last rays upon the peak of Snowdon; while, along its gigantic sides, dark grey clouds were rolling in various sombre columns. Scarcely had the sun ceased to illumine the west, when the moon, rising from behind a long line of dark blue clouds, irradiated all the East Unmindful of the past-every thought was given to the future; and Colonna wished for no other description of happiness, in a state of immortal existence, than that, arising from an enlarged faculty of receiving delight, from whatever may be still more magnificent, among the labours of the Eternal Architect, in other scenes, on other summits, and on other globes.

CHAPTER III.

SCENERY not only inspires the poet, but his reader also; for when do we enjoy his pictures, and relish his sentiments, with such charmed perception, as when seated beneath a bower, under a tree, or beside a rivulet? In such and in other scenes, even bad poetry and worse music are not unattended with a sensible delight.-"The flute of a shepherd," Dr. Beattie remarks, "heard at a distance in a fine summer's day, in a romantic scene, will give rapture to the ear of the wanderer, though the tune, the instrument, and the musician be such, as he could not endure in any other place." The same association governs, in regard to sculpture and painting; for we can pause before a picture in a cottage, or a statue

VOL. IV.

C

in a wood, which, in a palace or saloon, would excite nothing but disgust.

Often has Colonna experienced the truth of these observations: and he never reflects, but with pleasure, on the satisfaction, he enjoyed, in listening to a blind old man in the valley of Rhymney, about two miles from the grand towers of Caerphilly Castle. This valley is a narrow defile, winding at the feet of cultivated mountains, down which several streams occasionally murmur. It was one of the finest evenings in the month of August: every object was as tranquil, as if it had been midnight; the sun shooting along the valley, and tinting every object in the most agreeable manner. Charmed with the spot, Colonna stopt his horse, dismounted, and sate himself upon the side of a bank, to enjoy, more at his leisure, the beauties of the scene before him; heightened, as they were, by the sombre aspect of the distant ruins. As he was indulging in one of those delightful contemplations, which scenery like this seldom fails to awaken, he was interrupted by the approach of two men; one hale, hearty, and young, the other old, blind, and decrepid. Entering into conversation with the younger, Colonna was informed, that his companion was a good singer, and "a capable maker of songs." Upon this he requested the old man to sing him one; to which he consented with little hesitation. It was a history of love; and though the lines were sometimes too long, and sometimes too short; though the air was harsh, and his voice discordant, Colonna listened with enthusiasm, and praised with rapture.

Wandering once in this valley my eye was arrested by a misletoè, growing out of an oak. This circumstance gave interest to the whole landscape; for it recalled the history of the Druids. In imagination, I beheld the Arch-druid ascend the aged branches of the oak; cut the sacred misletoe with a sickle; let it fall into his folded garment; and then shew the invaluable gift of heaven to the people, who accompanied him. From this picture the mind diverged to the general subject of Druidism, and finished with a conviction. of how little confidence can be placed in the decisions of etymologists. Thus the imagination may begin its flight in Siberia, and, with one stride, compass the globe. Johnson insists, that the word DRUID is derived from DERIO; Salmasius (from Pliny) refers it to the Greek word deus ;-Menage to the British Drus, a magician; Vossius to DRUIS, à Celtic word for doctor of faith; and Becarius to Tru and Wis, wise men. Pseudoberosus refers it to Druyo, fourth king of the Gauls; Borel to DRY, a musician; some trace its origin to DRUIS, a king of Gaul; and some to a Hebrew or Arabic word, meaning a dervise. In the midst of this etymological contention, it is probable we may be nearer the truth, if we derive it from the old Armorican word, Dryw, signifying an oak. This is the more probable, since the y is frequently pronounced u; and Druidh, in the Celtic, means a wise man; and in the Gaelic, a natural philosopher.

In those days of superstition and ignorance, priests were esteemed the only wise men in the country; and their principal symbol of divinity was a misletoe, grow

ing on an oak. Diogenes Laertius classes the Druids with the Gymnosophists of Chaldea, the Bramins of India, and the Magi of the Persians.

II.

The power of association gives a charm to every thing. Hence particular places are adapted to the consideration of particular subjects. When leaning near the monuments of neglected genius, our thoughts naturally revert to the conspiracy of low societies against it; to the relative fates of Corregio, Camöens, Cervantes, Chatterton, and Proctor: to the reluctance, with which almost all governments reward talent; and to the sublimity, resulting from antiquity.

When we behold public buildings, we revert to the application of works of art to the purposes of public benefit: when we visit ruins, we behold, as it were, the crumbling of empires: in view of palaces, we compare the virtues of Trajan, Mauritius and of Tiberius II. with those of Alfred, Piastus, Stanislaus and Washington. When sitting in a bower, our thoughts sometimes recur to the want of poetic genius in Plato, Cicero, Pliny and Burke; contrasting their oratorical qualifications with those belonging to poetry and music. We compare the relative merits of Pliny, Balzac, Melmoth, Gray and Pope as letter-writers: we trace the analogy between painting and sculpture: we associate the merits of Angelo and Salvator Rosa with those of Dante and Milton: and we mark the resemblance, subsisting between the genius of Ariosto, Chaucer, and Spenser. Then we revert to the cha

racter of an agreeable melancholy; to the uses of monasteries; to the misfortunes of Rousseau; to the style of Albani; to the pleasures of the Golden Age; and the music of the golden spheres.

In spring we frequently leave beds of perfume, to dwell in imagination on the plains of Tartary; the deserts of Ethiopia; the solitudes of America, and the snows of Nova Zembla. We wage an imaginary war with glory and ease; sometimes siding with one, sometimes encouraging the other; the mind delighting to unite, into one crown of beauty, virtue, happiness, and successful endeavour.

In summer we stand on the arches of a bridge, gazing on a cottage. The smoke curls above the copse; the voices of children swell upon the gale; the sun sinks in peace, and the whole scene is a scene of repose. Then subjects, allied to domestic enjoyments, steal upon the imagination, and soothe us to tranquillity.

In autumn we read, in the decline of the year, the retirement of statesmen to a private life. Xenophon, Scipio, Sully, and Bernstoff, rise before the sight; we contrast Virgil's Corycian Swain with the Miser of Horace; and Juvenal's Sejanus with Claudian's Old Man of Verona.

In winter we read the benefits of vicissitude; we honour, as it were, the state of virtuous poverty; we trace the prevailing causes of our errors and misfortunes; we form a true estimate of the world's opinion; we reflect on the ease, with which the mind accommodates itself to circumstances; and in the corrected progress of the seasons, perceiving their