westward were almost like a blacksmith when
he is at work by night. I longed to be out, and meet with William, that
we might see the Falls before the day was gone. Poor Coleridge was
unwell, and could not go. I inquired my road, and a little girl told me
she would go with me to the porter's lodge, where I might be admitted. I
was grieved to hear that the Falls of the Clyde were shut up in a
gentleman's grounds, and to be viewed only by means of lock and key.
Much, however, as the pure feeling with which one would desire to visit
such places is disturbed by useless, impertinent, or even unnecessary
interference with nature, yet when I was there the next morning I seemed
to feel it a less disagreeable thing than in smaller and more delicate
spots, if I may use the phrase. My guide, a sensible little girl,
answered my inquiries very prettily. She was eight years old, read in
the 'Collection,' a book which all the Scotch children whom I have
questioned read in. I found it was a collection of hymns; she could
repeat several of Dr. Watts'. We passed through a great part of the
town, then turned down a steep hill, and came in view of a long range of
cotton mills, {33} the largest and loftiest I had ever seen; climbed
upwards again, our road leading us along the top of the left bank of the
river; both banks very steep and richly wooded. The girl left me at the
porter's lodge. Having asked after William, I was told that no person
had been there, or could enter but by the gate. The night was coming on,
therefore I did not venture to go in, as I had no hope of meeting
William. I had a delicious walk alone through the wood; the sound of the
water was very solemn, and even the cotton mills in the fading light of
evening had somewhat of the majesty and stillness of the natural objects.
It was nearly dark when I reached the inn. I found Coleridge sitting by
a good fire, which always makes an inn room look comfortable. In a few
minutes William arrived; he had heard of me at the gate, and followed as
quickly as he could, shouting after me. He was pale and exceedingly
tired.

After he had left us he had taken a wrong road, and while looking about
to set himself right had met with a barefooted boy, who said he would go
with him. The little fellow carried him by a wild path to the upper of
the Falls, the Boniton Linn, and coming down unexpectedly upon it, he was
exceedingly affected by the solemn grandeur of the place. Thi