to have no wish to advance; while some were lying bruised or lamed by the way-side.

Sad sights these! but there was one so joyous and consolatory that it compensated for all the rest. It was to watch that happy company who now were finishing their course, and reaching their destination, to see how affectionately they helped each other onward, to hear them high above me carolling like the lark, for distant as they were I did hear them, and the sound brought back to my mind the words of the sweet singer of old, "Thy statutes have been my songs in the house of my pilgrimage," and taught me that great as their perils had been they must have had all along a source of strength and peace within, which the world can neither give nor take away.

Nor was this all: for of those young travellers who, in an honest and a good heart, had set forth on their journey, resolved to gain the summit of the mountain, who had adhered to their instructions, and availed themselves of the helps which had been given them, not one, no, not the youngest, and weakest, and feeblest of all, missed of success. One after another they reached the highest pass, and though, when they had reached it, the cloud covered them, and I

saw them no more; yet, in my last view of them, the bright and glorious rays of the setting sun were resting on their heads, and I knew that their toils and labours were ended, and that all henceforward would be the brightness and the joy of home.

Long, long, I stood gazing at them, wishing that my own lot might be like theirs. But at length I perceived that a cold damp haze was floating round me; an icy breath was chilling me. I started, and saw that the sky was overcast, that the heavens were black with a coming storm, and that the cloud was rolling down the sides of the mountain towards me, though the steep and narrow path was still open.

I hastened to leave my resting place, and as I gathered my garments round me, the sound of the thrilling voice entered my ears once more;

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Escape for thy life; look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain; escape to the mountain, lest thou be consumed."

JOHN HENRY PARKER, OXFORD AND LONDON.

TONY DILKE.

MANY years have elapsed since I passed a few weeks in autumn at St. Bride's. It is now a place of fashionable resort. It was then an obscure fishing village, with two or three lodginghouses, let in the summer months to persons, who, like myself, required rest and change of air. It was a wild spot, little known or frequented, and by no means easy of access. Its site was a narrow cove, or bowl-shaped gap which shelved down to the sea. On either side were lofty cliffs, and above and behind there were downs which stretched away for miles and miles without a tree or a human dwelling. And the people were, for the most part, as wild as the place. I have called it a fishing village, but in former days it had been a notorious haunt for smugglers; and even at the time when I visited it, it was believed that the inhabitants made more by their

contraband trade than by their fishing. At a still earlier period, forty or fifty years ago, there was no such effective coast-guard as now almost wholly prevents smuggling. No wonder St. Bride's was a low-lived place! And at that time too, the beautiful lighthouse had not been built, which now serves as a beacon to all vessels entering the channel, and gives them timely warning to keep off the rocky coast, and that most perilous part of it, Duncliffe Bay, where, when south-westerly gales were blowing, more than a score of vessels have been wrecked in one night.

The terrible scenes however which occurred at such times, seem to have had the effect of hardening rather than of softening the hearts of the inhabitants of this part of the coast; a wreck was to them not a sight of pity but of joy. Their thought was not of assistance but of plunder. And so it came to pass that there were dark (and it is to be feared, but too true) tales of men, who had raised false beacon-lights upon Duncliffe Head for the purpose of misleading home-bound ships, and who, when in consequence a shipwreck had occurred, had not scrupled to meet and hurl backwards into the boiling surge, such few mariners as, half-perished with cold and wet,

had escaped from the sinking vessel, and were ascending the cliffs, thus preventing the appearance of any living owner to lay claim to the stranded goods. I should gladly avoid allusion to such horrors, but the mention of them is necessary for the comprehension of the ensuing pages.

My residence at St. Bride's occurred when I was a young man, for I had only been admitted to Holy Orders about a year before. While there, the clergyman of the parish was called away from home, and at his request I undertook to officiate for him in his church, and to attend to any of his parishioners who might require my services and spiritual assistance. But of course I could only go among them as an entire stranger, for I knew no one in the place except the clergyman and my landlady.

It was on the evening of All Saints' Day that returning to my lodging after a long walk, I stood for a while on the summit of the cliff which overhangs the village, to gaze upon the scene before me. The sun had set some time, and the moon was already high in the heavens, but a heavy cloud concealed her orb from my sight, though it by no means intercepted her rays from falling on the sea. Accordingly,