piquant. His very laughter was sufficient to produce mirth-it was so thoroughly happy-so ringing-so fresh from the heart. We reached at last a narrower part of the valley: it might be termed a gorge, so closely was it encompassed by hills, which seemed to have opened only to afford a passage to the waters. Rocks shot up between the trees, and lay scattered in wild confusion around, overgrown with lichens, which mellowed their otherwise harsh colouring. The water, from being constantly hidden from the sun, was of a black appearance. Until now we had been enabled to stand on the pebbly shore, and cast our fly upon the surface, without fear of any opposing branches; but here we could only lean over the huge stones, and cautiously drop our lines on the water many feet beneath, between the numerous bushes which grew in the interstices of the high bank. It was, in fact, a rocky bason; for the river in one part suddenly widened, and, after forming eddies and a whirlpool, rushed tumultuously through a narrow passage between the rocks, and fell over a high ledge, forming a beautiful cascade. It was, indeed, a lonely spot; yet, to the fisherman who was free from fear there was no part of the river so productive of sport, as the country-people never visited it. They had a superstitious horror of what they termed "The Kelpie's Pool,”—a traditionary tale of the olden time having rendered it terrible, as being the abode of a Water-Spirit. My companion was very successful: his basket was almost full, and, elated at his good fortune, he once more dropped the fly on the water. In another moment, his rod bent beneath the weight of a large fish. With the utmost caution, Stanhope allowed his prize to exhaust some portion of its strength on the water, and after a few minutes drew it cautiously from its natural element. But the slight and flexible rod was ill formed to bear the weight of so heavy a fish-for it was a salmon of fine appearance-and instantly it snapped in twain. Yet it was not irretrievably lost-the line having, in the sudden re-action, twisted round an overhanging branch, from which the fish was suspended. Without a moment's hesitation, Stanhope threw down the fragments of his rod, and prepared to descend the bank. It was a perilous attempt. I called to him to desist, but the noise of the water drowned my voice; and though I rushed to the spot to prevent him, he had gained a projecting crag many feet beneath me, when I reached it. Heaven is my witness, my thoughts were not selfish then; but a feeling of horrible insecurity prompted me to twine my arm round the body of a young ash, as I bent over the precipice. At the first glance on the black rocks, the life-blood rushed from my heart, and my tongue clave to my mouth; for I saw that the stone on which he stood was giving way beneath him. His weight had forced it from its resting-place, which the storms of winters had not achieved. For a moment I thought that Stanhope was not aware of his danger, yet I was instantly undeceived. I saw him clasp convulsively some of the tufts of grass which grew near, as he turned and looked upwards. Oh! the change that was visible in his countenance!—the maddening expression of dispair the most acute, of death inevitable! Often have I started from my chair, though this event occurred long since, as fancy presented to my sight that look of agony, and the last piercing cry, which overcame the sound of the waters, to my hearing. That cry was indeed a fearful one, and it was mingled with the splash of numerous fragments of rock in the water: they sank instantly; but he he was borne round several times by the current, and then his body shot over U the ledge of rocks, and was hurried down the waterfall. I have little recollection of what passed afterwards. The unsettled or deranged state of my mind-call it which you please-long prevented my attending to the profession for which I was destined; but though time may have in some measure blunted the poignancy of my sorrow, can it ever banish from my mind the memory of Stanhope? Never! never!-to the last hour of my sojourn here. THE RAINBOW. BY THE LATE MRS. J. COBBOLD, OF IPSWICH. BEHOLD where shines, in gorgeous show Of lucid tints, the painted bow! But trust not to the varying light, Turn where the sun's effulgent blaze Illumes the heav'n with purer rays Rays that, from gloom and midnight, borrow The clearer beams that grace the mind! BY DELTA. YOUNG WILLIAM sickened, and he died When nights were dark, and snows were deep, Soft came the touch of Death,-as soft Five summers blue had o'er his head Amid his playthings as he sate, |