ip-hand of the day, and then
you may loiter as you choose. If it is hot, you may bathe in the chill
waters of those tarns that lie bare to the eye of heaven in the hollows of
the hills--tarns with names of beauty and waters of such crystal purity as
Killarney knows not. And at night we will come through the clouds down the
wild course of Rosset Ghyll and sup and sleep in the hotel hard by Dungeon
Ghyll, or, perchance, having the day well in hand, we will push on by Blea
Tarn and Yewdale to Coniston, or by Easedale Tarn to Grasmere, and so to
the Swan at the foot of Dunmail Raise. For we must call at the Swan. Was it
not the Swan that Wordsworth's "Waggoner" so triumphantly passed? Was it
not the Swan to which Sir Walter Scott used to go for his beer when he was
staying with Wordsworth at Rydal Water? And behind the Swan is there not
that fold in the hills where Wordsworth's "Michael" built, or tried to
build, his sheepfold? Yes, we will stay at the Swan whatever befalls.

And so the jolly days go by, some wet, some fine, some a mixture of both,
but all delightful, and we forget the day of the week, know no news except
the changes in the weather and the track over the mountains, meet none of
our kind except a rare vagabond like ourselves--with rope across his
shoulder if he is a rock-man, with rucksack on back if he is a tourist--and
with no goal save some far-off valley inn where we shall renew our strength
and where the morrow's uprising to deeds shall be sweet.

I started to write in praise of walking, and I find I have written in
praise of Lakeland. But indeed the two chants of praise are a single
harmony, for I have written in vain if I have not shown that the way to see
the most exquisite cabinet of beauties in this land is by the humble path
of the pedestrian. He who rides through Lakeland knows nothing of its
secrets, has tasted of none of its magic.

ON REWARDS AND RICHES

We have all been so occupied with the war in Europe that few of us, I
suppose, have even heard of another war which has been raging in the law
courts for 150 days or so between two South African corporations over some
question of property. It seems to have been marked by a good deal of
frightfulness. In the closing scenes Mr. Hughes, one of the counsel,
complained that he had been called a fool, a liar, a scoundrel, and so on
by his opponent, and the judge lamented that the case had been the occasion
of so much barristerial bitternes