children home. But not the less do they attend the sales, and yield to the temptation of a dance, in all weathers, and under heavy risks. The social faculties will not be denied. And it is well that they will not. In my opinion, there is no comparison between the family of a dalesman who lives too high up the ells for intercourse with his kind and that of a farmer under the sycamores in the levels below. In the last case, you may meet some strange whimsies. You may see in a rude chamber, where the planks of the floor are gaping and there is no ceiling,-only the dark with lace and satin ribands, and stuck over with atrocious artificial flowers, red and blue, with a morsel of tinsel in the centre of each bunch: and you may hear a girl of such a family talking eagerly on her way to church on Sunday (as we did) about whether Charles B. admired her most in her diamonds or her emeralds. You may see much time spent in learning to dance of an itinerant master; and you may hear of sad follies and errors which ensue from the merry-makings at the sale or in the barn: but, I think, if you have ever been high up, in the most secluded of the mountain hollows, you will think the blank ignorance and apathy there the worst of all. The man leaves home now and then: and, even if he gets drunk, three times a year or so, he hears people speak, and receives ideas. His wife has become scarcely able to speak. You could with difficulty understand her; and her gestures and voice are savage and almost alarming. Her son carries his feet as if they were made of lead. If a traveller appears, the lad stares with round eyes and open mouth; and when he resumes his work, looks as if the aim of his life had been to learn to be slow. In the old days, there was occasionally a wolf to hunt; an eagle to circumvent, and bereave of its young: and many a Border war to which the dalesmen were summoned, for a foray or a campaign. Now, there is nothing:-only to keep a few sheep, and to grow a few oats; to eat the meal, and then grow oats again. It is surprising that the cleanliness of the dwellings is kept up as it is:-the more so because the people are dirty in their persons. There is, I am assured, hope of amendment in this in the lower dales, if not in the higher mountain dwellings. Where there are families enough within reach of a common centre to furnish a dozen children or upwards, the inhabitants entertain a school-master on "whittle-gate" terms: that is, he puts in his whittle (knife) among the provisions of the family; is boarded by the farmers in turn: and we may hope that one of the lessons he will enforce will be that "cleanliness is next to godliness." He will praise the purely clean slate floor, and the white deal table, and the shining pots and pans; and then point out how little trouble it costs in comparison to keep hair and teeth clean, and to do justice to the skin, where there is a natural bath of the finest kind in the nearest rock basin and gushing stream. Up to such a dwelling we have to go now,and past it;-and beyond where there are any dwellings at all; beyond where even sheep are to be seen. The stream will guide That is the beauty of seeking a tarn. You may miss a short cut, and make a circuit: us. but you cannot miss your tarn, if you follow anything before which conveyed to you such the stream which comes from it. The broad an impression of stillness? Let us lie down waterfall is our object for a great part of the on the grass on the brink, and see how unway; the ledge over which the water spreads, moved the shadows lie. See here! look at and offers a curtain of froth and a fringe of these diamond drops, sprinkled over the herspray which may be seen far off in all wea-bage. Parched and hot as all is below, see thers. We will not go too near it, but hold how a cloud has here come down,-stooped the path above, where the ferns make a show in its course, to brighten the verdure in this of fencing us in on either hand. We are such recess. It seems almost a pity that no lamb babies as to lead the sheep after us by baaing followed us hither: yet how would it start at as we go; and it is droll to see how puzzled the echo of its "solemn bleat," as Wordsthey look, and how they stare round them, as worth calls it, and how it would listen for the if not quite sure that they are right. But we sheep-dog's bark, or anything that would remust leave off that now; or we may lead them lieve it from the depth of silence here! Can you astray among the heights where they may fancy a yet more impressive retreat than this, bleat in vain for shepherd or mate. How they not far from us? It is said that on the glassy stand gazing after us. If they are here when surface of Bowscale tarn, round which the we return, we will escort them down again. rocks rise darker and higher than here, no Now, up this heathery slope, and over this sunshine touches for four months of the year: bit of bog,-and up, up, that indistinct path and now and then the stars may be seen at yonder, and we shall enter that purple hollow noonday. We cannot see that here: but look, where lies the tarn. Did you ever consider, look!—that is a sort of dawn breaking on the F. and S.,-what tarns are for?-what special deep gray of the water,-those converging silservice they render? Their use is to cause very lines trembling on the surface. Do you such a distribution of the waters as may ferti- see how it happens? The wild-drake has taken lize without inundating the lands below. Af- the water on the opposite shore; and this way ter rains, if the waters all came pouring down he comes with his brood behind him. Yesat once, the vales would be flooded: as it is, here are more dimples in the mirror,-from the nearer brooks swell, and pour themselves some restless fish or fly. And after all, we are out into the main stream, while the mountain not alone! Some one is under that mass of brooks are busy in the same way above, emp-rock, angling. F. says it is a woman. If so, it tying themselves into the tarns. By the time must be F. M. It is F. M.: and now the rocks the streams in the valley are subsiding, the have to echo our laughter at being thus reupper tarns are full, and begin to overflow; spectively frustrated in our search after soliand now the overflow can be received in the tude. But our friend has caught fish enough valley without injury. That is the office of for one day; and now she must sit down to these little mountain lakes. dinner with us, and help us to pity the Ambleside people, who would be glad enough of such a seat as ours, amidst dews and shadows, and fresh waters, and not a sound but of our own voices. Now, do you begin to feel it? Does not some breath of coolness steal out of the purple hollow? You observe what precipices gird it about and now, at last, you see the dark gray sheet of water itself. Did you ever see THE DISCOVERY, OR PLOTS AND COUNTER-PLOTS. BY MRS. C. H. BUTLER. (See Engraving.) KATE CARLETON was something of a coquette, and her lover, Frank Ingleby, very jealous, which, of course, he had no good reason to be, for he knew perfectly well that there was no one so dear to the heart of Kate as he was himself, and that although she walked with one, rode with a second, danced with a third, and chatted like a little magpie with all the beaux of the village, yet, after all, when her eye met his, it was with a loving glance-such as she bestowed on no one else—and with a smile reserved for him alone. No, he had no right to be jealous; but as he was so, he should have kept it to himself, and not been continually upbraiding poor Kate, until he had the cruel satisfaction of bringing tears into those beautiful eyes. For, to do her justice, she had no intention of being a coquette. She was a sprightly, good-tempered little soul, and it was as natural for her to do all she could to make people happy around her, as it is for a bird to sing in the spring-time. Yet sometimes when she least expected it, when, in the innocency of her heart, she was laughing and chatting with careless freedom, to make the moments pass pleasantly, to some chance visiter from village beau-dom-she would, all of a sudden, find Frank's eyes darting anger and reproach into her very heart. And then there was always sure to be a scene, as the French say. Frank would upbraid - Kate would smile sweetly, and try to reason the idea of such a thing, reason with a jealous manwell Kate was young! Then Frank would work himself quite into a passion, and call her a flirt at which Kate would pout, while her little foot beat time to the throbbings of her heart still Frank would persist in his reproaches, and then Kate would begin to weep, which was sure to bring Frank plump down on his knees! Ah, now it was Kate's turn to rule! sitting up so dignified, with her little head turned scornfully on one side, while Frank begged like a sinner, as he was, for forgiveness. No-she would not forgive him-not she indeed -he was very cruel-of all things she despised jealousy-she had given him no reason to say what he had! And Frank confessed it, and swore he would never be so unjust again, if she would only forgive him this once-just this once. But no; Kate declared she would never, never, nev-. Ah did you hear that? it was only the adverb cut in two by two lips! It was one of those beautiful evenings which seem made for lovers only, that Frank and Kate were strolling through the vine-trellised portico surrounding the pleasant little cottage of Mr. Carleton. It was in the rosy month of June, and the fragrance of sweet blossoms seemed floating on the gentle evening breeze, and on the rippling stream which ran softly murmuring at the foot of the terrace. The stars looked out brightly from their azure depths. Mars cast his most beaming smile upon the gentle Venus, and all the little stars twinkled their bright eyes roguishly. As for the moon, she was too busy in her own reflections, to heed the wooing of celestial or terrestrial lovers. Kate, looking up very bewitchingly in the face of Frank, said: "Now promise me, Frank, that when we are married, you will never be jealous again; for you must know that this unfortunate infirmity of yours sometimes makes me fear for our future happiness." "No, my sweet girl, I cannot doubt you then;" exclaimed Frank; "you will be my own, my own dear wife, Kate, and never again, I promise you, shall my foolish jealousy cause you regret." "Ah, it is so mean to be jealous, now is not Frank? it is so unworthy a generous heart; it betrays such a want of confidence in the one you love! Really, Frank, I have been more than once tempted to resign you to some one whom you could put more faith in." The stars winked at this. "Why, Kate, dear Kate, is it possible! and yet you have borne my folly so like an angel. I should be a wretch indeed if I ever doubted you again!" cried Frank. "If I did not believe you-if I thought that after we were married, Frank, you would still conjure up your jealous fears, I should be perfectly wretched!" and the tears stood in the |