thousand! Origen wrote six thousand treatises. Plutarch wrote above one hundred and fifty treatises, of which we have no remains. Lord Hailes, in one of his tracts, says, his reading was, at least, equal to his judgment. His works are treated with a sort of traditionary respect, by persons, who possibly knew him erely as a biographical compiler, so that one can hardly venture, even in this free age, to speak freely of him. But if a father of the church, or a modern antiquary, had written professed dissertations on the following subjects, what should we have said of his genius, or of the manner in which he chose to employ himself, and edify the public? Lord Hailes quotes the following ridiculous questions, which the reader will find gravely discussed in Plutarch's Morals: "Why do the Roman women salute their relations with a kiss ?-Why does a man, returning from the country, or from a journey, send before to advertise his wife of his return ?" It has been suggested to me, that it is to tell her to get dinner ready; but Plutarch assigns four reasons for the custom, and that is none of them. "Whether ought he, who gives an entertainment, to place his guests at table, or to suffer them to place themselves? Which was first, a hen or an egg?-Why are women very long in getting drunk?-Why are men, when half-drunk, more restless and disorderly than when they become quite intoxicated? -Why are there many guests invited to a wedding dinner?-Why is no faith to be given to dreams in autumn ?-Is it inconsistent with the good manners that ought to be observed at a symposium, for a man to fall asleep before he gets drunk ?" In Weber's Northern Antiquities, is to be found the following instance of literary application, which taking all circumstances into consideration, is perhaps without parallel :-Hans Sack was born in Nuremburg, in the year 1494; he was taught the trade of a shoemaker, and acquired a bare rudimental education, reading and writing; but being instructed by the master-singers of those days in the praiseworthy art of poetry, he at fourteen began the practice, and continued to make verses, and shoes, and plays, and pumps, boots and shoes, until the seventy-seventh year of his age. At this time he took an inventory of his poetical stock in trade, and found, according to his own narrative, that his works filled 32 folio volumes! all written with his own hand; and consisted of 4,200 mastership songs, 208 comedies, tragedies, and farces, (some of which are extended to seven acts;) 1,700 fables, tales, and miscellaneous poems; and 73 devotional, military, and love songs; making a sum total of 6,048 pieces, great and small; out of these we are informed he culled as many as filled three massy folios, which were published in the years 1558-61; and another edition being called for, he increased this to six volumes folio, by an abridgement of his other works. F. R. Y. My Common-Place Book, No. XVIII. A VISIT TO THE LAKES OF ULLSWATER AND WINDERMERE, IN 1826. (For the Mirror.) A REGION of mountains alone possesses sufficient interest to excite very strong emotions in an inhabitant of a low country-the majestic grandeur of these surprising inequalities of the earth, strikes the mind of such a spectator with an intense feeling of awe; but when the embellishment of beautiful scenery is moreover added-when besides the mere outline, the smaller features of the picture possess all the charms proceeding from an harmonious commingling of wood and water, with the accidental effect which their colouring receives from sudden transitions of those pretty accompani ments of the scene, lights and shadows, the rapture of the beholder may then be said to be complete. It was on a morning singularly favourable for such enjoyment, in the early part of the spring of last year, that I set out from the pleasant town of Penrith, along the winding vale of Emont, watered by the Dacre, a lively and sparkling little stream. The blue tops of the hills, and the jagged summit of the mountain called the Saddle-back, became plainer to the view as I advanced, their forms and aspects ever-varying as the passing clouds subjected portions of them to the alternate changes of sunshine or shade. Two roads present themselves, the right leading to Keswick, and the left to Ullswater, the latter of which I took. A short ride brought me to Dacre Castle, situated in a small park, at one end o which the river, I have just mentioned, pursued a broken course over a very rocky bed; on it is a pretty bridge of rough unhewn lime-stone ; a mile further brought me to a hill commanding a view of the lake, reposing in an almost unruffled calmness; a small plantation of larches and Scotch-firs occupied its margin at my feet. Two roads again di a verged from this point, both following the shores of the lake. I went on the road to Ambleside, situated at the extremity of Windermere, following the peaceful waters of Ullswater for two miles. I ascended into a wood, the trees were thinly scattered on the lake-side, and through them the bold fronts of the opposite fells project into its very bosom, their rocky sides grey and crumbling "from the effects of a thousand storms" where the eagles have dwelt for ages in undisturbed quietness. Some of the lower parts are cultivated, and white cottages snugly placed under the secure shelter of the projecting crags. Gowbarrow Park and its four-towered hunting lodge, Lyulph's Tower, is soon reached. Herds of fallow deer bound across the lawns and through the thickets. Forests of oak there flourish, many of them in the pride of youthful vigour, but most in the decay of aged majesty. A deep glen through which a torrent called Airey Force, has worked its gradual but resistless course (except where huge masses of rock have successfully resisted the impetuous stream, forming thereby a succession of waterfalls) from its mountain origin is half a mile to the right, embosomed in native wood; wooden bridge is thrown across the greatest fall, where I gazed on the glancing waters thundering into the abyss beneath in dizzy wonder. It is said that the large red deer once abounded in the park, and in Martindale Forest, in great numbers, but I was told that species is now nearly extinct. Pursuing my journey, after having ascended the top of the hill to enjoy a more extensive survey of the higher reaches of the lake, I passed under the cliffs of cloud-capt Helvellyn, or then rather snow-capt, as in consequence of the earliness of the season, the venerable head of that mountain was, to borrow the whimsical expression of a friend, still enveloped in his winter nightcap of an unsullied whiteness. Further on, the lake winds round Place Fell. From a point of land stretching out a short distance, a magnificent view is unfolded down the lake, varied by the forms of the mountains, some sweeping from its surface in sinoothness, while others assume a most precipitous boldness of outline. The next place is the scattered village of Patterdale, with its mountain chapel and solitary old yew tree. A str.am here issued from the lake, which having crossed, I proceeded towards Ambleside, five miles from thence over a mountainous range called the Kirkstones, many torrents rushing through their rocky channels, crossed the road in several places. Their hoarse sounds struck upon my ear with a singular distinctness, produced by the universal dreariness of the scene around, now and then varied only by the scream of the plover suddenly almost from under your horse's feet. The summit of these hills attained, a steep descent, from which the head of Windermere is seen, conducts you to the pleasant village of Ambleside, on the to of that lake, inclining to the eastert side; two rivers are seen issuing from it, fertile valleys, rich farms, cottages, and natural groves extend along the borders, being an agreeable contrast to the almost entirely uncultivated shores of Ullswater. Mountains appeared majestically above, and the sails of many boats floating on the liquid element, added greatly to the enchantment of the view. The scenery of Windermere delights and captivates, whilst that of Ullswater astonishes the senses. In pursuing the road on the eastern side of the former, an immense expanse of water appears, extending to the right and left, in some places swelling into spacious bays fringed with luxuriant trees. The higher parts of the mountains are clothed with shrubs and coarse vegetation, intermixed with grey rocks; yews and hollies are the most common. Their dark foliage agreeing well with the sombre colouring on the hill-sides. To enjoy the views to perfection, it is necessary to embark on the lake in a boat. If you embark, as I did, from the snug little village of Newby Bridge, the views as you proceed upwards gradually unfold new charms, landlocked bays, verdant promontories with a number of gentlemen's seats; their grounds and picturesque boat-houses, with the hanging wood behind, present pictures on which the eye is delighted to dwell. The Ambleside Mounts are in your front at the top of the lake, there stationed in awful grandeur, and whose forms have been preserved with little alteration by the hand of time, for ages long gone by. The water is as clear as crystal, and numberless shoals of the finny tribe (so delightful to the angler's eye) are distinctly seen. commences about the middle of May. Pike, perch, trout, and the chub, peculiar to Windermere and Leathe's Wave only, are the most common. Besides the sports of shooting and angling, there is another kind, almost exclusively followed in that country, that of hunting the fowl-mart, in the Lancashire dialect, foomurt, or pole-cat. There is a species of hound kept entirely for that purpose, a small rough breed, and rather slow. The fishing Everybody, from the squire to the peasant, is warmly attached to foomurt hunting. The rocky nature of the ground on which the animal is pursued, renders horseback impracticable. The hounds follow the scent or drague in full cry, pursuing it fifteen, twenty, or even thirty miles, till the retreat of the vermin is discovered, as is generally the case in some hole in the rocks. Then another description of labour commences, the neighbourhood is soon up in arms, and furnished with pick-axes, crow-bars, &c. they proceed to break up the rock, often a work of many hours before they can penetrate the little animal's strong hold; but such is their enthusiasm in the task, that they never relax their exertions till they have accomplished his destruction. E. J. H. The Novelist. No. CI. THE PILGRIM. THE fire in Madame St. Orval's parlour threw its red light on her mirthful children, who were seated around it, enjoying the sports of Christmas eve, 30 congenial to the youthful breast, when a few raps at the street door as if with a good stout stick, silenced, and not a little alarmed the cheerful group. The maid servant presently appeared, and announced, that a "man desired to know if he could be accommodated with a bed, for charity's sake, that night." Now the night was bleak and stormy, and certainly appeared more so, contrasted with the fire and the snug warm room. "Show him in," said madame, and in two minutes, a tall handsome youth in pilgrim's attire, made one at the pleasant fireside; he apologized in pure and elegant French, for the intrusion, but said that he was on a pilgrimage to our lady of Loretto, and could not proceed on such a night. Madame St. Orval requested him to refrain from apologies, and said she was very happy to have it in her power to offer him shelter, and then quitted the room to give a few necessary orders. Upon her return, she found the stranger in high favour with all her family; the little ones requested him to sing, but he politely declined this request, and they were contented with hearing him recount such a set of droll stories, that Madame St. Orval and her eldest daughter, Emilie, had nearly expired with laughter. After the departure of the children, the conversation took a literary turn, and the ladies were astonished at the learn ing, pure taste, elegant discrimination, and amiable sentiments of the pilgrim; a vein however of youthful romance, and knightly gallantry, were observable in his discourse, while the melody and beauti. ful inflexions of his voice, like a stream of pure and subtile music, ravished the heart. Reader! didst thou ever feel the fascination of a voice? hast thine heart been sensible to the enchantment of tone? If so, thou wilt agree with me, that the converse of one who has a voice so fraught with music, is above all personal beauty. The pilgrim, in the course of the evening, mentioned, as his acquaintances, the names of many Parisian nobles, with most of whom he found Madame St. Orval had once been acquainted, which finally obliged her to declare to him her present circumstances; briefly, she had moved in the first metropolitan circles, but her husband dying greatly involved, had obliged her to retire from Paris, to the seclusion and comparative poverty in which her guest beheld her. The youth was too humane to press the subject, and changing it as soon as possible, the happy coterie sat conversing till the tolling of a distant convent bell, for the midnight service, warned them that Christmas Eve was no more. There is in this world a description of BREAKING! breaking! Day, thou'rt breaking, Breaking! breaking! heart, thou'rt breaking From her! can she e'er be mine? Breaking! breaking! spears are breaking Emilie listened for more, but no more came, she sighed, she knew not where fore; and felt disappointed, she did not know why, and when she slept it was only to dream of the sweetest song she ever heard, sung by youths more lovely than she had ever before beheld. In the morning, the maid servant entered the room: "Mademoiselle, before the gentleman went, he desired me to give this to you;' presenting a small packet. "And is he gone ?" exclaimed Emilie. "Dear me, yes! nearly two hours ago." "Indeed! but Jeanette, you need not wait." With slow steps Jeanette retired, and the Demoiselle, on opening the packet, was charmed to behold a beautiful ring; it was of pure gold, studded with precicus stones, and a ruby rose of exquisite workmanship glowed in the middle; but oh! more precious than all, these words were written on the paper that enclosed it, "TV hat my tongue cannot, this may declare." Emilie was in a perfect ecstacy, for this sentence so exactly agreed with the romance of the preceding night, that (with a conceit quite excusable) she now doubted not as to who was the pilgrim's lady-love. This certainty, and this joy however, were a little damped by her nother's sober remark, "that she considered the little present as a very delicate mode of expressing a gratitude, which the stranger had neither time nor opportunity to tender viva voce." Many months elapsed, during which the ladies neither saw nor heard of the pilgrim, and Emilie's golden dreams vanished, though she by no means forgot the circumstances of his visit. At this period the affairs of Madame St. Orval, wore a yet more sombre aspect; debts which she had no idea her late husband had contracted, were claimed; to aid in their payment her little pittance was lessened, and herself and family nearly reduced to starvation; her friend the Abbess of Les Sœurs de Misericorde, who possessed a convent at a pretty village near Paris, offered, at this juncture, to support Emilie, free of expense, till she professed, if, after that period she would assist in the education of those children and young persons who were sent to the house for instruction. The filial affection of Mademoiselle St. Orval overcame those feelings of repugnance to a monastic life, so natural to her years, and she entered the convent with far less sorrow than she had apprehended. A short residence therein, convinced her that the abbess was kind, the nuns kinder, and Henrietta Douvile, a young boarder of distinction, kindest of all; this lady sought her regard most assiduously, and obtained it she was sprightly, seemed sincere, and somehow at times reminded Emilie so strongly of the pilgrim, that, in short, she was irresistible, and the whole story of the stranger, the song, the ring, and the motto, was related to, and indeed after awhile, the two latter shewn her; for this Henrietta bantered Emilie so amazingly, and so long, that she heartily blamed herself for imprudently making the disclosure, and more heartily still, when Mademoiselle Douvile, on quitting the convent about three weeks prior to Emilie's taking the veil, fairly carried off the pilgrim's precious gift; sorry as the poor novice was for the loss of the trinket, she was more grieved at considering that she could never again regard Henrietta as a friend. About two days previous to the awful ceremony which was to exclude her from the world for ever, a nun entered her cell with a note; it was from Mademoiselle Douvile, expressed in the most affectionate terms, and requesting to see her immediately in the visitor's parlour; Emilie pleased with Henrietta's repentance, for she doubted not but that she was come to restore the ring, granted her desire, and on entering the room was astonished to see three strangers, two knights and a lady, besides her friend, but they had their backs to her. Mademoiselle expressed great delight at the meeting, and at length begged permission to introduce her father; one of the knights stepped forward and greeted her in the most endearing manner; then the lady turned, and Emilie rushed into her mother's arms. "Do I need an introduction ?" said the other knight, advancing, and raising his beaver. Oh! the voice was sufficient, that exquisite voice which had come to one fond girl's spirit, in the stillness of morn, in the stir of midday, and in the deep silence of the dead dull night! One glance was sufficient also, and the astonished Emilie beheld before her the pilgrim, in all his proud beauty, and with his eyes glittering for joy. "Will you vouchsafe," said he, 66 a favourable reception to an old friend?" at the same time presenting the valued ring, within which the cherished motto was now engraved. "Oh ? that ring," cried Henrietta, "when I have told you all, I trust you will pardon me for the theft of it; at present you will make preparations to quit this convent immediately; as for you Charles—but I can't talk to you now; come Emilie we've no time to lose ;" and she pulled the bewildered girl out of the room, while Madame St. Orval followed. Emilie's heart was full, she felt as if her senses would leave her, till, in her little cell, a burst of tears relieved a bosom over wrought with amazement and joy. "My dearest child," said the kind mother, "thanks to the father of all, our difficulties are removed; your father's executor, M. Triquet, is a villain." "Who discovered that ?" cried Emilie. "The young Chevalier Douvile," replied Madame," the story is intricate, but let it suffice, that through the unabated exertions of that admirable young man, his forgeries have been detected, and instead of a weighty debt to him, he owes us a very considerable sum.” “And did the pilgrim discover this; and how; and why ?" "Because," replied Henrietta, my brother thought proper to discover that you -" "Brother? Henrietta, your brother ?-Oh! if you had but told me so; why did you not ?" "Why, between your communications and his letters, I had found out your pilgrim, incognito, he gave me strict orders to keep the secret; and to steal the ring; bon! how I've been bursting to speak, but as poor Charles turned pilgrim on my account, (after my recovery from a dangerous illness) I thought I must humour him in a trifle; you must know, my dear, that he deemed it a knightly feat, becoming a wife-seeking chevalier, to set upon that hydra, M. Triquet; well, he has conquered him, and will no doubt demand his reward of you, presently in due form." Poor Emilie was greatly agitated, but at length with the assistance of her mother and friend, completed her preparations, and again entered the parlour. Shall we proceed? No! for the enthusiasm of youth glowing with the most beautiful and noble of all fervors, is to be felt, not described; nor can such be understood, but by those whose own feelings have taught them what it is. Therefore we will but observe, that the pilgrim for his reward, sued not in vain, that the ring was worn by his lady to the day of her death, and is now preserved, with the original MS. of the Chevalier Pilgrim's Song, by a branch of the family residing at Abbeville. M. L. B. SPIRIT OF THE Public Journals. MAY-DAY. MOUNT PLEASANT. MOUNT PLEASANT! well indeed dost thou deserve the name, bestowed on thee, perhaps, long ago, not by any one of the humble proprietors, but by the general voice of praise, all visitors being won by thy cheerful beauty. For from that shaded platform, what a sweet vision of fields and meadows, knolls, braes, and hills, uncertain gleamings of a river, the smoke of many houses, and glittering, perhaps, in the sunshine, the spire of the House of God! To have seen Adam Morrison, the elder, sitting with his solemn, his austere Sabbath-face, beneath the pulpit, with his expressive eyes fixed on the preacher, you could not but have judged him to be a man of a stern character and austere demeanour. To have His seen him at labour on the working-days, you might almost have thought him the serf of some tyrant-lord, for into all the toils of the field he carried the force of a mind that would suffer nothing to be undone that strength and skill could achieve; but within the humble porch of his own house, beside his own board, and his own fireside, he was a man to be kindly esteemed by his guests, by his own family tenderly and reverently beloved. wife was the comeliest matron in the parish, a woman of active habits and a strong mind, but tempering the natural sternness of her husband's character with that genial and jocund cheerfulness, that of all the lesser virtues is the most efficient to the happiness of a household. One daughter only had they, and I could charm my own heart even now by evok. ing the vanished from oblivion, and imaging her over and over again in the light of words; but although all objects, animate and inanimate, seem always tinged with an air of sadness when they are past, and as at present I am determined to be cheerful-obstinately to resist all access of melancholy-an enemy to the pathetic-and a scorner of shedders of tears therefore let Mary Morrison rest in her grave, and let me paint a pleasant picture of a May-Day afternoon, and enjoy it as it was enjoyed of old, beneath that stately Sycamore, with the grandi |