'I hope you will approve of a description of the water of Lodore made originally for Edith and greatly admired by Herbert. In my mind it surpasses any that the tourists have yet printed. Thus it runs: "Tell the people how the water comes down at Lodore? Why, it comes thundering and floundering, and thumping and bumping, and jumping, and hissing and whizzing, and dripping and skipping, and grumbling and rumbling and tumbling and falling and brawling, and dashing and clashing and splashing and pouring and roaring, and whirling and curling, and leaping and creeping, and sounding and bounding, and chattering and clattering with a dreadful uproar--and that way the water comes down at Lodore."' {188} We turned for home; a patch of blue sky shone momentarily above the purple hollow of sound and foam. And though still 'the forest cracked, the waters curled,' a sunbeam showered radiance as it flew by moaning woodland and by silent crag. In the Great Wood all colours of purple, amber, rose, and amethyst leapt out at the passing of that gleam. One could not but compare the marvellous and changeful effects of light and colour to those that, in some enchanted land of mystery, the coloured fires of the wizard of the pantomime call forth, for our children's amazement. Now all near was dark, while far ahead the witchery of the golden woodland grew. Now Walla Crag stood purple grey, now shone in lucent silver powdered with larch-tree gold, whilst ever on beyond the woody lane, Skiddaw, as blue as solid cobalt, rose calmly up into a wandering storm-white sky. And yet for all this witchery of colour, for all this magic transformation scene, one vision stayed--that far-off wreath of quiet snow,--snow that had turned on nearer view to scent and sound, to life and light and laughter, to power and impassioned loveliness, there in the resonant chasm of Lodore. {189} A NORTH COUNTRY NIMROD. We shall never hear again On the fell or in the plain John Crozier's 'Tally-ho!' Never see him through the rain And the sun, with might and main Follow on from crag to crag, while the hounds give tongue below. Dark the valley east and west, Clouds are on Blencathra's crest. The hunter home has gone: And the Squire they loved the best Now is carried to his rest-- Eighty years has Death the huntsman followed hard--the chase is done. But I think I see him stand-- Rough mountain-staff in hand, Fur cap and coat of grey-- With a smile for all the hand Of the sportsmen in the land, And a word for all the merry men who loved his 'Hark-away!' {190} Last hunter of your race! As we bear you to your place, We forget the hounds and horn, But the tears are on our face, For we mind your deeds of grace, Loving-kindness late and early shown to all the village-born.