Descriptive letterpress printed opposite this photograph:

CASCADES NEAR STONETHWAITE, BORROWDALE.

“Brook ! whose society the poet seeks,

Intent his wasted spirits to renew ;

And whom the curious painter doth pursue

Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,

And tracks these dancing down thy water-breaks;

If I some type of thee did wish to view,

Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do

Like Grecian artists, give thee human cheeks,

Channels for tears; no Naiad shouldst thou be,

Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints, nor hairs!

It seems the eternal soul is clothed in thee

With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,

And hath bestow’d on thee a better good,

Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.”⎯WORDSWORTH.

WHETHER in the broad noon-day or ‘mid the calm of summer nights, there can scarcely be found more silent, secluded spots than some of the stream-fed glens in Borrowdale. The pastoral mountains front you face to face, and the sketcher is alone with a few sheep grazing on the steep fell, with rocks, and stones, and kites that overhead are sailing in the sky. Occasional mist and vapours rolling down the valley make the lonely scene more lonesome, but to the lover of Wordsworth such unstinted intercourse with Nature is a happy time. When the long day’s task is done, what pleasanter than the homeward walk to a distant place of sojourn, while

“The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day,

Now hardly heard, beguiles our homeward way.”

And let that home be a share of some shepherd’s cot quite away from “tamed” people, and you will understand the author of ” Eothen’s” kindly injunction to remember sometimes ” the poor devils who live in squares, and streets, and houses, in a state of utter respectability,” – “presenting their compliments,” and ” requesting the honour,” and “much regretting,” and rejoice in being for a while free and “unlabelled.” Wordsworth so laid himself open to all the subtle influences of Nature amid these lonely hills, until his mind became ” a mansion for all lovely forms,” ” the memory a dwelling-place” stored with images of quietness and beauty, and so fed with lofty thoughts that the strife of selfish men,⎯

” the fretful stir

Unprofitable⎯the fever of the world,”

the ceaseless toil of mere money making and all its littleness, seemed to him unutterably  small. The principles so forcibly and so beautifully expounded in what has been termed the “‘Tintern Abbey” manifesto of the power and influence of nature, will gain more disciples as time rolls on, and the world will be better, wiser, and happier for a more complete surrender to the lofty teaching of that noble poem!