am rather getting tired. It seems a long way off, though, yet. Never mind. Courage! Keep the path; don't attempt any short cut, as some seem to do, who have to spend in breath what they save in distance. Go straight onquietly, steadily, that's it." As I neared the summit the last few steps were taken with vigour. I bounded on to the level ground-stood by the side of my companions, who had got there before me--and congratulated them and myself on what we had achieved. The first words of welcome, however, dashed my joy. "This is not the Kulm ;-this is only the Staffelhaus. We have half-an-hour's terrible hard tug before us yet. Yonder is our ultimate destination ;—up there, on that high point to your right. This, indeed, is a point worth gaining. Here, in front, is a noble prospect:-the Lake of Lucerne, Lucerne itself, Mount Pilatus, and many other objects of interest and beauty; - a little earlier you would have seen a sunset that threw over the whole a glow of magnificence. Even now there is something grand in your position; see, far below there, how darkness is creeping along the valleys, while with us the daylight is still lingering. All very fine, but-that's the Rigi Kulm, and we have yet to reach it!" I looked, I fear, somewhat alarmed at the information. The discovery was at once amusing and mortifying; but there was no help for it. I had laid " a flattering unction to my soul," and, as it generally happens in such cases, I had it rubbed off again without ceremony. was offered a horse, but I would not give in. I had resolved to accomplish the journey on foot, and I was determined to do it. Besides, the path appeared to me such, (and such it proved,) that to climb it on foot would be a much less nervous matter, at least to me, than to attempt it on horseback. I struck the alpenstock into the ground, and started on my last stage the distance between the Kulm and the StaffelIt took me, I must confess, more than the pre haus. I THE BENEVOLENCE OF VICTORY. - 315 The ascent of the Rigi, scribed half-hour to accomplish. though really no great matter, is something to one on the shady side of fifty; one who in London, all the year round, cannot afford to walk; whose habits are therefore those of a sedentary man, though he may be often moving about. It was a welcome sight that plain-looking building, perched up there at such a height, as I approached the level on which it stood. The feeling of relief was most exquisite. Every sight was beautiful; every sound music. The air was exhilarating; the prospect magnificent. The guides were all gentlemen; the horses might any of them win the Derby! Every woman was fair; every man heroic! I had walked the Rigi; I had reached the summit-the height of eleven St. Pauls' piled one upon another! I was disposed to be satisfied with everything, and to think well of everybody. It is astonishing how contented-how candid and charitable one becomes in the first flush of success, under the subtle influence of a secret feeling of self-complacency! up -- We retired early, with the understanding that an hour before sunrise a horn would be blown in the passages of the hotel, before the doors of the bed-rooms, to summon us to the sight, (if sight there was to be,) for the sake of which we had pierced the clouds. The window of my chamber looked to the East. Before the horn blew I was fully awake, and instantly rose to look at the morning. There were bright streaks already in the sky-the promise and prophecy of what was to come. I waited for no summons, but dressed and was making my way down-stairs when the horn blew to awake the sleepers. Two other persons were doing the same; but on reaching the door, I took a short cut up the rising ground behind the hotel,-gained the platform erected on its summit, and stood there for a minute or two alone ;-alone in that deep silence, and with such a sight around and before me! The impression of that moment can never be erased by time; it will never be surpassed by any other sight I may ever witness. My recollections of the Rigi all compress themselves into what I felt during that brief solitude. Standing in the centre of that marvellous scene,—having it, as it were, all to myself,-alone with the mysteries of nature, -awaiting a display of the majesty of God! Before us, in the far East, there were the gradually increasing splendours which were heralding the sun; dark overhanging masses of cloud, catching on their skirts the lustrous magnificence; the whole horizon streaked with long lines of deep red, softened by various shades of the same colour, mixed and interwoven with many others. On our right were the high peaks of a line of mountains rising into the sky, covered with snow, visible at first more from the whiteness of the snow than from anything else, a long line of pale, spectral, gigantic ghosts. As the light increased, these mountains became more distinct and defined; they seemed to separate and get more apart; they spread over a larger lateral space, showing that they were not ranged in single file, as they at first seemed in the dim twilight, but constituted a phalanx of immense extent over and between, as well as along, which, the eye passed. On the left hand, over the Lake of Zug, and behind us, over the Lake of Lucerne, far below the top of the mountain, there spread out two great seas of white foam, perfectly still, and yet apparently composed of mighty undulations ;—the spreading clouds thus hung in the air far above the lakes, while we stood on an eminence far above them. This fleecy floor or canopy (for it was both) was not so entire, but that slits and openings were here and there apparent, through which we could see the slumbering waters in the depths below. In that to the west there was an additional feature of interest and beauty;-tops of hills with their fields and houses rose up and penetrated through the clouds, looking like bright SUNRISE. 317 green islets floating in the foam. At first, all this, of course, was but half revealed. One thing after another came into view as we changed our position, and as the dawn advanced. The early darkness and the bright stars added much to the first impression. There was such a solemnity in the scene!a sense of awe came over one; -the great and sublime seemed to stand out in visible embodiment ;- -a feeling of something like fear and dread shadowed the spirit; one's emotions were strangely mixed,painful almost from their nature and intensity, yet inexpressibly pleasurable from their richness and depth. This was especially the case during the few moments in which I was alone; the whole scene, in an instant of time, seemed to be caught by the eye and to impress itself on the heart; I was silent, breathless, excited, subdued;—and none near me to distract or disturb! As the splendour of the sky grew and spread, and the rays of the yet invisible sun kept bending towards and approaching the earth, ever and anon some new and striking effect was produced. At length the tops of the mountains caught the brightness, and were suddenly in a flame, as if touched by a divine hand. The edge of the sun was just seen above the horizon; calmly and slowly he emerged at first; and then, as if by a sudden spring, leaped up and appeared full orbed. The light ran down the mountains on one side; their shadows upwards on the other. Sunrise on the Rigi was over. Its precursors and attendants had passed away. The grand but momentary magnificence was gone. We found ourselves again in ordinary circumstances;-surrounded only by the common light, and the now dull scenery of the common world. T. B. Walworth. 66 REVIEW OF THE MONTH. MR. JUSTICE TALFOURD died on the 13th of March. Whilst charging the Grand Jury at Stafford he was seized with apoplexy and almost instantly expired. His tragedy, Ion," is among the most classical and exquisitely finished of our country's dramatic compositions; and his "Memorials of Charles Lamb" have associated his name with the genial essayist, whom he resembled in tenderness of heart and every kindly quality. He was born at Reading, January 26, 1795. His dramatic taste was first inspired by reading the "Sacred Dramas" of Hannah More; and it is said that he never was able heartily to appreciate Shakspeare. From the book of Daniel we gather that the last king of Babylon was called Belshazzar, and that he perished when the city was taken by the Medo-Persian army. But the name of Belshazzar has disappeared from the page of profane "history altogether, and Berosus, the Chaldee historian, says that Nabonidus was the last king of Babylon, and that, after a disastrous engagement near Borsippa, he ended his days in Carmania. At Um-Queer (Ur of the Chaldees) some clay cylinders have lately been dug up, and from them Colonel Rawlinson has made the interesting discovery that the eldest son of Nabonidus was called Bel-shar-ezar, and that he was admitted by his father to a share of the government. Not only has the lost name of Belshazzar thus been recovered, but we see at once how to reconcile the statements of the sacred and the profane historians. Nothing is more likely than that one of the joint kings was defending the capital |