This letter, it was proved, passed free of postage. Another letter was also produced from his wife at Tiverton, and a certificate of his marriage with Mary of Buttermere. His trial came on August 15th, 1803, at the Assizes for Cumberland, before the Honourable Alexander Thompson, Knt. He stood charged upon the three following indictments:—

1. With having assumed the name and title of the Honourable Alexander Augustus Hope, and pretending to be a member of parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland; and with having, about the month of October last, under such false and fictitious name and character, drawn a draft or bill of exchange, in the name of Alexander Hope, upon John Crumpt, Esq., for the sum of £20, payable to George Wood, of Keswick, Cumberland, innkeeper, or order, at the end of fourteen days from the date of the said draft or bill of exchange.

2. With making, uttering, and publishing as true, a certain false, forged, and counterfeit bill of exchange, with the name of Alexander Augustus Hope thereunto falsely set and subscribed, drawn upon John Crumpt, Esq., dated the 1st of October, 1802, and payable to Nathaniel Montgomery More, or order, ten days after date, for £30 sterling.

3. With having assumed the name of Alexander Hope, and pretending to be a member of parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, the brother of the right Hon. Lord Hopetoun, and a colonel in the army; and under such false and fictitious name and character, at various times in the month of October, 1802, having forged and counterfeited the hand-writing of the said Alexander Hope, in the superscription of certain letters or packets, in order to avoid the payment of the duty on postage.

The prisoner pleaded not guilty to the charge.

The three several indictments having been read, Mr. Scarlett opened the case in an address to the jury; and gave an ample detail of the prisoner's guilt.

In support of what he had advanced, he called Mr. Quick, who was clerk in the house at Tiverton, where Hatfield was partner, who swore to his hand-writing. The Rev. Mr. Nicholson swore that when the prisoner was asked his name, he said it was a comfortable one—Hope.

The evidence for the prosecution having closed, the prisoner addressed himself to the jury. He said he felt some degree of satisfaction in being able to have his sufferings terminated, as they must of course be by their verdict. For the space of nine months he had been dragged from prison to prison, and torn from place to place, subject to all the misrepresentations of calumny.

"Whatever will be my fate," said he, "I am content; it is the award of justice, impartially and virtuously administered. But I will solemnly declare that in all my transactions, I never intended to defraud or injure the persons whose names have appeared in the prosecution. This I will maintain to the last of my life."

After the evidence was gone through, his lordship, Sir A. Thompson, summed up the whole of the evidence and commented upon such parts as peculiarly affected the fate of the prisoner. "Nothing," said his lordship, "could be more clearly proved, than that the prisoner did make the bill or bills in question under the assumed name of Alexander Augustus Hope, with an intention to defraud. That the prisoner used the additional name of Augustus was of no consequence in this question. The evidence proved clearly that the prisoner meant to represent himself to be another character; and under that assumed character, he drew the bills in question. If anything should appear in mitigation of the offences with which the prisoner was charged, they must give them a full consideration; and though his character had been long shaded with obloquy, yet they must not let this in the least influence the verdict they were sworn to give."

The jury consulted about ten minutes, and then returned a verdict—Guilty of Forgery.

During the whole of the trial the court was excessively crowded. The prisoner's behaviour was proper and dignified; and he supported his situation from first to last with unshaken fortitude. He employed himself, during the greatest part of his trial, in writing notes on the evidence given, and in conversing with his counsel.

When the verdict of the jury was given, he manifested no relaxation of his accustomed demeanour. After the court adjourned, he retired from the bar, and was ordered to attend the next morning to receive the sentence of the law. The crowd was immense; and he was allowed a post-chaise from the town-hall to the jail.[16]

At eight o'clock the next morning, the court met again, when the prisoner appeared at the bar to receive his sentence. Numbers of people gathered together to witness this painful duty of the law passed upon one whose appearance, manners, and actions, had excited a most uncommon degree of interest. After proceeding in the usual form, the judge addressed the prisoner in the following impressive terms:—

"John Hatfield, after the long and serious investigation of the charges which have been preferred against you, you have been found guilty by a jury of your country.

"You have been distinguished for crimes of such magnitude, as have seldom, if ever, received any mitigation of capital punishment; and in your case, it is impossible it can be limited. Assuming the person, name, and character, of a worthy and respectable officer of a noble family in this country, you have perpetrated and committed the most enormous crimes. The long imprisonment you have undergone has afforded time for your serious reflection, and an opportunity for your being deeply impressed with a sense of the enormity of your crimes, and the justness of that sentence which must be inflicted upon you; and I wish you to be seriously impressed with the awfulness of your situation. I conjure you to reflect with anxious care and deep concern on your approaching end, concerning which much remains to be done. Lay aside now your delusions and impositions, and employ properly the short space you have to live. I beseech you to employ the remaining part of your time in preparing for eternity, so that you may find mercy at the hour of death, and in the day of judgment. Hear, now, the sentence of the law:—That you be carried from hence to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, and there to be hung by the neck till you are dead; and may the Lord have mercy on your soul!"

A notion very generally prevailed that he would not be brought to justice; and the arrival of the mail was daily expected with the greatest impatience. No pardon arriving, Saturday, September 3, 1803, was at last fixed upon for the execution.

The gallows was erected the preceding night, between twelve and three, on an island formed by the river Eden, on the north side of the town, between the two bridges. From the hour when the jury found him guilty, he behaved with the utmost serenity and cheerfulness. He talked upon the topics of the day with the greatest interest or indifference. He could scarcely ever be brought to speak of his own case. He neither blamed the verdict, nor made any confession of his guilt. He said he had no intention to defraud those whose names he forged; but was never heard to say that he was to die unjustly. None of his relations ever visited him during his confinement.

The alarming nature of the crime of forgery, in a commercial country, had taught him, from the beginning, to entertain no hope of mercy. By ten in the morning of September 3, his irons were struck off; he appeared as usual, and no one observed any alteration or increased agitation whatever.

Soon after ten o'clock he sent for the Carlisle Journal, and perused it for some time. A little after he had laid aside the paper, two clergymen (Mr. Pattison of Carlisle and Mr. Mark of Burgh-on-Sands), attended and prayed with him for about two hours, and drank coffee with him. After they left him, about twelve, he wrote some letters, and in one he enclosed his penknife; it was addressed to London. About this time he also shaved himself; though intrusted with a razor, he never seems to have meditated an attempt upon his life; but it was generally reported on Friday night that he had poisoned himself, though without foundation. To all who spoke with him, he pretended that what he had to suffer was a matter of little consequence. He preferred talking on indifferent subjects. At three, he dined with the jailer, and ate heartily. Having taken a glass or two of wine, he ordered coffee. He took a cup a few minutes before he set out for the place of execution. The last thing he did was to read a chapter from the 2d Corinthians. He had previously marked out this passage for his lesson before he was to mount the scaffold.

The sheriffs, the bailiffs, and the Carlisle volunteer cavalry, attended at the jail door about half-past three, together with a post-chaise and hearse. He was then ordered into the turnkey's lodge, for the purpose of being pinioned, where he inquired of the jailer, who were going in the chaise with him? He was told the executioner and the jailer. He immediately said, "Pray, where is the executioner? I should wish much to see him." The executioner was sent for. Hatfield asked him how he was, and made him a present of some silver in a paper. During the time of his being pinioned, he stood with resolution, and requested he might not be pinioned tight, as he wished to use his handkerchief on the platform; which was complied with. A prodigious crowd had assembled; this was the market day, and people had come from the distance of many miles out of mere curiosity. Hatfield, when he left the prison, wished all his fellow-prisoners might be happy; he then took farewell of the clergyman, who attended him to the door of the chaise, and mounted the steps with much steadiness and composure. The jailer and executioner went in along with him. The latter had been brought from Dumfries upon a retaining fee of ten guineas.

It was exactly four o'clock when the procession moved from the jail. Passing through the Scotch gate, in about twelve minutes it arrived at the Sands. Half the yeomanry went before the carriage, and the other half behind. Upon arriving on the ground, they formed a ring round the scaffold. It is said that he wished to have the blinds drawn up, but that such an indulgence was held inconsistent with the interest of public justice. When he came in sight of the tree, he said to the jailer, he imagined that was the tree (pointing at it) that he was to die on. On being told yes, he exclaimed, "O! a happy sight—I see it with pleasure!"

As soon as the carriage-door had been opened by the under-sheriff, he alighted with his two companions. A small-cart, boarded over, had been placed under the gibbet, and a ladder was placed against it, which he instantly ascended. He was dressed in a black jacket, black silk waistcoat, fustian pantaloons, shoes, and white cotton stockings. He was perfectly cool and collected. At the same time, his conduct displayed nothing of levity, of insensibility, or of hardihood. He was more anxious to give proof of resignation than of heroism. His countenance was extremely pale, but his hand never trembled. He immediately untied his neckerchief, and placed a bandage over his eyes. Then he desired the hangman, who was extremely awkward, to be as expert as possible about it, and that he would wave a handkerchief when he was ready. The hangman, not having fixed the rope in its proper place, he put up his hand and turned it himself. He also tied his cap, took his handkerchief from his own neck, and tied it about his head also. Then he requested the jailer would step on the platform and pinion his arms a little harder, saying, that when he had lost his senses he might attempt to lift them to his neck. The rope was completely fixed about five minutes before five o'clock; it was slack, and he merely said, "May the Almighty bless you all." Nor did he falter in the least, when he tied the cap, shifted the rope, and took his handkerchief from his neck.

He several times put on a languid and piteous smile. He at last seemed rather exhausted and faint. Having been near three weeks under sentence of death, he must have suffered much, notwithstanding his external bearing; and a reflection of the misery he had occasioned must have given him many an agonizing throb.

Having taken leave of the jailer and sheriff, he prepared himself for his fate. He was at this time heard to exclaim, "My spirit is strong, though my body is weak."

Great apprehensions were entertained that it would be necessary to tie him up a second time. The noose slipped twice, and he fell down about eighteen inches. His feet at last were almost touching the ground; but his excessive weight, which occasioned this accident, speedily relieved him from pain. He expired in a moment, and without any struggle. The ceremony of his hands being tied behind his back, was satisfied by a piece of white tape passed loosely from one to the other; but he never made the smallest effort to relieve himself. He had calculated so well, that his money lasted exactly to the scaffold. As they were setting out, the hangman was going to search him. He threw him half-a-crown, saying,

"This is all my pockets contain."

He had been in considerable distress before he received a supply from his father. He afterwards lived in great style, frequently making presents to his fellow felons. He was considered in the jail as a kind of emperor; he was allowed to do whatever he pleased, and no one took offence at the air of superiority which he assumed.

He was cut down after he had hung about an hour. On the preceding Wednesday he had applied to one of the clergymen who attended him, to recommend him a tradesman to make his coffin. Mr. Bushby, of Carlisle, took measure of him. He did not appear at all agitated while Mr. Bushby was so employed; but told him that he wished the coffin to be a strong oak one, plain and neat.

"I request, Sir," he added, "that after I am taken down, I may be put into the coffin immediately, with the apparel I may have on, and afterwards closely screwed down, put into the hearse which will be in waiting, carried to the churchyard, and be interred in the evening."

A spot was fixed upon in a distant corner of the churchyard, far from the other tombs. No priest attended, and the coffin was lowered without any religious service. Notwithstanding Hatfield's various and complicated enormities, his untimely end excited considerable commiseration. His manners were extremely polished and insinuating, and he was possessed of qualities which might have rendered him an ornament to society.

The unfortunate Mary of Buttermere went from home to avoid the impertinent visits of unfeeling curiosity. She was much affected; and, indeed, without supposing that any part of her former attachment remained, it is impossible that she could view his tragical fate with indifference. When her father and mother heard that Hatfield had certainly been hanged, they both exclaimed, "God be thanked!"

On the day of his condemnation, Wordsworth and Coleridge passed through Carlisle, and endeavoured to obtain an interview with him. Wordsworth succeeded; but, for some unknown reason, the prisoner steadily refused to see Coleridge; a caprice which could not be penetrated. It was true that he had, during his whole residence at Keswick, avoided Coleridge with a solicitude which had revived the original suspicions against him in some quarters, after they had generally subsided. However, if not him, Coleridge saw and examined his very interesting papers. These were chiefly letters from women whom he had injured, pretty much in the same way, and by the same impostures, as he had recently practised in Cumberland. Great was the emotion of Coleridge when he afterwards recurred to these letters, and bitter—almost vindictive—was the indignation with which he spoke of Hatfield. One set of letters appeared to have been written under too certain a knowledge of his villany towards the individual to whom they were addressed; though still relying on some possible remains of humanity, or perhaps (the poor writer might think) on some lingering relics of affection for herself.

The other set was even more distressing; they were written under the first conflicts of suspicions, alternately repelling with warmth the gloomy doubts which were fast arising, and then yielding to their afflicting evidence; raving in one page under the misery of alarm, in another courting the delusions of hope, and luring back the perfidious deserter—here resigning herself to despair, and there again labouring to show that all might yet be well. Coleridge said often, in looking back upon that frightful exposure of human guilt and misery, that the man who, when pursued by these heart-rending apostrophes, and with this litany of anguish sounding in his ears, from despairing women, and from famishing children, could yet find it possible to enjoy the calm pleasures of a lake tourist, and deliberately to hunt for the picturesque, must have been a fiend of that order which, fortunately, does not often emerge amongst men.

It is painful to remember that, in those days, amongst the multitudes who ended their career in the same ignominious way, and the majority for offences connected with the forgery of bank notes, there must have been a considerable number who perished from the very opposite cause; namely, because they felt, too passionately and profoundly for prudence, the claims of those who looked up to them for support. One common scaffold confounds the most flinty hearts and the tenderest. However, in this instance, it was in some measure the heartless part of Hatfield's conduct which drew upon him his ruin; for the Cumberland jury, it has been asserted, declared their unwillingness to hang him for having forged a frank; and both they, and those who refused to aid his escape, when first apprehended, were reconciled to this harshness entirely by what they had heard of his conduct to their injured young fellow-countrywoman.

She, meantime, under the name of the Beauty of Buttermore, became an object of interest to all England. Dramas and melo-dramas were produced in the London theatres upon her story; and for many a year afterwards, shoals of tourists crowded to the secluded lake and the little homely cabaret, which had been the scene of her brief romance. It was fortunate for a person in her distressing situation, that her home was not in a town; the few and simple who had witnessed her imaginary elevation, having little knowledge of worldly feelings, never for an instant connected with her disappointment any sense of the ludicrous, or spoke of it as a calamity to which her vanity might have co-operated. They treated it as unmixed injury, reflecting shame upon nobody but the wicked perpetrator. Hence, without much trial to her womanly sensibilities, she found herself able to resume her situation in the little inn; and this she continued to hold for many years. In that place, and in that capacity, she was seen repeatedly. She was greatly admired, and became the subject of the poet's song; but "sorrow," to use the beautiful language of Ossian, "sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shaded her soul."

THE BORDER FREEBOOTERS;
OR, A FIGHT IN BORROWDALE.

IN olden time, when the contiguous countries of England and Scotland held no amicable relation to each other, it may well be supposed that the mountain ridges forming the line of demarcation between the two territories would frequently be the scene of fierce contention between a rival people. The proximity of the English and Scots in the neighbourhood of the border line, and the inoperative character of the laws, arising from the disorders of the feudal system, which filled both countries with chiefs and petty governors, eager, and sufficiently powerful, to make aggressions and reprisals on each other, are of themselves a sufficient explanation of the causes which led to those continued strifes called the Border warfare. The deep enmity of the hostile parties towards each other overthrew, in a good measure, all moral obligation and honourable feeling.

Incursions were frequently made from the north, less for the purpose of contention in arms, than for committing depredations on cattle and property. Hence the name of freebooters came to be applied to the Border clans, and ultimately with much justice; for in course of time it was deemed matter of indifference by either party whether they preyed on their rival neighbours, or on their own countrymen. Instances are, however, on record in which the Border feuds were distinguished by a romantic and chivalrous feeling, that may well be supposed to have animated great and noble minds, in an age when the most powerful sceptre was the sword, and martial prowess the most estimable quality of mankind:—

Summoning forth "far forgotten things," we will refer to a desperate struggle between two rival clans of Border freebooters, under the stupendous rocks of Honister Crag and Yew Crag.

Late in the evening, at the autumnal season of a year over which passing centuries have thrown a darkening veil, the weary and harassed Borderers of Borrowdale were summoned together by the sound of the slogan, or war-cry of their band. The scouts, who had been sent forth in different directions, to give timely notice of any hostile approaches, returned to their chief, who sat ruminating by his watch-fire, on a neighbouring mountain, and reported the sudden irruption of the Scottish clan, that had swept before them a rich booty of cattle, lying at the foot of Borrowdale hawse. By passing in small companies through well-reconnoitred passes of the mountains, the Scots had contrived to elude the observation of the night guard, till their whole force had again united. They then divided into two companies, one of which drove their booty towards the frontier, and the other remained to protect the rear, and baffle their opponents, if they attempted pursuit. The war-shout of the despoiled clan rung through the mountains, and the Cumberland men repaired one and all to their chief, each one mounted on his pricker—a name applied to their small horses—which were both fleet and sufficiently spirited to overcome a laborious ascent into the hills.

Among the Scottish freebooters none were found possessed of greater skill and daring, in the management of their predatory excursions, than the Græmes. This clan it was who had undertaken and accomplished the capture of Borrowdale, which even in those days of enterprise, was looked upon as an astonishing instance of successful temerity. These troopers were commanded by the younger Græme, a bold, hardy chieftain; and his aged father, the Ossian of the clan, followed in all their expeditions to infuse warlike feeling into their hearts, by reciting "the tale of other times," and the bold enterprises of his past days, when the feebleness of age had not arrived.

All the Border clans cherished feelings of deadly animosity against each other; and this hereditary hate was even greater than their desire for plunder. When the division of the Highland band, under the direction of the two Græmes, had succeeded in diverting the enemy from the track which their comrades had taken, they separated among the hills, there to wait the signal, when a favourable opportunity should present for rushing down in all their strength upon the Cumberland men, and working out the measure of their hatred against them.

After fruitless attempts to recover the spoils which had been wrested from them, the English Borderers resolved to retaliate on the Scottish frontier; and, accordingly, collecting all their power, commenced their march through the desolate region of Borrowdale. Information was speedily conveyed to the younger Græme, that the enemy were approaching. The appointed signal was then given, and the Highlanders once more crowded round their leader. The Scottish chief determined to suspend his attack till the enemy should arrive in the defile between Honister Crag and Yew Crag, when his followers would have the advantage of assailing their foe from the overhanging precipices. They marched along in single rank, through the passes of the mountains, towards the appointed spot, singing their favourite war-song:—

The Highlanders concealed themselves behind the rocky fragments strewn on the side of Yew Crag, till the English, advancing at a rapid rate, had reached the point in Gatesgarthdale, which lay directly opposite to their ambuscade. Young Græme sprung on his feet, and waved his claymore towards the enemy. The signal was answered by a volley of musketry from the hill; and instantly several horses, without riders, flew through the defile. The elder Græme singled forth the English leader. Sinking on one knee, he raised his musket with deadly certainty, and ere the sound of the death-shot could reach his victim, the white steed that bore him was left unfettered by the rein.

Furious at the loss of their leader, the troopers wheeled their horses round the precipice on which the Græmes and a few of their followers were stationed; and before the remainder of the Highland band could afford succour, the younger Græme, together with several of his clan, had met the death of heroes. The English then dashed forward on their expedition, not caring to continue the battle under the disadvantages of their position.

The Highlanders gathered round their fallen leader, and raised loud lament for the warrior, whose blood was streaming in their view. The old chieftain gazed wildly on his son; and his frame, which seventy winters had not palsied, shook with tremor. The body was laid in an opening on the hill-side, and every clansman brought a fragment of rock, to raise a rude memorial to his chief. On the summit of the pile they placed his bonnet, shield, and claymore, that neither friend nor foe should thereafter pass it with irreverence.

JOSSY WITH WHIPS.
A PARISH CHARACTER.

JOSEPH ROBINSON, better known by the name of "Jossy with Whips," was a well-known character in the parish of Orton in Westmorland. He had his regular rounds, which he constantly travelled; and his accustomed houses, where his never-failing alms was duly received by this self-instituted collector.

Some are still living who can recollect the harmless idiot and all his singular accoutrements. He never appeared without six or eight whips in his hands: a little stick, with a piece of string attached to the end of it, would any time supply honest Joseph with an excellent whip. A piece of an old coat, tied to his body with a hayband, was his usual upper garment; his legs were usually covered with haybands, tier above tier; and a profusion of hemp strings, in his opinion, adorned his person. These simple ornaments were to Joseph as dear and as honourable as the red and blue ribbons which are so anxiously struggled for by his fellows in the higher walks of life. In his hat he wore a fox's brush and peacock feathers, thus aping the fancied splendour of eastern magnificence.

Jossy was a quiet, inoffensive being; and the farmers through all the south of Westmorland would as soon have thought of neglecting any of their just debts, as of refusing the accustomed donation made to him. An out-house was his usual place of lodging; and habit had rendered this so natural to him, that a bed never entered his circumscribed ideas.

After Joseph, like his intelligent fellow-mortals, had been consigned to his "narrow house," a young man, in the parish of Orton, composed the following elegy to his memory:—

EMMA AND SIR EGLAMORE.
A LEGEND OF ULLSWATER.

ABOUT a quarter of a mile from Lyulph's Tower, a hunting seat of the late Duke of Norfolk, on the banks of Ullswater, is a lonely brook, the Airey or Aira, which, at Aira Force, falls over the rocks a height of 80 feet, into a beautiful and deep glen, covered with luxuriant foliage of fern and sweet-scented hawthorns. A picturesque bridge unites the precipitous rocks down which the foaming torrent pursues its ceaseless course.

This beautiful waterfall is the scene of the touching legend of the "Somnambulist," which has been versified by Wordsworth. The tale is, that Emma, a beautiful lady, betrothed to one Sir Eglamore, was walking in her sleep on the banks of the fall; and that her lover, who had unexpectedly returned after a long absence—so long as to have affected her health—was struck with the apparition of the maid, who had become subject to night wanderings. He watched her for some time plucking the twigs from the trees, and casting them into the stream, uncertain whether she were a real object, or a mere phantom of his imagination. He touched her, and, suddenly breaking her slumber, the affrighted maid shrieked, and, starting back, fell down the rocks into the stream below. The knight plunged in after her, and rescued her; but, though consciousness returned for a short period, and she recognised him, she expired within a few minutes upon the bank. The heart-broken knight built a cell upon the edge of the fall, and lived there in solitude for several years, shunning all intercourse with the world.

THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.
A LEGEND OF THE VALE OF ST. JOHN.

IN travelling from Ambleside to Keswick, after passing Wythburn Chapel, the high road winds by the base of Helvellyn and the margin of the Lake of Thirlmere, or Leatheswater, which latter it afterwards leaves by a very steep ascent, exhibiting, in all their grandeur, the Fells of Borrowdale. Arrived at the top of this ascent, a very exquisite landscape presents itself below, extending over the Vale of Legberthwaite; or, more euphoniously and modernly, the Vale of St. John's.

In the midst of this valley is a fantastic pile of rocks, which, from their resemblance to the walls and towers of a dilapidated and time-worn fortress, are known as the Castle Rock. Hutchinson, in his Excursion to the Lakes, describes this singular scene with much poetic feeling. "We now gained the Vale of St. John's," he says, "a very narrow dell, hemmed in by mountains, through which a small brook makes many meanderings, washing little enclosures of grass-ground, which stretch up the rising of the hills. In the widest part of the dale you are struck with the appearance of an ancient ruined castle, which seems to stand upon the summit of a little mount, the mountains around forming an amphitheatre. This massive bulwark shows a front of various towers, and makes an awful, rude, and Gothic appearance, with its lofty turrets and ragged battlements; we traced the galleries, the bending arches, the buttresses. The greatest antiquity stands characterised in its architecture; the inhabitants near it assert it is an antediluvian structure.

"The traveller's curiosity is roused, and he prepares to make a nearer approach, when that curiosity is put upon the rack by his being assured that, if he advances, certain genii who govern the place, by virtue of their supernatural art and necromancy, will strip it of all its beauties, and, by enchantment, transform the magic walls. The vale seems adapted for the habitation of such beings; its gloomy recesses and retirements look like haunts of evil spirits. There was no delusion in the report; we were soon convinced of its truth; for this piece of antiquity, so venerable and noble in its aspect, as we drew near changed its figure and proved no other than a shaken massive pile of rocks, which stand in the midst of this little vale, disunited from the adjoining mountains, and have so much the real form and resemblance of a castle, that they bear the name of the Castle Rocks of St. John."

"The inhabitants to this day," says Mackay, "believe these rocks to be an antediluvian structure, and assert that the traveller, whose curiosity is aroused, will find it impossible to approach them, as the guardian genii of the place transform the walls and battlements into naked rocks when any one draws near." Nothing, in the whole range of mythological fable, could be more beautiful than this popular superstition, which ascribes the disappearance of "the castle," on a near approach, to supernatural agency. Frigid philosophy would say, these fragments of rock, when viewed from afar, bear strong resemblance to an old fortress; but on approaching nearer the illusion vanishes, and they are found to be a shapeless mass of stone. Poetry clothes this fact in beautiful imagery; she warns the intruder to survey the structure at a distance; for should he have the temerity to advance upon it, the incensed genii of the place will, by spells "of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion," transform its fair proportions into a mis-shapen pile of rocks. This pleasing fiction emanated from the same poetical spirit that wrought, in the elder days of Greece, the splendid fable of Aurora, in her saffron-coloured robe, opening the gates of the morning to the chariot of the sun.

The genius of Sir Walter Scott has rendered the beautiful Vale of St. John classic ground, by having selected it for the principal scene of his "Bridal of Triermain." This is purely a tale of chivalry of Arthur's days, when midnight fairies danced the maze; and it is at the fantastic Castle Rock that Sir Walter represents King Arthur's amorous dalliance with its fairy inhabitants in their halls of enchantment, when he was on his way to Carlisle. Our limits will not admit the whole of "The Bridal of Triermain." We give, however, such portions as will sufficiently connect the thread of the narrative, in which it will be observed that Sir Roland de Vaux, the Baron of Tremain, is introduced. This branch of Vaux, with its collateral alliances, is now represented by the family of Braddyl, of Conishead Priory, near Furness Abbey.

THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.