that droop above it; at another, emerging to the light, clear, rapid, and transparent, while long smooth weeds, and trailing wreaths of the water lily, covered with dazzling white flowers, either float upon the surface, or appear beneath it with unusual brilliancy, as the vivid transparency of the water every where imparts a higher tone of colour to the objects over which it flows; and the sparkling of the limestone rocks, and the intermingling hues of overarching trees, long branches of wild roses, and tufts of foxglove, are beautifully reflected on the bosom of the stream. Again it hurries impetuously on, leaping from rock to rock, and forming innumerable rapids; while in still more agitated spots, the restless waves whirl into numerous eddies on the shore, and as they race along, stop for a moment, as if to contend with the rude masses of broken rocks, which, tinted with green mosses, and variously coloured lichens, lift up their heads above the stream.

This enchanting spot has long been the favourite resort of poets, moralists, and painters. To visit scenes which have thus been visited, imparts an hallowed feeling to these unrivalled solitudes, which the lover of nature can readily comprehend, the pen would fail to describe.

"Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire,
As summer clouds flash forth electric fire.

Aerial forms in Dovedale's classic vale

Glance through the gloom, and whisper in the gale,
Instil that musing, melancholy mood,

Which charms the wise, and elevates the good;
While pensive gleams of happiness resigned,
Glance on the vivid mirror of the mind."

Rogers.

The force and beauty of the preceding lines, will I trust, sufficiently atone for the space they occupy in this sketch of Dovedale, to which the mention of the Whiting has insensibly led me.

Adieu.

LETTER XIII.

MIGRATIONS OF THE SALMON GENUS.

To

WHILE looking over some ma

nuscripts this morning, I found a packet of letters, written many years since by of whose

romantic love for natural history, you have often heard. They contain many interesting memorandums, relative to the migration of the finny tribes, of which I shall occasionally avail myself; more especially as they speak of places, in connexion with them, which it is not probable that I shall ever visit.

"My thoughts recurred to you this morning," observed our traveller, (for by this name I shall designate him) in one of his letters to a friend, "when, revisiting the narrow passes of the dreary Tilt, I came unconsciously upon the very spot where we had spent so many hours. The stone which served us for a seat, evinced nothing of the lapse of time,

but the overhanging rock was dotted with grey lichens; and long pendant branches of fern, and foxglove, sprung from out its fissures; some rude hand had torn away the drapery of ivy, and the grass grew wild and high, as if the place was seldom visited. No other alteration was perceptible. The torrent rolled impetuously over the bed of rock which it had worn in its ancient course, and disappeared behind the sweeping range of beetling crags that rise precipitously on either side. I thought of you, my friend, and a thousand melancholy reflections crowded on my mind. I contrasted the permanency of nature with the mutability of life, and mournfully associated the lamentations of the Persian Sadi, with the objects that surrounded me.

"I went to the place of my birth," exclaimed Sadi, "I asked for the friends of my youth, where are they? And the echo replied, Where are they?"

But why should I dwell on these unprofitable recollections. The adverse incidents of life ought not to shake the fortitude of him who has learned to regard them with the eye of reason and religion. Nature continually offers an inexhaustible source of instruction and delight; and in proportion as the domain of science is extended, she presents herself to him, who knows how to interrogate her, under forms and aspects equally diversified and beautiful.

A few months since the mornings were sharp and

clear; not a cloud flitted across the blue vault of heaven, not a single speck interrupted the dazzling splendour of the snowy landscape. The long tufts

of moss and lichens, which clothed, towards the east, the trunks of the forest trees, were covered with hoar frost, while the withered blades of grass, and the graceful capsules of the henbane, appeared like icy feathers sparkling in the breeze. The little birds had ceased their warbling, all but the domestic redbreast, whose contented notes were heard at intervals, as flitting from spray to spray, he shook the spangles of frozen ice that tinkled on the withered leaves, which the wind had scattered to the earth. But now, the revolution of a few short months has restored the face of nature, the brilliant yellow flowers of the cistus appear conspicuous in various directions, and the hills are covered with purple heath.

"Flower of the wild, whose purple glow

Adorns the dusky mountain's side,

Not the gay hues of Iris' bow,

Nor garden's artful, varied pride,

With all its wealth of sweets, could cheer
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer.

"Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild,

Of peace and freedom seems to breathe;

To pluck thy blossom in the wild,

And deck his bonnet with the wreathe,
Where dwelt of old his rustic sires,
Is all his simple wish requires.