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this direction, may, it is said, behold sights out of the ordinary reach of mortals. A black hunter, followed by a pack of grim and fierce-looking dogs, and mounted on a fiery charger, sweeps with the speed of lightning over the mountains, and through the forests of pines; his horn sounds, every now and then, shrill and loud, like the wind whistling through a fissure in a rock. He circles over rock and ravine, through the Gorge d'Enfer, along the Marais de la Dore—now seen, now lost—till the whole cortège reach the Pic du Capucin. Then begins the chace in earnest.

The rock which bears the monk's form detaches itself entirely from the mountain, and in an instant the figure darts away through the pine forest, followed by the black huntsman and his pack. They are seen again at the Pont des Eaux, when another spectre joins them, in a nun's dress, and the pursuit grows hotter and hotter. Again they appear in the Ravin des Egravats and mount the Roc de Cuzeau, where shrieks and cries and howlings join the roar of the waters of the Great Cascade, as it casts itself foaming over the huge mass of rock.

A veil appears suddenly drawn over the whole, the sounds die away in the distance, vapours of fantastic forms curl up from the valleys; but when the sun bursts through its mantle of clouds and dissipates all these phantoms, the Capucin is seen in its accustomed place, and the waters are leaping over their rainbow into the valley de la Cour.

"Don't go to market to-day, mother—pray don't! Look at the sky! it's as black as a coal! and the wind's enough to blow you off the horse—I'm sure there's a great fall of snow coming. Never mind the market. Don't go, mother!—you'll be frozen to death. Don't go!"

These words were addressed, one morning in February, by a girl about sixteen years of age to her parent, a widow who rented a small farm a few miles from Wells, in Somersetshire, and whose means for the subsistence of herself and family were derived chiefly from the sale of dairy produce at the market town. Hearing this appeal from her daughter, the good woman, who had wrapped herself up in her travelling dress, and drawn the hood of her warm red cloak over her head, seemed irresolute whether to proceed or stay at home. At length, however, she said—

"No, Agnes, I must go. The panniers are packed; old Tartar, ready saddled, stands at the door: besides, Sir Richard's steward will be here to-morrow, for the quarter's rent. You know what he said the last time he called. I must go, dear Agnes; the steward is more to be feared than the weather."

The poor girl said no more; but she looked beseechingly into her mother's face.

It was not alone by Agnes that a dismal apprehension, induced by the lowering and menacing state of the sky, was felt. Another of the widow's children, a youth, two years younger than his sister, was equally anxious. At the moment we have just idicated, he was holding Tartar in the yard, ready to assist his mother into the saddle. As the house-door stood open, he heard what had passed between Agnes

1. ↑ Founded on the accident which happened, in the winter of 1799, to Elizabeth Woodcock. The principal circumstance, marvellous as it may appear, is perfectly well authenticated.