Nay, musing by the ingle-lowe With summer in my brain, I'd cloth with leaves the frozen bough And all the ice-bound brooks endow With tinkling life again.[37] [37] Berriedale, which moved the American to commemorative song, is on the Caithness shore, and there the Duke of Portland has one of his numerous residences. The Duke's seat is high up on the hills and behind it is a mountain of grim aspect which serves for a deer-forest. At Berriedale, the road traversed by the coach is simply appalling: boards marked _Dangerous_ forewarn all wheel-men that risks cannot be taken with impunity. An honest descent can be easily coped with, but here the road to the glen is not merely steep, it is as lacking in straightforwardness as the links of Forth. Once down at the level of the village, the breeze no longer blows fresh and chilly, but subsides into a quiet air, grateful with the odour of flowers. Passengers are requested to walk up the corresponding hill to a level equal to the height of the road before the interruption of the terrible Berriedale chasm. When the ascent is reached, one has a view of unsurpassed splendour. The wooded Wye, which Wordsworth sang so rapturously and which he saw with his mind's eye in the dinsome town, has no landscape to compare in grandeur and beauty with the country round Berriedale, viewed from this eminence. Hills of richest green, diversified with purple heather; a back-ground of wild bog and mountain; blue sea; and great banks of cloud shepherded over the heights by the mighty winds. XXII. THE MINERS. The afternoon is cool and calm, Near by flashes the mighty sea, Inland rise green, dewy hills, Crowned with eye-bewitching trees. Suddenly the eye is amazed and terrified, A hideous procession sordid and grimy Of men and boys, slaves of the coal-pit, Is seen on the road, shaming the daylight. All the day long they work in the darkness, Far from the songs of the birds and the sunshine, Now they return to their sordid villages, Ill-smelling rows of comfortless cottages. The rich and dainty ladies of fashion Stand aloof from these swart coal-hewers, Are ready to swoon as the air is poisoned With odours of subterranean foulness. Coarse of look, and of speech far coarser! Laughter loud with no merriment in it! No more soul than the beasts that perish! These are the men despised for their toiling. XXIII. IN A COUNTRY GRAVEYARD.[38]