“I BELIEVE,” continued the old man, “that if a man were to live an hundred years,—so long as to forget every thing else that ever happened to him, he would never forget the first day of his going to school! I am sure _I_ never shall. I recollect at this moment, as well or better than if it had taken place yesterday, every thing that happened, every thing that I did and saw, nay, every thing that I thought on that all-important day. When I first woke in the morning, I knew, before I opened my eyes, that something particular was going to happen, though it was some time before I was sufficiently wide awake to call to mind exactly what it was. When it at last flashed across me that I was that day going for the first time to school, I jumped into the middle of the floor, and was dressed, (and in my best suit of fustians,) in half my usual time. I shall never forget the care with which my good mother packed up my little dinner in my bag, putting my spelling-book carefully on the top of it, nor the pleased look with which she put my new hat on my head, and bid me to ‘be a good boy.’ I recollect I thought at that time, as I started off—‘to be sure I shall; how could any one doubt it!’ but I said nothing: I was in too great haste to join my young companions, whom I heard hallooing out for me from the top of the hill. What a glorious morning it was! I told you that I did not care, then, much about the scenes of nature; nor did I ever much think or talk about them. It is not the custom in that country; for men are there too familiar with them to make them the subject of their daily conversation. But the impression which they made on me shows that I felt them; for there was not a beam of sunshine or a cloud that crossed my path on that morning, which I do not recollect, at this moment, as distinctly as the everlasting hills over which they passed—never to visit them again!” A shade passed over the old man’s countenance, and I fancied he was thinking, that he himself might be compared to the cloud and the sunshine, never more to visit his native hills. “The sun was rising right over the top of Penigent, as I and my young companions reached the brow of the hill from which the road descends down upon the quiet village of Hawkshead. His rays just crossed the point on which we stood, and stretched across, like so many golden rules or lines of light, to the top of Coniston Old Man, and the side of Bowfell, leaving Yewdale and Coniston Water Head lost in mist and darkness. The birds were singing on the heights, the cattle lowing to be milked in the valleys below, and the sheep bleating on a thousand hills The whole air was filled, as far as the eye could reach, with the glittering spider’s web, or gossamer, of which nobody, I believe, could ever yet give a clear account; and every bunch of heath and whin-bush was sparkling with drops of dew so full and large, as to seem ready to fall like a shower of rain upon the ground.