kefy names in literature or patriotism wanting to grace the annals of the Mawddach. We may mention, however, that of Wilberforce, who appeared greatly to delight in the magnificence around him.

We were frequently accompanied in our excursions by N——————, a friend then resident in Barmouth. His acquaintance with every rock and de, creek and bay, and his researches into the natural productions of the locality, made our sail or ramble doubly interesting. Gifted with strong natural talents, and a vivid perception of the beautiful and sublime in nature, he enlivened our conversation with descriptions of mountain scenery and storms, or wild legends connected with the scenes we were then traversing. With him every mountain, valley, and stream, was vocal of some traditionary romaunt or tale.

We were one evening floating lazily homewards in our boat with the ebbing tide, wiling away the time in animated converse, or lost in admiration of the gorgeous scene, on which the setting sun was lavishing its burnished gold, when M-enlisted our curiosity, by offering to accompany us on the morrow to visit a beautiful mountain lake in the immediate vicinity of Barmouth.

“A mountain lake," echoed two or three voices; "we have repeatedly inquired of the guides, and they declare the nearest to be some ten or twelve miles distant."

"Perhaps," replied M———, “they are ignorant of the locality of my gem of the hills. I have sometimes been on its track, and searched for it in vain."

"It lies concealed among the rocks?"

"It does; and so concealed as frequently to baffle the search of the experienced mountain shepherd."

“I have traversed the mountain tops for miles, in that neighbourhood," said Moreton, scrutinizing M-'s countenance, on which there lingered slight traces of a playful expression, mingled with seriousness; "I have glanced into every glen and dingle, but I have seen nothing bearing even the resemblance of a lake."

"I doubt it not," responded M———; “and yet, to-morrow your search shall be rewarded with a scene as fair as the Eden of a poet's imagination."

"Ah!" ejaculated Moreton, divining, as he thought, the mystery; "you allude to some nebulous exhalation among the marshes, a mirage which, seen from a distant height, takes the form and character of a lake."

"By no means," said M-; "my mountain lake is no unsubstantial creation; no baseless fabric of a vision ;' but a reality. It is a broad and beautiful sheet of water, girded around by wild and romantic scenery."

"A fairy lake!"

"Such is the name I have given it; Llyn y tylwyth têg.' You recollect the story of the Fisherman, in the Arabian tale of the Prince of the Black Islands. Mine is a counterpart of the wonderful lake depicted there."

"Our excursion, then, you appoint for the morrow?" "To-morrow."

"Without fear of disappointment, as to its result?" "None, provided you are punctual."

"The time?"

"Some two hours before sunset ;" and M-'s countenance resumed its wonted calmness.

The morrow came, and we set out, half distrusting our new and seemingly eccentric guide; determined, however, at least to inhale the pure and buoyant air of the hills. Our course, at first, lay in a direct line from the river, which was soon hidden from our view by the tall cliffs. We then traversed the mountain tops for some distance, crossing, here and there, a dingle or deep glen; sometimes moving onward, and again in a lateral direction, to avoid the marshes or abrupt declivities that intercepted our route. We had thus proceeded in our erratic course for some few miles, when M— led us down into a low craggy ravine, by whose stream we again moved onwards for a short distance. Here he bade us prepare to enjoy the object of our search. A few yards further, brought us to a point where the ravine made a sudden descent. Standing on the brow of this steep, our delight was not to be described; for, immediately below us, cradled in the depths of the eternal hills, lay a beautiful and broad expanse of water, limpid and green as an emerald. Rocks of a fantastic shape, with here and there a patch of verdant greensward, bounded its margin. Surrounding it in the distance, were jagged ridges and lofty, towering cliffs. A tiny sail, fanned by the breeze, moved gently over the surface of its rippling waters. It seemed as if nature, in an hour of lavish generosity, had expended all her beauties on the scene. Nothing appeared wanting to render its enchantment complete. We literally feasted our eyes on its charms; and had not its reality been too palpable, we could almost have doubted the truthfulness of the beautiful vision.

"Have I fulfilled my promise?" inquired M-, with a smile.

"More than fulfilled it," I replied. "The loveliest sheet of water that England can boast of, may not compare with the beauties of the lake before us. It is a model at once of loveliness and sublimity. Let us descend, and draw nearer to its shores." "The view from the spot we

"Not yet,” replied M——.

stand on is by far the most picturesque and interesting. The enchantment of the scene is broken by a nearer approach.' "Broken?"

"Yes; destroyed. Yon magnificent lake will vanish, if you attempt to enter within its precincts. We are now on the very limits of its magic boundary."

"Impossible," cried Moreton, whose words were echoed by the rest; "it cannot be. Let us move onwards."

"Stop!" said M

-, with an emphasis that sounded like a determined prohibition; " dare you to incur the anger of the spirits that haunt this enchanted ground?"

"We dare!" responded all with animation.

Turning towards M- and scrutinizing his countenance, we found it scarcely able to repress a triumphant smile.

"You are deceived," said he; " and yet not deceived. But here, like Prospero, I break my magic wand. Yonder lovely lake, seemingly the work of enchantment, is but a section of the river Mawddach, to which, by a circuitous route, I have led you back. So completely do the rocks seem to enclose it on every side, that it requires an experienced eye to detect the openings through which the river flows. The appearance, however, of yonder vessel, will aid to undeceive you.'

As M-spoke, a small but stately craft, gliding before the wind with swelling sails, entered the waters from the parted rock, and skimming across their breadth, disappeared again amidst the cliffs on the opposite side.

The veil was torn from our eyes; and we now recognized the shores of the river, as M- pointed out to us different objects with which we were familiar. Viewing it, however, from the spot whereon we stood, even with the confirmation we had received, we could scarcely look upon it but as a "magic lake.”

Often, during our stay in the neighbourhood, did we revisit the scene, and with as much delight as if we had been gazing on the realities of the classic Loch Katrine, or the beautiful Windermere.

THINGS SEEN AT A DISTANCE.

On the evening of the day upon which our narrative commences, a large party was assembled in the drawing-room of Mrs. Sutherland, a lady residing in one of the midland counties of England. Our readers are requested to picture to themselves a handsomely furnished saloon filled with guests, of whom the greater number were staying on a visit with the mistress of the mansion. There was a cheerful amplitude of wax-lights, -couches and divans of the most approved convenience were placed around the apartment,—the old fashioned appendage of a screen, by contracting to a certain degree the limits of the circle, seemed to add to its sociability; and lastly, a moderate fire burned in the grate, for, although it was near the middle of May, summer had (to borrow the humorous words of a late noble writer*)" set in with its usual severity."

The group drawn together under the hospitable roof of the lady aforesaid—and presenting the customary preponderance of ladies over gentlemen-were variously distributed in such several occupations as showed that ease or individual inclination, not ceremony, was the order of the evening. One or two ladies worked; a chess-table, placed at the further end of the room, seemed to absorb the attention of its silent votaries; while the lighter amusement of piquet engaged two others; but the principal attraction of the room was a grand piano-forte, on which a young lady was playing with much grace and skill.

"Ah, that waltz is charming! You certainly possess uncommonly good execution; but do, my dear Miss Morland, give us over again that Irish air you sang so sweetly last night; it did so delight me !"

Thus spoke Mrs. Cranstoun, an agreeable-looking fashionably dressed woman of about five and thirty, who, as a professed votary of music, had quitted her seat on the sofa, to range herself among the amateurs usually congregated on such an occasion round an instrument. "Savourneen Deelish was given with much effect; that is to say, taste was judiciously permitted to preponderate over science in the execution of this beautiful ballad; and then Helena Morland rose from her seat, to yield her place to another.

"Nay, my dear, not yet! You must not expect to be off duty so soon, that I can tell you," said Mrs. Cranstoun, laying a detaining arm on her young friend: "I am so enthusiastically fond of Irish airs-of my national music! After all, nothing can

* Lord Dudley and Ward. Vide his "Letters," &c., lately published.

come up to those charming Irish and Scotch melodies!" the lady went on to say, with an appealing look to the company. Somebody present demurred to this opinion.

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They are undoubtedly very delightful, but one can hardly concur in this exclusiveness of preference. You yourself, dear Madam, force our admiration into an opposite channel; what can be sweeter than those airs of Bellini's, with which you favoured us a little while ago!"

"Oh, my indifferent performance of Italian music!—pray do not speak of it. To be sure, those morceaux, when properly given, are exquisite, and at the Opera I feel their magic spell steal o'er me; but still I am a child of Nature-I confess it-and give me that music which comes from the heart, which speaks of former times, and tells of deeds of greatness, or legends of love, such as were wont to inspire the minstrelsy of yore."

"Probably it is to this association, with the thoughts of your native land, that your partiality to her national melodies may be attributed?" was the somewhat obvious inference of the gentleman who did duty in turning over the leaves of the music-book. "Very likely; I am the most national creature in the world! Having some of the oldest Milesian blood flowing in my veins makes me I believe it is—such a patriot! When absent from home especially, an air-the simplest strain-recalling the thoughts of Ireland, does so overcome me! it is really quite as bad as the Swiss with their 'Ranz de Vaches.' But come, my dear Miss Morland, after this predilection avowed, you will surely not refuse to gratify me with one air more?"

She turned to Helena, who during the last few minutes had been absorbed in admiring contemplation of Mrs. Cranstoun's vivacity, and was met (according to custom) with a counterrequest that she would herself so much more worthily occupy the tripod of honour, namely, the piano-stool.

"Indeed, Mrs. Cranstoun," added Helena, "you sing so much better than I do! I really cannot play anything worth listening to."

"Oh, what a little story-teller it is!" cried Mrs. Cranstoun, in whom the exhibition of somewhat over-vivacity on insufficient provocation was, perhaps, the only nationality that would have induced one to pronounce her Irish. "Do but listen to herhow very humble we are!"

Miss Morland repeated her assertion with yet more earnestness, and made the usual "breach of promise" complaint against her fellow-vocalist, which ladies are wont to prefer against each other on similar occasions.

"I promised!" cried the other, in tones of pretended indignation; "why, yes, when you should have fairly done your part. Now I appeal to any one here, if you are to be let off in this