most cloudless day known for many years in this country, I ascended this vast mountain, being accompanied by a gentleman from Cambridgeshire, whose name was Dawes. We arrived upon the summit about a quarter of an hour before sunset; and there, in the wide scene that presented itself, was the whole expanse of the Irish Sea, with the Mull of Galloway, the Isle of Man, and the mountains of Down, at a distance of a hundred miles; vessels were discerned at intervals upon the surface of the sea; small specks of smoke rose over the towns on the coast of Cumberland, and the intervening country seemed all solitary vales and moors. The lake of Keswick, with its islands and villas, lay in miniature beneath us. Black Combe and the mountains of Westmorland rose all dark and gloomy beyond, and behind us was Langdale Pikes, and a range of hills well known for their resemblance to the waves of the sea. A dead silence reigned around us; we had left the region of the mountain-torrents; the sheepwalks were seen far away beneath us, and a few kites hovering over Langdale Pikes, were the only trace of existence at this awful elevation. The sky was cloudless; our guide declaring that he had never before seen the coast of Ireland, and during thirty-six summers, in which he had been almost daily on the mountain, he had never known a more

favourable day. Towards the sun, the eye seemed to range over all the kingdoms of the world: sea and land, mountain and valley, lakes and rivers, forests, castles, and cities, all lighted by a golden sun as ever shone on Italy. A feeling of solemnity and devotion overcame the whole party, and from the summit of this great temple in the sky, we gazed over the wide scene that was beneath us, till the sun went down behind the mountains of the Galloway; the distant outline became gradually bedimmed, and the curtain of night then closed upon this boundless panorama of our native land.

We descended by moonlight; the silence became again broken by the dashing of the mountain streams, and the scene again then was solemn and impressive. I have ever considered this day as a glimpse of heaven.

At the foot of Skiddaw, in learned leisure resides Mr. Southey. Rydal Mount, the home of Mr. Wordsworth, is amongst the neighbouring hills, and a few miles off is Brougham Hall, the paternal seat of him who has scaled all the mountains of human science. In the lights and shadows of these scenes dwell distinguished men of all ranks, parties and pursuits, nor is Geneva, with its Alpine glories, more sacred in the eyes of the lovers of nature, than are the mountains and lakes of Cumberland.

H. F.

VOL. IV.

and the beginning of that of James; and its picturesque portal, its deep bay windows, its clustered chimneys, its hall where a coach and six might have paraded, and its oaken staircase, up which a similar equipage might with all convenience have driven, were even surpassed in grandeur and beauty by the interior fittings up; the splendour of the immense chimneypieces the designs of the balustrades round the galleries-the carving of the cornices-the gilding of the panelled wainscoting, and the curious inlaying of its oaken floors. Twenty years ago it stood just as it must have been when Sir Andrew Montfalcon took possession of it. Tapestry, pictures, furniture, all were the same. All had grown old together; and this entire and perfect keeping, this absolute absence of every thing modern or new gave a singular harmony to the scene. It was a venerable and most perfect model of its own distant day; and when an interested steward prevailed on a nonresident and indolent proprietor to consent to its demolition, there was a universal regret in the neighbourhood. Every body felt glad to hear that so solidly had it been built that the sale of the materials did not defray the expense of pulling them down. So malicious did our love of the old place make us.

We felt the loss of that noble structure as a personal deprivation-and it was such; for the scenery of a country, the real and living landscape, is to all who have eyes to see and taste to relish its beauties an actual and most valuable property-to enjoy is to possess.

Still, however, the remains of Allonby are strikingly picturesque. The single wing which is standing, rises like a tower from the fragments of the half-demolished hall, and the brambles, briers, and ivies, which grow spontaneously amongst the ruins, mingle with the luxuriant branches of a vine which has been planted on the south side of the building, and wreaths its rich festoons above the gable-ends round the clustered chimneys, veiling and adorning, as nature in her bounty often does the desolation caused by the hand of man. Gigantic forest-trees, oak, and elm, and beech, were scattered about the park, which still remained unenclosed and in pasture; a clear, bright river glided through it; from which on one side rose an abrupt grassy

bank, surmounted by a majestic avenue of enormous firs and lime-trees planted in two distinct rows, a chain of large fish-ponds, some of them dried up and filled with underwood, communicated with the stream; and flowering shrubs, the growth of centuries, laburnum, lilac, laurel, double cherry, and double peach, were clustered in gay profusion around the mouldering grottoes and ruined temples with which the grounds had been adorned.

The most beautiful and most perfect of these edifices was a high, tower-like fishing room, overhanging the river, of which indeed, the lower part formed a boat-house, covered with honeysuckle, jessamine, and other creeping plants, backed by tall columnar poplars, and looking on one side into a perfect grove of cypress and cedar. A flaunting muskrose grew on one side of the steps, and a Portugal-laurel on the other, whilst a moss-grown sun-dial at a little distance rose amidst a thicket of roses, lilies, and holly hocks (relics of an old flowergarden), the very emblem of the days that were gone; a silent but most eloquent sermon on the instability of human affairs.

This romantic and somewhat melancholy dwelling was inhabited by a couple as remote from all tinge of romance, or of sadness, as ever befel in this world of vivid contrast. Light and shadow were not more opposite than was John and Martha Pither to their gloomy habitation.

John Pither and his good wife Martha were two persons whom I can with all truth and convenience describe together in almost the same words, as not unfrequently happens with a married couple in their rank of life. They were a stout, comely, jolly, goodnatured pair, in the prime of life, who had married early and had grown plump, ruddy, and hearty, under the influence of ten years of changing seasons and unchanging industry. Poor they were, in spite of his following the triple calling of miller, farmer, and gamekeeper, and her doing her best to aid him by baking and selling in the form of bread, the corn which he not only grew but ground, and defiling the faded grandeur of the Court by the vulgarities of cheese, red-herrings, eggs, candles, and onions, and the thousand-and-one nuisances which compose

the omnibus concern called a village shop. Martha's home-baked loaves were reckoned the best in the county, and John's farming was scarcely less celebrated: nevertheless, they were poor; a fact which might partly be accounted for by the circumstance of their ten years' marriage having produced eight children, and partly by their being both singularly liberal, disinterested, and generous. If a poor man brought the produce of his children's gleanings to John's mill, he was sure not only to get it ground for nothing, but to receive himself at the hands of the good miller as plentiful a meal of beef or bacon, and as brimming a cup of strong ale as ever was doled out of the old buttery; whilst Martha, who was just John himself in petticoats, and in whom hospitality took the feminine form of charity, could never send away the poorest of her customers (in other words her debtors) empty-handed, however sure she might be that the day of payment would never arrive until the day of judgment. Rich our good couple certainly were not, unless the universal love and goodwill of the whole neighbourhood may count for riches; but content most assuredly they were,-ay, and more than content! If I were asked to name the happiest and merriest persons of my acquaintance, I think it would be John and Martha Pither.

With all their resemblance there was between this honest country couple one remarkable difference; the husband was a man of fair common sense, plain and simple-minded, whilst his wife had ingrafted on an equal artlessness and naïveté of manner, a degree of acuteness of perception and shrewdness of remark, which rendered her one of the most amusing companions in the county, and added to her excellences as a baker, had no small effect in alluring to her shop the few customers whose regular payments enabled her to bear up against the many who never paid at all. For my own part, who am somewhat of a character-studier by profession, and so complete a breadfancier that every day in the week shall have its separate loaf, from the snowy French roll of Monday to the unsifted home-made of Saturday at e'en, I had a double motive for frequenting Martha's bakehouse, at which I had been for some years a most punctual visiter and purchaser until last spring and summer,

when first a long absence, then a series of honoured guests, then the pressure of engrossing operations, then the weather, then the roads, and at last the having broken through the habit of going thither, kept me for many months from my old and favourite haunt, the venerable Court.

So long had been my absence, that the hedgerows in which the woodbine was at my last visit just putting forth its hardy bluish leaves, and the elder making its earliest shoots, were now taking their deepest and dingiest hue, enlivened only by garlands of the traveller's joy, the briony, and the wild-veitch; that the lowly primrose and the creeping violet were succeeded by the tall mallows and St. John's-worts, and the half seeded stalks of the foxglove; and that the beans which the women and girls were then planting, men and boys were now about to cut; in a word, the budding spring was succeeded by the ripe and plenteous autumn, when on a lovely harvest afternoon I at length revisited Allonby.

The day although exquisitely pleasant, had been rather soft than bright, and was now closing in with that magical effect of the evening light which lends a grace to the commonest objects, and heightens in an almost incredible degree the beauty of those which are already beautiful. Flowers are never so glorious as in the illusive half-hour which succeeds the setting of the sun, and it is at that period, that a really fine piece of natural scenery is seen to most advantage. I paused for a moment before entering Martha's territory, the shop, to look at the romantic grounds of Allonby, all the more picturesque from their untrained wildness; and on the turfy terrace beyond the fishinghouse, and just at the entrance of that dark avenue of leafy lime-trees and firs whose huge straight stems shone with a subdued and changeful splendour, now of a purplish hue, and now like dimmer brass; just underneath the two foremost trees strongly relieved by the deep shadow, stood a female figure, graceful and perfect as ever was fancied by poet, or modelled by sculptor, whose white dress had all the effect of drapery, and whose pure and colourless complexion, her flaxen ringlets almost as pale as the swan-like neck around which

they fell; her fair hand shading her eyes, and the fixed attention of her attitude, as she stood watching some of Martha's children at play upon the grass, gave her more the look of an alabaster statue than of a living breathing woman. I never saw grace so unconscious yet so perfect; I stood almost as still as herself to look on her, until she broke, or I should rather say changed the spell, by walking forward to the children, and added the charm of motion to that of symmetry. I then turned to Martha, who was watching my absorbed attention with evident amusement, and without giving me time to ask any questions, answered my thoughts by an immediate exclamation. "Ah, ma'am, I knew you'd like to look at Lucy Charlton! Many a time I've said to my master, "Tis a pity that madam has not seen our Lucy! she'd be so sure to take a fancy to her!' and now she's going away poor thing. That's the way things fall out, after the time, as one may say. I knew she'd take your fancy."

"Her name is Lucy Charlton, then?” replied I, still riveting my eyes on the lovely, airy creature before me who, shaking back the ringlets from her fair face with a motion of almost infantine playfulness, was skimming along the bank to meet the rosy laughing children. "And who may Lucy Charlton be?" "Why, you see ma'am, her mother was my husband's first cousin. She lived with old lady Leslie, as housekeeper, and married the butler; and this is the only child. Both father and mother died, poor thing, before she was four years old, and lady Leslie brought her up quite like a lady herself; but now she is dead, and dead without a will, and her relations have seized all, and poor Lucy is come back to her friends. But she won't stay with them, though," pursued Mrs. Pither, half testily, "she's too proud to be wise, and instead of staying with me and teaching my little girls to sew samplers, she's going to be a tutoress in some foreign parts beyond sea-Russia I think they call the place-going to some people whom lady Leslie knew, who are to give her a small salary, so hinder her from being a burden to her relations, as she's goose enough to say as if we could feel her little expenses; or say we did, as if we would not rather go

with half a meal than part with her, sweet creature as she is! and to go to that cold country and come back half frozen, or die there and never come back at all! Howsomever," continued Martha, "it's no use bemoaning ourselves now; the matter's settled her clothes are all aboard ship, her passage taken, and I'm to drive her to Portsmouth in our little shay-cart to-morrow morning. A sorrowful parting 'twill be for her and the poor children, merry as she is trying to seem at this minute. I dare say we shall never see her again, for she is but delicate, and there's no putting old heads upon young shoulders; so instead of buying good warm stuffs and flannels, cloth cloaks and such things to fence her pretty dear self against the cold, she has laid out her little money in light summer gear, as if she was going to stay in England and be married this very harvest; and now she'll abroad and catch go her death, and we shall never set eyes on her again." And the tears which, during her whole speech had stood in Martha's eyes, fairly began to fall.

"Oh, Mrs. Pither! you must not add to the natural pain of parting, by such a fancy as that; your pretty cousin seems slight and delicate, but not unhealthy. What should make you suppose her So?"

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'Why, ma'am, our young doctor, Mr. Edward Foster (you know how clever he is), was attending my master this spring for the rheumatism, just after Lucy came here; she had a sad cough, poor thing, when she first arrived, caught by sitting up o'nights with old lady Leslie, and Mr. Edward said she was a tender plant and required nursing herself. He came to see her every day for two months, and quite set her up, and would not take a farthing for his pains; and I did think—and so did my master, after I told him-but, howsomever, that's all over now and she's going away to-morrow morning."

"You think that Mr. Edward Foster liked your young relation--was in love with her?"

"To be sure I do, ma'am ;—at least I did,” continued Martha, correcting herself; " and so did my master, and so would any body. He that has so much business, used to come here every day, and stay two hours at a time, when, except for the pleasure of talking to her,