clearly out, the setting sun throwing his parting beams | with power and brilliance upon its one side, while the whole of the solitary tower was distinctly defined against the cloudless sky; it stood in the deep repose which no living thing was there to break; solemn was the silence around it, still as the voices of those who once dwelt there, but were now passed away from that mouldering remnant of Helvetian feudality. There, from its commanding platform, centuries since jealous eyes had looked down on the extended plain beneath, and on its doubtful vassals; there imposing trains had passed through the portals to dazzle by their gorgeous pageantry, or to overawe by their stern and warlike array. The grey watchtower had a near companion, too, and years ago in its desertion, a fitting and a noble one; but the tenants of the latter are now the drivelling idiot and raving maniac; where the nun worshipped in "breathless adoration," amid the solitude of the cloister, the madman howls. On this spot was royalty, in the hour of death, deserted by its followers, and aided by a strangera female peasant, one who had perhaps trembled at the very name of the imperial ruler whom she then fearlessly assisted; and here, too, did the blind fury of feminine royalty scruple not to sacrifice a thousand of such peasant victims, to atone for the regal relative it had lost. Woman's nature in excitement often startles us; much of devotion followed the outburst, yet a stubborn priest thought that the penance had more to do with the head than with the heart.

As evening advanced the valley at whose termination we rested for the night, was long bathed in a flood of golden light, shone upon by a glow which might have streamed on paradise; while, however, its brightness, deep and rich as it was, allowed the sight to rest upon it in perfect repose, unlike the distraction of vision caused by the glare of noon. The flowing river, and the verdant plain, the mounted castle and the compact town beneath, glittered with radiance; it was a scene to rivet the eye of the observer for a far longer time than the scorching of the sun permitted him to enjoy ; and as the darkness crept stealthily but inevitably on, regret could only be mitigated by the hope that some such other feast was yet in store. Each dawn in the transit through this varied country, brings before us a different view; yet we wonder at our departure from each, whether novelty can still abound, and we think, were but the ocean here, the eye would embrace perfection. We were now to be charmed with fertility in fields, vineyards and gardens, in this low part of Switzerland, where the valleys were neither guarded nor contrasted with the mighty elevations of the high Alps. We hastened through some places devoted to the bustling importance of traffic, fearful lest a picturesque ruin might be seen, reared up anew, for a location for steam, or some fairy spot beheld transmuted into the tortured producer of food.

An old inn was sought out, where no throng of guests beset the entrance, in whose neighbourhood, and within whose walls, complete repose might be expected, though in an age of luxury, amidst what must be called inconvenience to a considerable extent. The town rejoices at once in dismembered battlements and busy industry; therefore it is to be hoped, also in peace and plenty. Thanks to the ambition of the Roman Church, and the piety of its followers, the cathedral still towered in architectural majesty high above the town, the murmuring waters in its vicinity nearly the only object, except the old battlements, with which it might be supposed to have communion.

We had now skirted a lake, having little pretension to grandeur of scenery, but the whitewashed cottages on its shores brought England to our recollection. Perhaps no Swiss lake can be rightly called tame; yet tame this lake might be considered, when compared with the others. This was forgotten, however, when, through the trees that lined the road, were once more seen the white sides of the Alps, shining in the morning sunlight,

pure and lustrous, overtopping by thousands of feet the wooded hills that bounded the lake; scorning proximity to the haunts of men, whose fuel and food came from the humbler, though more friendly eminences at hand. What was the buzzing of machinery to their proud masses! impelled, though it were, by the streams they had created, then spurned, they condescended not to yield productions, to be squeezed, pinched, and wrought upon; but in stern defiance ranged afar and aloft, claiming kindred only with barrenness and unapproachability, waiting for Titans like themselves to tenant them.

There came through the clear air the sweet sound of a church bell, calling perhaps to the mid-day repast, perhaps to prayers; the tones were distinct and beautiful, while the long pauses between the strokes gave time for the music to dwell on the ear; heard thus, amidst silence and solitude, every object around in accordance with such harmony, we need not wonder that the old Catholics held their bells in reverence; to them, they were associated with life and death, joy and sorrow, with subjects of most interest in this world, and those of a future one.

The mountains on one side of the lake, rivalling the loftiest in our own country, were now dwarfishly reduced, and the lake had become like a river; a poor char-a-banc rattled past, swinging fearfully from side to side; it rushed down the steep descent, apparently all but upset, an event of perhaps no great moment in such a vehicle; down the slope it went, its pace far excelling the aristocratic and heavier carriages of the great highways.

A thickness came on in the atmosphere, which made the form of the mountains appear confused and diminished in height, though it had the effect of bringing them nearer to the observers.

A combination of perfections, it may be supposed, would weary us, and therefore it is seldom met with; if a bird has bright plumage, it has not song; if a woman is fair, she is often a fool; and no landscape exists, which has not some defect, or at least what we think such. The Righi, on which we shortly afterwards stood, may appear in the mind of a poet as if intended for a standing place of easy ascent, from whence to look upon its greater neighbours, and therefore its homely form ought not to disappoint us; should it give way some day, like its opposite companion, we shall miss it; not so much, however, for its beauty, as its utility.

A DEVONSHIRE FAIRY TALE. NEAR a Pixy field in this neighbourhood there lived, on a time, an old woman, who possessed a cottage and a very pretty garden, wherein she cultivated a most beautiful bed of tulips. The Pixies, it is said, so delighted in this spot, that they would carry their elfin babies thither, and sing them to rest. Often, at the dead hour of the night, a sweet lullaby was heard, and strains of the most melodious music would float in the air, that seemed to owe their origin to no other musicians than the beautiful tulips themselves; and whilst these flowers waved their heads to the evening breeze, it sometimes seemed as if they were marking time to their own singing. As soon as the elfin babies were lulled asleep by such melodies, the Pixies would return to the neighbouring field, and there commence dancing, making those rings on the green which showed, even to mortal eyes, what sort of gambols had occupied them during the night season. At the first dawn of light the watchful Pixies once more sought the tulips; and, though still invisible, they could be heard kissing and caressing their babies. The tulips, thus favoured, retained their beauty much longer than any other flowers

(1) From Mrs. Bray's "Description of the Part of Devonshire bordering on the Tamar and Tavy."

in the garden, whilst, though contrary to their nature, as the Pixies breathed over them, they became as fragrant as roses; and so delighted at all this was the old woman who possessed the garden, that she never suffered a single tulip to be plucked from its stem. At length, however, she died, and the heir who succeeded her destroyed the enchanted flowers, and converted the spot into a parsley-bed-a circumstance which so disappointed and offended the Pixies, that they caused it to wither away; and, indeed, for many years, nothing would grow in the beds of the whole garden. But these sprites, though eager in resenting an injury, were equally capable of returning a benefit; and, if they destroyed the produce of the good old woman's garden when it had fallen into unworthy hands, they tended the bed that wrapped her clay with affectionate solicitude, for they were heard lamenting, and singing sweet dirges, around her grave: nor did they neglect to pay this mournful tribute to her memory every night, before the moon was at the full; for then their high solemnity of dancing, singing, and rejoicing took place, to hail the queen of the night on completing her silver circle in the skies. No human hand ever tended the grave of the poor old woman, who had nurtured the tulip-bed for the delight of these elfin creatures; but no rank weed was ever seen to grow upon it, the sod was ever green, and the prettiest flowers would spring up without sowing or planting, and so they continued to do till it was supposed the mortal body was reduced to its original dust.

He first it was, whose piercing eye
Through the thick midnight saw,

In endless changes, Unity,
And in confusion, Law.

Though other hands unwound the clue

To realms of clearer day,
All honour to the First is due
Who pointed them the way.

He moved through Life, as one who hears,
And answers from within,
Faint music from celestial spheres
Through Earth's discordant din.

Well might he stand with brows inclined,
In silence and apart,-

A thought of the Creator's mind
Had passed into his heart!

What nights of happy toil were his,
Toil that itself repays,
Scanning creation's mysteries

With no irreverent gaze!

Oh, hour of hours, when first he seemed
To grasp the truth, long sought,
And the solitudes of starlight teemed
With multitudinous thought!

Strange is the destiny of Life,
Wondrous is Fame's behest,
Passing the labour and the strife-
Crowning the time of rest!
Long years of lonely watching o'er,
There came at last the hour,
When to the dying Sage, they bore1
The Record of his power.

They would have kneeled around the place
Where, pale and faint, he lay,
But, silent, with unaltered face,
He motioned them away;
Earth's greatness vanished there, as snow
Melts from the summer sod-
His soul had done with time, and now
Stood face to face with God!

ST. DOROTHEA.

A LEGEND.

WHEN our bless'd Saviour Lord, to whom
Be glory for evermore!

Had suffer'd all his bitter doom,

In heathen days of yore;

In Greece there liv'd a gentle maid,
Who tended her garden bowers;

To whom our Lord his love display'd,
Among the trees and flowers.

She nurtur'd her garden, so fond, so kind,

With a gay and childlike joy;

And the faith was pure of her innocent mind,

As gold is without alloy.

And once, when in her garden shade,

In sleep the maid reclined,

The Lord a dream of bliss display'd

To her pure and holy mind!

That hallow'd vision of love was given
From the bright and the blissful land;
An angel came down from the gates of heaven,
With three roses in his hand!

He gave her the roses, with looks of love,

And he gave her a holy kiss;

Then he flew at once through the realms above,

Back to his home of bliss.

And as she awoke from this joyful rest,

She thought of that vision of heaven;
And she found three roses on her breast,
Which her angel love had given!

And her young heart glow'd beyond control,
To reach those bowers above;

And she praised the Lord in her inmost soul,
For the gifts of heavenly love!

And two days more the daylight woke,
And chased the midnight gloom,

And as soon as ever the third day broke,
The roses began to bloom!

On the fourth day the angel flew to her side,
As a bridegroom flies to his love;
And he bore the roses, and bore the bride,
To the bowers of bliss above!

Körner.

(1) The first proofs of the work in which Copernicus proclaimed the order and harmony of our system, were brought to him on his deathbed.

notice. In different parts of their course many of them assume every character that can be desired by the lover of varied scenery. They are spreading, winding, or rapid, according to the nature and acclivity of their beds; and these often present sudden and numerous

variations.

The river Tees, sung by the author of Rokeby, and by other poets, is, perhaps, one of the most romantic and lovely of English streams, on account of the great variety of moorlands and mountains through which it flows in the early part of its course; the delightful pastures traversed by it in the middle course; and the fine promontories and commanding scenery where it joins the ocean. The pen of the accomplished Gilpin has recorded some of the charming scenery of this river. Describing the forest of Langley-dale, or Teesdale, which latter name it assumes from running along the banks of the Tees, he says: "When the woods of this forest were in perfection, they must have afforded a great variety of picturesque scenery; for the Tees is one of the most romantic rivers in England, and forms many a furious eddy, and many a foaming cascade, in its passage through the forest, particularly that celebrated cataract which, by way of eminence, is called 'The Fall of the Tees.""

The Tees rises on the castern side of the mountain of Crossfell in Cumberland. This mountain is nearly three thousand feet high, and forms the highest portion of the ridge called Crossfell, running northward in that county. The other great ridge to the south-west reaches a still greater elevation, the principal peak being that of the noble Skiddaw, 3166 feet above the level of the sea. Some accounts, however, make Crossfell the higher mountain of the two.

Crossfell is characterized as a mountain that is generally ten months buried in snow, and eleven in clouds. Being encompassed by other desolate and barren mountains, it retains the snow much longer than other British heights. Skiddaw, on the contrary, is surrounded by the most romantic and attractive scenery; and is, therefore, proclaimed in terms of the warmest admiration by travellers, while we seldom hear the praises of the more wild and desolate Crossfell; indeed, few persons like to encounter the dreary and wearisome ascent. One who took it many years since, thus described the immediate rise of the mountain itself, after a journey over what he calls "almost impervious wastes" "We were now so much environed with large and extended morasses, rocks, and mountains, that they exhibited a frightful appearance; not the vestige of a house, except some old shiels, where formerly the people had resorted, like the Asiatic Tartars, to graze their cattle in summer -a practice now disused. There were a few sheep, but no deer that we could see; and, notwithstanding the extraordinary drought, the water followed our horses' footsteps, for miles together. At the place called Bulman's Cleugh there are some lead works. When we had gradually ascended about three miles, through very broken morassy wastes, the mountains began to rise in three very formidable ascents, steep, and, like Mount Lebanon, piled one above another, with large and extensive plains to each of them, and loose, shivery stones on their brows, very troublesome to the horses, which we were now sometimes obliged to quit. This continued for two miles more, when we arrived at the summit of the highest, which forms a capacious plain of several hundred acres, if you reckon from the east ascent, but of such a barren soil that there was not a single leaf of grass, herb, or plant to be found." Other persons have found the ascent much less difficult than is here represented, and have seen the whole of the summit covered with moss of various kinds, intermixed with the mountain hair-grass, heath mat-grass, and mountain dock. These observations were made in August, when the snow had entirely disappeared; and, if so much of a gloomy character invested the mountain at that beautiful season of the year, we may easily suppose, that it must be a

bleak and dreary scene when wrapped in fogs and covered with snow. The Rev. Thomas Hartwell Horne, when tracing the beautiful scenery of the English lakes, seems to have given only a passing glance at Crossfell. He says: "As we proceeded towards Penrith, the bleak Crossfell arose to view in the distance on our right; a long ridge of mountains, 2,907 feet above the level of the sea, whose summits were covered with snow. From the force and direction in which the wind met us, we were informed that the helm-wind was then blowing down that fell and the adjoining Token-fell. We observed a thick cloud on the summit, covering it like a helmet (whence this phenomenon takes its name), and at some distance from it, in an opposite direction, a thick undulating mist, apparently more dense than those which usually rise from the lofty mountains of this country. These appearances, we were told, were certain indications of the existence of the helm-wind, which blows with tremendous fury."

Such is the birth-place of the Tees, which takes its rise on the eastern side of this mountain, traversing barren moors and wild scenery through the early part of its course, and receiving those lesser mountain-rills and rivulets which gradually augment its bulk and importance. For the first few miles of its course, it forms the boundary between Cumberland and Westmoreland. It is then joined by two becks, or smaller rivers, called Trout and Crook becks. At its junction with the latter it forms the southern boundary of Durham, separating it for a few miles from Westmoreland, and then from the North Riding of Yorkshire. The course of the river is at first tolerably direct; it flows through a narrow valley among the hills, and receives various tributary streams from the counties of which it marks the boundary. Among those on the Westmoreland and Yorkshire bank, the chief are the Maize, the Lune, and the Balder; while, on the Durham side, the Harwood, in junction with the Langdon-beck, the Ettersgill, the Bowles, the Hadshope, and the Eglestone, are the principal.

At the junction of the Maize, or Mary's-beck, the waters of the Tees swell out into a kind of lake, called the Wheel, and then discharge themselves in the most beautiful cataracts which England can boast of. These are caused by a ridge of trap-rocks, across which the river flows at Caldron Snout, about three miles above the grand falls at High Force. The scenery in the vicinity of Caldron Snout is exceedingly wild and romantic, and a sensible tremor is communicated to the adjacent rocks by the rushing of the torrent, where "the maddened Tees with maniac fury foams." For several miles a succession of beautiful falls, and the most picturesque scenery, delight the eye of the tourist. Highly attractive is that part of the river where the waters-

"Still gathering, as they pour along,

A voice more loud, a rush more strong,"

hurry over another ridge of coarse-grained grey columnar basalt, which crosses the torrent, and causes the majestic fall, called High, or Mickle Force.

Speaking of the falls of this river, Surtees remarks on the different kinds of cataracts which may be observed in this country. He says: "High up the Tees, in this parish (Cotherston), but not till after it has become a considerable river, is one of the finest cataracts in the island, whose roar is audible long before it is perceptible to the eye. Its character is that of the falls of Aysgarth, but the scale is beyond comparison more magnificent, the projection much deeper, the mass of waters more entire, and equally precipitous. Cataracts in this country may be divided into two classes; first, the falls of considerable rivers, of which the expanse is necessarily grand, while the depth is seldom very great, because their course has ceased to be very precipitous before they acquire so great a bulk of water; the second consists of mountain torrents, of no ample dimensions, but precipitated down the abrupt and