feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants along the coast; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the Channel; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds; all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church, rising from the brow of a neighbouring hill,-all were characteristic of England.

The tide and wind were so favourable that the ship was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people; some, idle lookers on; others eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was consigned; I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his pockets; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There were repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged between the shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognise each other.

I particularly noticed one young woman of humble dress, but interesting demeanour. She was leaning forward from among the crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed and agitated, when I heard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so increased, that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recognise him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features it read at once a whole volume of sorrow; she

uttered a faint shriek, clasped her hands, and stood wringing them in silent agony.

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaintances the greetings of friends-the consultations of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers—but felt that I was a stranger in the land.

IX.-VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH.

(THOMAS DE QUINCEY.)

The incident here described occurred while Mr. De Quincey was travelling by mail-coach, the coachman being asleep, and the pace being about thirteen miles an hour. The morning twilight added to the danger and the suspense.

BEFORE us lay an avenue, straight as an arrow, six hundred yards, perhaps, in length; and the umbrageous trees, which rose in a regular line from either side, meeting high overhead, gave to it the character of a cathedral aisle. These trees lent a deeper solemnity to the early light; but there was still light enough to perceive, at the further end of this Gothic aisle, a light, reedy gig, in which were seated a young man, and by his side a young lady. The little carriage is creeping on at one mile an hour, and the parties within it are naturally bending down their heads. Between them and eternity, to all human calculation, there is but a minute and a half. I shouted, and the young man heard me not. A second time I shouted; and now he heard me, for now he raised his head.

For seven seconds, it might be, of his seventy, the stranger settled his countenance steadfastly upon us, as if to search and value every element in the conflict before him. For five seconds more he sat immovably, like one that mused on some great purpose. For five he sat with eyes upraised, like one that prayed in sorrow, under some extremity of doubt, for wisdom to guide him toward the better choice.

Then suddenly he rose, stood upright, and, by a sudden strain upon the reins, raising his horse's fore-feet from the ground, he slewed him round on the pivot of his hind legs,

so as to plant the little equipage in a position nearly at right angles to ours. Thus far his condition was not improved, except as a first step had been taken toward the possibility of a second. If no more were done, nothing was done; for the little carriage still occupied the very centre of our path, though in an altered direction. Yet even now it may not be too late; fifteen of the twenty seconds may still be unexhausted, and one almighty bound forward may avail to clear the ground.

Hurry, then, hurry! for the flying moments, they hurry! Oh, hurry, hurry, my brave young man, for the cruel hoofs of our horses, they also hurry! Fast are the flying moments, faster are the hoofs of our horses. Fear not for him, if human energy can suffice; faithful was he that drove, to his terrific duty; faithful was the horse to his command. One blow, one impulse given with voice and hand by the stranger, one rush from the horse, one bound as if in the act of rising to a fence, landed the docile creature's fore-feet upon the crown or arching centre of the road. The larger half of the little equipage had then cleared our overtowering shadow; that was evident even to my own agitated sight.

But it mattered little that one wreck should float off in safety, if upon the wreck that perished were embarked the human freightage. The rear part of the carriage, was that certainly beyond the line of absolute ruin? What power could answer the question? Glance of eye, thought of man, wing of angel, which of these had speed enough to sweep between the question and the answer, and divide the one from the other? Light does not tread upon the steps of light more indivisibly than did our all-conquering arrival upon the escaping efforts of the gig. We ran past them faster than ever mill-race in our inexorable flight.

Oh, raving of hurricanes that must have sounded in their young ears at the moment of our transit! With the swinglebar we had struck the off-wheel of the little gig, which stood rather obliquely, and not quite so far advanced as to be accurately parallel with the near wheel. The blow, from the fury of our passage, resounded terrifically. From my elevated station I looked down, and looked back upon the scene, which in a moment told its tale, and wrote all its

records on my heart for ever. The horse was planted immovably with his fore-feet upon the paved crest of the central road. He, of the whole party, was alone untouched by the passion of death.

The little caney carriage-partly, perhaps, from the dreadful torsion of the wheels in its recent movement, partly from the thundering blow we had given to it as if it sympathized with human horror, was all alive with tremblings and shiverings. The young man sat like a rock. He stirred not at all. But his was the steadiness of agitation frozen into rest by horror. As yet he dared not to look round; for he knew that, if anything remained to do, by him it could no longer be done.

But the lady! Oh! will that spectacle ever depart from my dreams, as she rose and sank upon her seat, sank and rose, threw up her arms wildly to heaven, clutched at some visionary object in the air, fainting, praying, raving, despairing? Figure to yourself the elements of the case; suffer me to recall before your minds the circumstances of the unparalleled situation. From the silence and deep peace of this saintly summer night-from the pathetic blending of this sweet moonlight, dawnlight, dreamlight-suddenly as from the woods and fields-suddenly as from the chambers of the air opening in revelation-suddenly as from the ground yawning at her feet-leaped upon her, with the flashing of cataracts, Death the crowned phantom, with all the equipage of his terrors and the tiger roar of his voice.

The moments were numbered. In the twinkling of an eye our flying horses had carried us to the termination of the umbrageous aisle; at right angles we wheeled into our former direction; the turn of the road carried the scene out of my eyes in an instant, and swept it into my dreams for

ever.

X.-LUCY FLEMING.

(PROFESSOR WILSON.)

John Wilson, late Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh was born in Paisley in 1785. He died in Edinburgh in 1854. Of his poems, the best known are, "The Isle of Palms," and "City of the Plague;" and of his prose works, "Recreations of Christopher North," and "Noctes Ambrosianae."

In an English village-highland or lowland-seldom is there any spot so beautiful as the church-yard. That of Grassmere is especially so, with the pensive shadows of the old church tower settling over its cheerful graves. Ay, its cheerful graves! Startle not at the word as too strong for the pigeons are cooing in the belfry, the stream is murmuring round the mossy church-yard wall, a few lambs are lying on the mounds, and flowers laughing in the sunshine over the cells of the dead. But hark! the bell tolls-one-one-one -a funeral knell, speaking not of time, but of eternity! To-day there is to be a burial-and close to the wall of the tower you see the new dug grave...

Thirty years ago—how short a time in national historyhow long in that of private sorrows!-all tongues were speaking of the death that there befell, and to have seen the weeping, you would have thought that the funeral could never have been forgotten. But stop now the shepherd on the hill, and ask him who lived in that nook, and chance is he knows not even their name, much less the story of their afflictions. It was inhabited by Allan Fleming, his wife, and an only child, known familiarly in her own small world by the name of LUCY OF THE FOLD. In almost every district among the mountains, there is its peculiar pride—some one creature to whom nature has been especially kind, and whose personal beauty, sweetness of disposition, and felt superiority of mind and manner, single her out, unconsciously, as an object of attraction and praise, making her the Mayday Queen of the unending year. Such a darling was Lucy Fleming ere she had finished her thirteenth year; and strangers, who had heard tell of her loveliness, often dropped in, as if by accident, to see the Beauty of Rydal

mere.