the visits of tourists, mountain pic-nics, and other similar festivities. When the news arrived of the victory at Waterloo, it was resolved to celebrate the event on the top of Skiddaw. The country round poured forth to the gathering. Old and young, peer and peasant, climbed the ascent; and the huge bonfire of blazing tar-barrels on its summit darkened the skies by its excessive brilliancy. There they prepared the historical dishes of Old England, the wine-cup circulated freely, and with every toast, the report of their cannon was lost in the louder tumult of their vociferous cheering. Large flaming balls of tow and turpentine were sent rolling down the mountain-side, and the calm still night was especially propitious for the revel. An incident has been commemorated, not very poetical, but not on that account the less amusing. On a demand being made for more punch, it was discovered that the kettle had been upset. Water at such a place was not a commodity to be recklessly wasted, and a lady of the party indignantly commenced a vigorous search for the offender. An officious informer revealed that one of the gentlemen had done it, and that he had a red cloak on. Wordsworth had thrown round his shoulders a garment of that colour, belonging to Mrs. Southey. After the accident—for the culprit was no less a man than he—he had mingled with the crowd, and flattered himself the contretemps had been unobserved. But the pride of the purple was his debasement. Miss Barker informed Southey of the discovery, who expertly got his party together, gradually encircled the guilty bard, and suddenly saluted his ears with the following banter, chanted in full chorus: "'Twas you that kicked the kettle down, 'twas you, Sir, you." They all returned safely about midnight, a line of fire from the dripping torches tracing the course of their descent.
At the close of the war, society in England was in a most agitated state. The prodigious sacrifices made by
