orld, is attached to all elegant socialities and amities;
that he uses silver cups instead of maple bowls, shows his scallop-shell
among other curiosities in his cabinet, and will treat the passing
pilgrim with pure water from the spring, if he insists upon that
beverage, but will first offer him a glass of the yellow cowslip-wine,
the cooling claret, or the sparkling champagne.

Perhaps we are all beginning to get a little hungry, but it is too soon
to breakfast; so, leaving the village of Grassmere on the right, keep
your eye on Helm-crag, while we are finding, without seeking, our way up
Easdale. Easdale is an arm of Grassmere, and in the words of Mr Green
the artist, "it is in places profusely wooded, and charmingly
sequestered among the mountains." Here you may hunt the waterfalls, in
rainy weather easily run down, but difficult of detection in a drought.
Several pretty rustic bridges cross and recross the main stream and its
tributaries; the cottages, in nook and on hill-side, are among the most
picturesque and engaging in the whole country; the vale widens into
spacious and noble meadow-grounds, on which might suitably stand the
mansion of any nobleman in England--as you near its head, everything
gets wild and broken, with a slight touch of dreariness, and by no very
difficult ascent we might reach Easdale-tarn in less than an hour's
walking from Grassmere--a lonely and impressive scene, and the haunt of
the angler almost as frequently as of the shepherd.

How far can we enjoy the beauty of external nature under a sharp
appetite for breakfast or dinner? On our imagination the effect of
hunger is somewhat singular. We no longer regard sheep, for instance, as
the fleecy or the bleating flock. Their wool or their baaing is nothing
to us--we think of necks, and jigots, and saddles of mutton; and even
the lamb frisking on the sunny bank is eaten by us in the shape of
steaks and fry. If it is in the morning, we see no part of the cow but
her udder, distilling richest milkiness. Instead of ascending to heaven
on the smoke of a cottage chimney, we put our arms round the column, and
descend on the lid of the great pan preparing the family breakfast.
Every interesting object in the landscape seems edible--our mouth waters
all over the vale--as the village clock tolls eight, we involuntarily
say grace, and Price on the Picturesque gives way to Meg Dods's Cookery.

Mrs Bell of the Red Lion Inn, Grassmere, can give a breakfa