we received the mortifying intelligence from our guide, that a cloud had rested on the summit, which he feared would continue, so that we should probably see nothing when we had concluded our toil. He however recommended us to make the best of our way onward, or rather upward. We accordingly urged our horses forward, and were not long in gaining the top of the mountain but, to our great sorrow, we there found ourselves quite enveloped in a dense cloud, which prevented us from seeing above a few hundred yards in any direction.

It was exceedingly cold, and we found some snow had fallen. There are no signs of vegetation on the top of Skiddaw, but a little gray moss. The surface

of the summit is not extensive; and is covered entirely with a broken strata of flat stones:-there are two piles of these, which were raised by Mr. Southey and his friends on the memorable night that he gave a fête on the mountain in honour of the jubilee, when its summit was so splendidly illuminated that it was seen for many miles round. Behind one of these we took shelter from the severe cold, and left our horses to graze a little on the side, on the short grass. Our guide had by this time come up with us, with some sandwiches and a bottle of brandy, which seemed to better our prospects in more ways than one; for while we were taking our dram the wind suddenly sprung up, the cloud that enveloped us was dislodged from its resting-place, and we saw it sailing away before us, broken into many pieces before the gale. It was now nearly nine o'clock, and in an instant the sun burst upon us in all its power and grandeur, and what we then discovered riveted us to the spot in delight and astonishment. Our guide, who had been in that situation for seventy years, said he never had such a prospect before. Not a cloud was to be seen ;-the air was quite free from vapour, and the country all around appeared a picturesque map.

At our feet lay the lovely valley of Keswick: the town just below us;-Crossthwaite church, a little

white object amidst the green, a short distance from it;-Derwent Water with its beautiful islands (like specks upon its surface) stretching away till we lost it among the chaos of hills. We counted around us the tops of fifty-six mountains, all of which were glittering in the morning sun, except where the shadow of one partially clouded the other, which made a lovely variety of chiaroscuro. The vale of Newlands, on the other side of the lake, was seen immediately before us, between two high ridges, and looked delightful. The other to the right, (Bassenthwaite lake) lay quite calm and still. Next appeared the flat country, which stretches along quite to the coast of Cumberland. This view formed a striking contrast to the other; but scarcely less magnificent. The whole of the country was as distinctly seen as possible; it was just harvest time, and the fields appeared of every colour. The rich ripe corn, and the green pasture filled with sheep and cattle-woods and plantations,-all sweetly mingled together!-the towns of Whitehaven, Workington, Cockermouth, Wigton, Monypool, Penrith, and the city of Carlisle, all distinctly seen:-the Solway Firth, over which we saw into Scotland. The river on one side was bounded by the Scotch mountains, and again more to the left, over the sea, lay the Isle of Man, above seventy miles distant, which we saw distinctly.— On turning round we had a view of the Cheviot mountains, and some of the Northumberland hills also. Beyond Penrith the view was bounded by Cross Fell; and a little farther round, the mountainous parts of Westmoreland and Yorkshire closed the view. Saddleback and Helvelyn next claimed our attention, and were indeed grand objects. We had also a glimpse of Windermere, which, to our view, seemed elevated amongst the mountains :-beyond we saw the Cartmel and Ulverstone sands.

After remaining above half an hour in this elevated situation, and feasting our eyes with the glories of the prospect, we began to descend. The pressure on the

legs is so great during this rapid descent, that we were more fatigued by it than by the whole journey up. At length, however, we regained our inn at Keswick. Our excursion had occupied about five hours,-and you may imagine the relish with which we sat down to breakfast.

London Magazine.

HENRY SAINT PIERRE :

A TALE.

CHAPTER I.

"Midst fears instinctive, wonder drew
The boldest forward, gathering strength,
As darkness lour'd and whirlwinds blew,

To where the ruin stretch'd his length."

Bloomfield's May Day with the Muses.

In the autumn of 1700, near the suburbs of the city of Lyons, some peasants, proceeding from the market to their rustic homes, heard, from a group of trees near the road side, the groans of some one apparently in distress. With the spirit of unsophisticated humanity they proceeded to the spot, and found on the ground the senseless and bleeding body of a man. They raised it from the earth, applied such restoratives as occurred to them at the moment, and soon had the satisfaction of observing signs of returning life. The stranger, a young man of very swarthy and forbidding countenance, whose dark malignant eyes even in the flash of pain seemed to deny the thanks to which his tongue had given utterance, faintly and briefly stated that he had been wounded by some secret assassin from the neighbouring copse, who fled as soon as he saw his purpose was effected. He declared his ignorance of the person of the assassin, and pointed to a neighbouring hut as the house of his father. While

four of the humane peasants bore the bleeding youth in their arms, two of their body proceeded forwards to impart to the parent the dreadful event. They found the old man cleaning with great minuteness an old pistol, and his change of colour at their entrance seemed to anticipate their tale of woe. Antoine, the elder of the peasants, in the rude caution of untutored simplicity broke the dreadful relation to the horrorstruck father. "Where," exclaimed Bampierre, (for that was his name,) " Where was this deed committed?" "It was," replied Antoine, "in the "Lightnings! within the wood of Basque !" furiously interrupted the old man ; may its branches be the gibbets on which the Lyonese may hang till the birds of the wood devour them." The peasants started at his vehemence, and Bampierre added, with a degree of softness very different from his former manner, "I knew my boy was gone to that accursed wood, and there I doubt not has he found his death."

At this moment the rest of the peasants entered with the younger Bampierre, to whose wounds they assisted to apply alleviations, which appeared to revive and relieve him. The father then led them to the outward room, and setting before them refreshment, returned to his wounded son. Their conference was long, and the low murmuring of their voices alone told the humane villagers it was not the chamber of death. At length the old man re-appeared, his face was pale, and his brow was gloomily knitted. "My kind friends," said he, "to whose benevolence I owe the life of my son, accept my thanks; I have with him been endeavouring to guess at the assassin. He states that the figure was well known to him; it is that of an old companion. You will not leave the work unfinished which you have begun. Come with me to the house of the assassin, ere his flight shall shield him. In the cottage of Henry St. Pierre you will find the murderer! St. Pierre is that assassin! my son declares it-he has seen him he knows him well-and he must not be left to escape."

The peasants were aghast. Henry St. Pierre was well known to them; his virtues were the subject of every tongue; the hamlets round about resounded with the generous acts of St. Pierre. He could not be a murderer! what! the generous friend of the weak, the support of the poor, the father of the orphan,-he could not be a murderer! But the young peasant asserted he was so, and justice required he should be listened to. The whole party proceeded to the cottage of Henry. He was from home. A lovely girl, who on the morrow was to become the partner of his future life, and the venerable Maurice, her father, were alone in the cottage. Where was St. Pierre? He had been gone from the cottage since the setting of the sun towards the wood of Basque. A solemn silence was observed by the peasants. They would await his return, they said, but they were not communicative. After waiting some considerable period, footsteps were at length heard approaching the cottage, and in a few seconds St. Pierre entered. His countenance was pale as death, a cold perspiration had settled on his brow, and his eyes wandered anxiously around, as if searching for some absent individual. A pistol, recently discharged, was in his right hand; in his left he bore the hat of the younger Bampierre. These were circumstances which left but little doubt of his guilt. He was seized, bound, and dragged to the prison of Lyons. His asseverations of innocence were disregarded; the frantic screams of the lovely Annette were unheeded; the more reasonable expostulations of the aged Maurice were rejected and despised. Traces of footsteps were in the wood of Basque; and they corresponded with the shoes of St. Pierre. He had been seen in the outskirts, at the decline of day, by a youth from a neighbouring hamlet; a portion of his dress was found adhering to the bushes near the spot on which the murder was attempted. The pistol too had been recently discharged, and but little doubt could remain of his guilt. St. Pierre did not deny his having been in the wood, but solemnly declared he had not discharged the pistol; he refused, however,