Homely Tragedy. 259 



three thousand feet above sea level upon the 

 topmost jag of the mighty Helvellyn ! 



The grandeur of a mountain is always en- 

 hanced by a storm ; and as by the wave of 

 a wizard's wand the sun is suddenly shut out 

 by black, inky clouds. A couple of ominous 

 ravens rise slowly uttering a dismal croak, croak, 

 croak ; and a merlin rushes past on the wings of 

 the storm. Mists gather, roll up the mountain- 

 side, and far-off mutterings are heard in the 

 hills. As a cold plash strikes the face, we 

 seek a cairn, drawing closer our wraps. Sud- 

 denly the storm bursts. In a moment we are 

 soaked with blinding mist and chilled to the 

 marrow. The storm lashes itself to a fury, and 

 for a moment the grandeur is terrible and fasci- 

 nating. It spends itself, passes as quickly as it 

 came, and a glorious transformation is at hand. 



Quivering lines of light shoot from the 

 heavens, the sun bursts in all its strength, and 

 Nature is a flood of dripping gold. The gauzy 

 vapours disperse, and every grass-blade is draped 

 and glowing with resplendent gems. A blue, 

 foam-flushed sky displaces the sullen clouds, 

 and the storm miracle is complete. Then we 

 emerge from the dripping cairn to look abroad. 

 That far, silvery streak, lying shimmering and 

 blue, is Windermere. Directly south Esthwaite 

 Water, whilst Coniston, with its pine-clad slopes, 

 lies to the west. Ulleswater is at our feet, and 



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