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lower part of the glacier. The deeper parts are more perfectly congealed, and bands of ice show where a partial thaw has been succeeded by a frost. On exposed summits, where the action of the sun is greater, the Snow does not lie so long in a powdery state, the surface becoming completely frozen. This is the case with the highest part of Mont Blanc and the Jungfrau.

penter presses his cornice plane on the wood, or as a potter moulds with a stick his clay, pressed laterally too, with a perpendicular fall of 1500 feet beneath? Nothing that I am acquainted with, save a glacier, which at this day presses and moulds and scores the rocky flanks of its bed, extending to a depth often certainly of hundreds of feet beneath. A torrent, however impetuous, -a river, however gigantic,-a flood, however terrific,could never do this.'

We now approach the most interesting part of our subject erratic blocks or boulder stones. Speaking at present of Switzerland only, these are found in such posi- The glacier of Allalein is remarkable. It crosses the tions, and composed of such materials, as to give room valley with its moraine, damming up the river and for the conjecture, that, in times of which we can but forming a lake. The moraine supplies blocks containing dream, the glaciers were not, as now, confined to Alpine Smaragdite, which are found on all the plains of Switdistricts, but that the valley of the Rhone, the lakes of zerland, and which have no native locality in the Alps Geneva and Neufchâtel, were once vast glaciers, fed by but this. They are brought down by the glacier from the same snows as now feed the smaller ice streams, the inaccessible heights of the Saasgrat, and are usually which so worthily raise our wonder, and bearing with much rounded by attrition, notwithstanding their exthem in their resistless course tokens of their distant cessive hardness. The river passes under the glacier origin. The Jura chain lies nearly parallel to the Alps, which has poured itself against the opposing side of the and upon the slope of its mountains, considerably above valley; the rock is soft, and the glacier has left vertical the lake of Neufchâtel, and just facing the valley of the markings upon it, which were uncovered by its melting. Rhone, lie "extensive deposits of angular blocks of the The head of the valley of Fée is bounded by a vast kind of granite which especially characterizes the eastern glacier, while the village, which is inhabited all the part of the range of Mont Blanc, which is also the year, lies in a beautiful green hollow, amidst meadows nearest point where the rock in question occurs in a and trees, which seem to touch the regions of ice. A natural state." This kind of granite is common in many few years ago, the glacier descended so as to threaten parts of the Alps, but it is certain that no rock ap- the destruction of the higher châlets and trees, and proaching to it in the slightest degree is to be found completely to obstruct the passages to an alp or pasture either in the Jura, or nearer than the part of the Alps between two branches of the glacier which then closed above mentioned, which is about sixty or seventy miles round it. About 1834, the glacier began to retreat, and distant in a straight line. "A great belt of these blocks was, when Mr. Forbes saw it, at a very considerable disoccupies a line extending for miles, at an average height tance from the châlets, which it had almost touched. In of 800 feet above the level of the lake of Neufchâtel, and the whole of the lower part of the valley the rock is above and below that line they diminish in number, scooped out by horizontal grooves, perfectly continuous although not entirely wanting. Many are concealed for some yards or fathoms, like elaborate chiselling. In among the woods; many have been broken up and re- the Val de Bagnes Mr. Forbes observed the difference moved for building and other purposes. The most between the effects of friction by ice and water. "The notable of these masses, called the Pierre a Bot (load-sides of one of the ravines through which the stream stone), lies in a belt of wood, within two miles of Neuf struggles is distinctly marked on its bold limestone surchâtel. It is 50 feet long, 20 wide, and 40 high. It face by the long grooves which show the action of glaciers. cannot be regarded without emotion when we recollect Though the descent is very steep, and the wall of rock that it has been brought by some powerful agent, now almost vertical, these chiselled and polished grooves are only guessed at, from those lofty peaks which are visible worn in a nearly horizontal, slightly declining direction, by their perpetual snows. Upon the side of the Nile and are continuous for many yards or fathoms. Over are hundreds and thousands of these travelled blocks, these, on the very same surface, are the marks of wear, some small and rounded, others angular, without any resulting from the action of floods, probably charged appearance of having been brought thither with violence. with great masses of debris. The water marks are That a glacier extending from the present ice field of rough and confused, quite in contrast with the smooth Mont Blanc to the side of the Jura chain was the agent prolongation of the others. They also slope downwards of the above transportation, is made probable by the at an angle similar to that of the river bed, whilst, as marks of glacier wear and polish which are visible in the has been said, the others are nearly horizontal." narrow gorge through which the Rhone passes at St. Maurice, especially on the rocks which occupy the bottom between the above place and Bex; these marks extend to a great height on the eastern side of the valley, where the polished surfaces of rock are as smooth as a schoolboy's slate, and display an artificial section of all the interior veins. Beyond the defile of Maurice are the "blocks of Mouthey," as they are called, from the village immediately below them. They compose a belt of boulders, poised, as it were, on a mountain side, 500 feet above the alluvial flat through which the Rhone winds. It extends for miles along the mountain side; there are hundreds of blocks of granite, some sixty feet square, fantastically balanced on the angles of one another, while among and around them are the gnarled stems of ancient chestnut trees which have barely room to grow. The greater blocks are often piled on the smaller, leaving deep recesses between.

The valley of the Sallenche likewise shows marks of glacier action: the vertical precipices are "scored by horizontal stripes, or grooves, or fluting, evidently the result of superficial wear. But what could have worn them in this position? Could a current of water, of 1500 feet deep, have borne boulders on its surface which should leave these plain horizontal markings? What could have been moved with a steady pressure as a car

So many accounts have been written by travellers of the difficulties and enjoyments experienced in visiting the glaciers of Chamounie, that it is unnecessary to say anything of the Mer de Glace and its icy tributaries; we will conclude our remarks with Mr. Forbes's account of his perilous passage of the Col d' Erin.

"Our object was now to descend upon the glacier of Zmutt, from which we were separated by a precipice which was blended with the glacier under a snowy sheet, besides which the glacier appeared dangerously crevassed. Praloug (the guide) proposed to attempt descending the cliff, by which he recollected to have passed when he last crossed, and to have successfully reached the glacier below. We began cautiously to descend, for it was an absolute precipice: Praloug first, I following, leaving the other guides to wait about the middle, until we could see whether or not a passage could be effected. The precipice was several hundred feet high. Some bad turns were passed, and I began to hope that no insurmountable difficulty would appear, when Praloug announced that the snow this year had melted so much more completely than on the former occasion, as to cut off all communication with the glacier, for there was a height of at least thirty vertical feet of rocky wall, which we could by no means circumvent. Thus, all was to do over again, and the cliff was re-as

cended. We looked right and left for a more feasible |
spot, but descried none. Having regained the snows
above, we cautiously skirted the precipice, until we
should find a place favourable to the attempt. At length
the rocks became mostly masked under steep snow
slopes, and down one of them, Praloug, with no common
courage, proposed to venture, and put himself at once
in the place of danger. We were now separated by
perhaps but 200 feet from the glacier beneath. The
slope was chiefly of soft deep snow, lying at a high
angle. There was no difficulty in securing our footing
in it, but the danger was of producing an avalanche by
our weight. This, it may be thought, was a small mat-
ter, if we were to alight on the glacier below; but such
a surface of snow upon rock rarely connects with a gla-
cier without a break, and we all knew very well that the
formidable Bergschrund' crevasse, which I had seen
from a distance with my telescope, was open to receive
the avalanche and its charge, if it should take place.
We had no ladder, but a pretty long rope. Praloug was
tied to it. We all held fast on the rope, having planted
ourselves as well as we could on the slope of snow,
and let him down by degrees, to ascertain the nature
and breadth of the crevasse, of which the upper edge
usually overhangs like the roof a cave, dropping icicles.
Were that covering to fail, he might be plunged, and
drag us, into a chasm beneath. He, however, effected
the passage with a coolness which I have never seen sur-
passed, and shouted the intelligence that the chasm had
been choked by previous avalanches, and that we might
pass without danger. He then (having loosened himself
from the rope) proceeded to explore the footing on the
glacier, leaving me and the other two guides to extricate
ourselves. I descended first by the rope, then Biona,
and lastly Fairray, who, being unsupported, did not at
all like the slide, the termination of which it was im-
possible to see from above. We then followed Praloug,
and proceeded with great caution to sound our way down
the upper glacier of Zmutt, which is here sufficiently
steep to be deeply fissured, and which is covered with
perpetual snow, now soft with the heat of the morning
sun. It was a dangerous passage, and required many
wide circuits. But at length we reached, in a slanting
direction, the second terrace or precipice of rock which
separates the upper and lower glacier of Zmutt, and
which terminates in the promontory of Stockni. When
we were fairly on the debris, we stopped to repose. and
to congratulate ourselves on the success of this difficult
passage."

FALL OF THE ROSSBERG.1

I SHALL here give some of the most authentic and interesting circumstances of the fall of the Rossberg, taken from the narrative published at the time by Dr. Zay, of Art, an eye-witness:

"The summer of 1806 had been very rainy; and on the first and second of September it rained incessantly. New crevices were observed in the flank of the mountain; a sort of cracking noise was heard internally; stones started out of the ground; detached fragments of rocks rolled down the mountain. At two o'clock in the afternoon, on the second of September, a large rock became loose, and in falling raised a cloud of black dust. Toward the lower part of the mountain, the ground seemed pressed down from above; and when a stick or a spade was driven in, it moved of itself. A man, who had been digging in his garden, ran away from fright at these extraordinary appearances; soon a fissure, larger than all the others, was observed; insensibly, it increased; springs of water ceased all at once to flow, the pine-trees of the forest absolutely reeled; birds flew away screaming. A few minutes before five o'clock, the symptoms of some mighty catastrophe became still stronger; the whole surface of the mountain seemed to glide down, but so slowly as to afford time to the in

(1) From Simond's Switzerland.

habitants to go away. An old man, who had often predicted some such disaster, was quietly smoking his pipe, when told, by a young man running by, that the mountain was in the act of falling; he rose and looked out, but came into his house again, saying he had time to fill another pipe. The young man, continuing to fly, was thrown down several times, and escaped with difficulty, looking back, he saw the house carried off all at once. Another inhabitant, being alarmed, took two of his children and ran away with them, calling to his wife to follow with the third; but she went in for another, who still remained (Marianne, aged five); just then, Francisca Ulrich, their servant, was crossing the room with this Marianne, whom she held by the hand, and sar her mistress; at that instant, as Francisca afterwards said, "the house appeared to be torn from its founda tion, (it was of wood,) and spun round and round like a teetotum; I was sometimes on my head, and sometimes on my feet, in total darkness, and violently separated from the child." When the motion stopped, she found herself jammed in on all sides, with her head downwards, much bruised, and in extreme pain. She sup posed she was buried alive at a great depth; with much difficulty she disengaged her right hand, and wiped the blood from her eyes. Presently, she heard the faint moans of Marianne, and called her by her name; the child answered that she was on her back, among stones and bushes, which held her fast, but that her hands were free, and that she saw the light, and then something green; she asked whether people would not come soon to take them ont.

Francisca answered that it was the day of judgment, and that no one was left to help them, but that they would be released by death, and be happy in Heaven. They prayed together; at last Francisca's ear was struck by the sound of a bell, which she knew to be that of Stenenberg; then seven o'clock struck in another village, and she began to hope there were still living beings, and endeavoured to comfort the child; the poor little girl was at first clamorous for her supper, but her cries soon became fainter, and at last quite died away. Francisca, still with her head downwards, and sur rounded with damp earth, experienced a sense of cold in her feet almost insupportable; after prodigious efforts, she succeeded in disengaging her legs, and thinks this saved her life. Many hours had passed in this situation, when she again heard the voice of Marianne, who had been asleep, and now renewed her lamentations. In the meantime the unfortunate father, who with much difficulty had saved himself and two chil dren, wandered about till daylight, when he came among the ruins to look for the rest of his family; he soon discovered his wife, by a foot which appeared above ground; she was dead, with a child in her arms. His cries and the noise he made in digging, were heard by Marianne, who called out. She was extricated with a broken thigh, and saying that Francisca was not far off, a further search led to her release also, but in such a state, that her life was despaired of. She was blind for some days, and remained subject to convulsive fits of terror. It appeared that the house, or themselves at least, had been carried down about one thousand five hundred feet from where it stood before.

In another place a child two years old was found unhurt, lying on his straw mattress upon the mud, with out any vestige of the house from which he had been separated. Such a mass of earth and stones rushed at once into the lake of Sowertey, although five miles dis tant, that one end of it was filled up, and a prodigious wave passing completely over the island of Schwanan, seventy feet above the usual level of the water, overwhelmed the opposite shore, and as it returned swept away into the lake many houses with their inhabitants. The chapel of Olten, built of wood, was found half s league from the place it had previously occupied, and many large blocks of stone completely changed their position."

Biographical Sketches of Eminent Painters.

CLAUDE GELEE DE LA LORRAINE. THE name of Claude is ever associated in the mind with the idea of beautiful landscape scenery, glowing skies, brilliant sunset, and soft moonlight. His native place was Chamagne, in La Lorraine, which was formerly a sovereign Duchy, but was afterwards annexed to France.

Claude was born in 1600, and in the early part of his life, during which he served an apprenticeship to the trade of a pastry-cook, he did not give any promise of that surprising genius which afterwards delighted the world.

Claude de la Lorraine was but little indebted to any master, excepting to Agostino Tassi, an eminent Italian painter, and a disciple of Paul Bril, who, though a Fleming, had studied at Rome. Agostino Tassi taught Claude some of the rules of perspective, and the method of preparing his colours.

It required great labour at first to make him comprehend the rudiments of the art, but when he began to understand them, his mind seemed at once to expand, his imagination became lively, and he pursued his studies with ardour and perseve

rance.

He devoted himself to the examination of the beauties and varieties of nature with unwearied assiduity, and for that object he frequently remained in the open fields from sun-rise until evening closed in. He made a practice of sketching whatever he considered beautiful or striking, and be marked in his drawings every curious tinge of light, on all kinds of objects, with a corresponding colour. By these means he perfected his landscapes, and gave them an appearance of reality, which no artist in that style ever equalled. He painted with great care, and spared no pains to render his pictures as true to nature as possible. Claude de la Lorraine was remarkable for the exactness with which he painted in fresco; the distinct species of every tree being easily perceived in his large compositions. One of his works in that manner of painting, was on the four walls of a magnificent saloon at Rome, in the mansion of a nobleman named Mutius. The saloon was very lofty.

On one side the artist represented the ruins of an ancient palace, and an extensive grove of trees; the form, stems, bark, branches and foliage, were beautifully delineated, and the perspective was admirable. The second side of the saloon, which seemed to be a continuation of the same scene, displayed a vast plain, interspersed with mountains and waterfalls, and a variety of trees and plants. Travellers and animals gave additional life to this picture, which appeared to be connected with the third side, on which the lengthened prospect discovered a sea-port at the foot of some high hills, with a view of the ocean, and vessels tossed on the agitated waves. On the fourth wall were caverns among barren rocks, ruins, and fragments of antique statues. This composition, though divided into so many parts, formed one connected prospect, and it has been said that no power of language could sufficiently express the beauty, truth, and variety of it.

Claude did not excel in drawing figures, and usually engaged some eminent artist to paint them

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In the centre is the sea, which extends to the verge of the horizon, and is covered with vessels, barques, and boats, filled with people. On the left, the principal object is part of a vast temple, or public edifice, and there are also mansions of elegant construction, and redoubts for the protection of the merchandize deposited in the warehouses. These buildings extend as far as the pharos at the entrance of the port.

The effect of this picture is charming; the hour is shortly after sun-rise; the sky is clear, the rays of the sun are reflected on the surface of the water, and the rise and fall of the rippling waves could not be more beautifully imitated.

The composition of this interesting picture, in which the figures are by Claude himself, is delightful; every object is represented in its true character, and all parts harmonize with each other. Claude was fond of painting subjects of this nature, and there are some beautiful pictures of a similar description, executed by him, to be seen in the National Gallery in London.

Claude de la Lorraine died at Rome, in 1682, aged eighty-two.

Poetry.

[In Original Poetry, the Name, real or assumed, of the Author, is printed in Small Capitals under the title; in Selections, it is printed in Italics at the end.]

DORA.

WITH farmer Allan at the farm abode
William and Dora. William was his son,
And she his niece. He often look'd at them,
And often thought, " I'll make them man and wife."
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,

And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because
He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day
When Allan call'd his son, and said, " My son,
I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die;
And I have set my heart upon a match:
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter: he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora: take her for your wife;
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,
For many years." But William answer'd short:

"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,

I will not marry Dora." Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:
"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to't;
Consider, William: take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish;

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Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,
And never more darken my doors again."
But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,
And broke away. The more he look'd at her,
The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out, he left his father's house,
And hired himself to work within the fields;
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed
A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.
Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd
His niece, and said: My girl, I love
you well;
But if you speak with him that was my son,
Or change a word with her he calls his wife,
My home is none of yours. My will is law."
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,
"It cannot be my uncle's mind will change!"
And days went on, and there was born a boy
To William; then distresses came on him;
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.
But Dora stored what little she could save,
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know
Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
On William, and in harvest time he died.
Then Dora went to Mary: Mary sat

And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:
"I have obeyed my uncle until now,

And I have sinn'd, for it was all through me
This evil came on William at the first.
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake, the woman that he chose,
And for this orphan, I am come to you.
You know there has not been for these five years
So full a harvest: let me take the boy,
And I will set him in my uncle's eye
Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."
And Dora took the child, and went her way
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
That was unsown, where many poppies grew,
Far off the farmer came into the field
And spied her not; for none of all his men
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
And Dora would have risen and gone to him,
But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
But when the morrow came, she rose and took
The child once more, and sat upon the mound,
And made a little wreath of all the flowers
That grew about, and tied it round his hat,
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field
He spied her, and he left his men at work,
And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?
Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,
And answered softly," This is William's child."
"And did I not," said Allan, " did I not
Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again,
"Do with me as you will, but take the child,
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"
And Allan said, "I see it is a trick
Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy;
But go you hence, and never see me more.'
So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud,
And struggled hard.-The wreath of flowers fell
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands,
And the boy's cry came to her from the field,
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,
Remembering the day when first she came,

And all the things that had been. She bow'd down
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood.
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you;
He says that he will never see me more.”
Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself.
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
And I will beg of him to take thee back;
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William's child, until he grows
Of age to help us."

So the women kiss'd

Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.
The door was off the latch; they peep'd and saw
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,
Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out,
And babbled for the golden sea!, that hung
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
Then they came in: but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her;
And Allan set him down, and Mary said:
"O father!-if you let me call you so-
I never came a-begging for myself,
Or William, or this child; but now I come
For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.
O Sir, when William died, he died at peace
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,
He could not ever rue his marrying me,
I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus.
God bless him!' he said, and may he never know
The troubles I have gone through! Then he turn'd
His face and pass'd-unhappy that I am!
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight
His father's memory; and take Dora back,
And let all this be as it was before."

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