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experience, wearing a certain solemnity of visage, like one who has trailed his chain out of a dungeon, and basks thoughtfully against the south wall outside.

No matter how he had spent these three days: here he was again, with night above him, the fresh ocean at his feet, the free sky on three sides of him, and the slumberous sound of quiet rest humming from the chambers overhead.

What was the matter with him? Alas! nothing. If there had been, there would have been more hope. He was his own enemy. Still engaged in the life-long cause of Twiller against Twiller, he pressed the suit, though nothing seemed to be advancing but the costs.

He was in bad spirits at this moment. At the best of times Twiller was not of a very buoyant nature. He swam through life low. Swimmers are seen, who cleave their way with shoulders out. With him it was as much as he could do to keep his head above water; and a ripple made him gasp for breath. Besides, he was too fond of looking back. Though he had not passed the time of life in which, with most people, hope still constitutes the guiding and cheering star, yet with him the shadows had begun already to be cast forward. He was learning that the goal of life was not its termination, but its summit. That it stood in the middle of the course, instead of at the end. He felt that that goal had been reached, and passed that his future was behind him. The great dreams of anticipation had gone off in the dust of the road he had toiled over. His greatest pleasures had been enjoyed; his greatest actions performed; his strongest passions felt, and burnt out; and his life-yes, his life, he shiveringly discerned, was on the

wane.

Herein he was right. In the consciousness that it was so, lay the fact. Nevertheless, so far years had to do with it, that there was life enough left in him to restore him to his prime, should other and outward things conspire to bring it about. He was not too old for rejuvenescence; he was only too regretful. That was the habit and temper of his soul. It turned the hairs of his heart white, without fever. Yet since the retro

spective attitude was his choice, there was no arguing about it. It was of no use. The river of his life flowed to ocean-but the sublimation of remembrance was ceaselessly going on. Ever out of the wide and weltering sea, drops that had flowed down long ago would be drawn up under the heaven, wafted back by the first landward breeze, and dropped once more high up amongst the valleys of childhoodto retrace their course down the channel of his life. These drops were

tears.

Poor fellow, this was a circuit that never ceased; it made him a mystery to the million; though, for all the happiness it gave him, his river might as well have run itself out, and have let the clown across.

But, for himself, this second flow of life it was which most sweetly nourished the flowers on its banks. The water had gained a virtue by the alchemy of the elements, and had become an elixir. The further into ocean they had voyaged, and the higher drawn mountainwards before they had fallen, the purer and more potent they seemed to him. He felt, like the rhapsodizing philosopher of the New World, that "the actions and events of childhood and youth are matters of calmest observation. They lie like fair pictures in the air. Not so with our recent actions-with the business which we have now in hand. On this we are quite unable to speculate. Our affections as yet circulate through it. We no more feel or know it, than we feel the feet, or the hand, or the brain of our body.

"The new deed is yet a part of liferemains for a time immersed in our unconscious life. In some contemplative hour it detaches itself from the life like a ripe fruit, to become a thought of the mind. Instantly it is raised, transfigured; the corruptible has put on incorruption. Always now it is an object of beauty."

In proportion as past things grew beautiful, did Twiller like to contemplate them. The moment they attained their butterfly state, he set himself to gaze and chase after them, and trod down many a trim gardenbed thereby.

One advantage this propensity of his proved to him-if advantage it might be called. It enabled him to strike out plots for innumerable

stories. Nobody who does not look much into the past can write stories. It is out of the caves of memory you bring these fossils that look so like life. And so Twiller, on this occasion, unconsciously almost, took his pen, which the increasing light enabled him to use; and commenced a tale, intended obscurely to figure some passages in his own life. It was thus he introduced it :

"No man who feels, can at the time set about recording his feelings. Hence the idea that the poet or novelist is driven to his pen in desperation of heart, survives only in the heated atmosphere of the boarding-school. We know better. He has, indeed, experienced what he describes so vividly; but it is a bygone experience. The picture is drawn from memory-not from a visible original. The colors of the rainbow are had from the sun only after reflection. All the casts we have of passion are taken off after death, though the features may be represented to the life. Over the heart's struggles and agonies the poet may ponder, and reconstruct romance for the amusement or edification of the public. But if the proper angels and demons were alive within him, he dare not evoke them. Whilst they possessed him, they kept him to themselves. They took up their habitation as his tenants, to render account to him alone. They mastered, they racked, they rent him; but he made no sign. The stranger was not to intermeddle with his joy or his sorrow.

Now, let all this have passed by ; let an interval have been interposed; let this restless community have died out one by one, and been buried in the dust of the heart that produced themthen the poet may reproduce them, as

it were; divested of their ferine impa-
tience of the human eye.
He may

look at them himself, and can endure
to shew them to others. Lifeless and
cold indeed they come up the skele-
tons, the anatomy of what hath been.
They are like the impressions of
organisms the fossil traces in the
rock. They rather point to power,
intelligence, and beauty than consti-
tute it. But herein are they distin-
guished from first-hand passion; they
seem to reveal a more mighty struc-
ture, a more magnificent development,
than exists now. They offer grander
forms, vasterdimensions. They speak
of the luxuriance of the tropics-of
the sun of the torrid zone. Thus they
not only affirm that they have been,
but imply that they are not. They
become exposed, massed shapelessly
together, as they have been submer-
ged in the ocean of time, "whose waves
are years," and again, in the vast
cycle of events, upheaved by the con-
vulsions of memory, to the gaze of the
one who will not, and of the thousands
who cannot comprehend them."

"This," thought Twiller, "will never do I wish I could understand why." "Because," said something within him," it is not in reason.'

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Because," said something else, "it is not in rhyme."

"Well, that last defect, at least, is not beyond remedy." And Twiller set himself to work to turn what he had been writing into verse.

This was not quite so easy a matter as he supposed. He made two or three attempts, each departing more widely from the original than the preceding one-and at last produced some desultory lines, linked by no connexion with the first train of thought, beyond that of some geological imagery.

Time! Time! that sweep'st away uprooted years,
With every flower and fruit their vigour bears,
To gulf them in eternity! Rush on!

Split with thy stunning breakers stock and stone,
And gather strength from Ruin! 'Tis decreed.
Rise in thy might; and when with fatal speed
Thy foamy crest comes thundering to the shore,
Burst! Thou wilt whelm a little dust-no more.
There ends thy power.

Henceforth another fate

Clings to the nameless atoms. Mute they wait,
Stored in abysmal caves; in time to come
To rise in glorious continents, a home

Perchance for habitants of heavenly birth,
And steadfast as the heart-strings of old earth.

Thus wrecked, and thus preserved, the immortal soul, Freed from the grovelling body's weak control, Is swept- -nor man nor angel kenneth where. But yet, this particle of heavenly air, When the catastrophe of nature's come, Hath, marked and ordered, its eternal doom;— For what swift mission must its feet be shod, Or whither winged to work the work of God.

By the time this burst of alliteration had been penned, a dew had broken out on Twiller's forehead, which seemed to steep his thoughts as in a pure and holy fountain and when they

next rose, they appeared to him divine as Aphrodite from the wave-" to gulf them in Eternity." Here a branch had struck off to the left. He now followed it.

Gulf of Oblivion! into which doth pour
The cataract of things for evermore,
While from the beetling cliffs, in stony rest,
Hope's symbol flings its visionary crest
In mockery! Say, thou unattempted void,
Will man survive the plunge, and be upbuoyed
For torture or for bliss!

No voices rise

Up from thy gloom, profound of mysteries!
I bend, affrighted, o'er-and hear below
The shoreward surge of multitudinous woe.

Just at this moment Twiller heard a step hastily ascending the stair; and before he could rise from his seat, Hetty the housemaid had burst, half clothed, into the room, exclaiming— "Oh, sir! oh, sir! the back door!"

Now, Twiller's house was situated in a lonely district, and moreover there had been rumours of nocturnal prowlers in the neighborhood, which had so far affected the two female domestics, that, although from mutual disdain and grudge they had at first repudiated the idea of occupying the same bed, they now by common consent accommodated their differences, and garrisoned together a sort of fortress in the safest sleeping-room on the basement story, in which they had thrown up numerous defences in the way of boxes against the door, crockery within the shutters, alarum-bells, and a ghost-proof heap of bed-clothes.

Hence, that Hetty should have made so sudden and decisive a sortie, was evidence of the proximity of a powerful and vigorous enemy. "The back door!" she repeated in a voice scarce articulate with terror-and sunk upon the nearest chair.

Twiller got up, effectually awaken

ed from his poetic trance, and looked his domestic in the face.

This being illegible, he thought it best to descend to the quarter indicated, and examine for himself. Accordingly, down he scrambled, as noiselessly as he could, considering the number of boots, plate-baskets, rocking horses, and sweeping brushes he encountered in the descent. He was closely followed by the trembling domestic, who was at the same moment urging him forward, and cautioning him as to the magnitude of his peril.

Arrived in the pantry, sure enough, there was a violent shaking of the back-door upon its hinges, repeated with renewed vehemence after every ejaculation of Hetty. "The devil!" muttered Twiller, "this is too bad,— who's there?"

A vehement shake.
"I say,
who are you?"
Shake shake.

"Hetty, stand by me, and hand me the poker. We are prepared for you, whoever you are, I'd have you to know. Now then, to open the door."

The bolt was drawn-the latch lifted -the door was opened. Nothing

appeared, on a level with the eye; but, past their legs, brushed in a great tailless cat, and at once planted its unfurnished extremity on the warm slab before the fire grate.

"If it had had even the usual appendage," muttered Twiller, as he fell over the various impediments in reversed succession, in ascending the stairs-"but a docked cat, of all monsters!"

It is surprising how small and contemptible a reality will put to flight whole phalaxes of lofty thoughts.Writing now was out of the question. -To Mephistopheles the charm was dissolved, when the rat gnawed through the pentagram. In Twiller's instance, it was the felis resectus that accomplished it.

But it was as effectual; and accordingly Twiller went to bed.

THE RETREAT OF THE GLACIERS.

A trip to the Alps is now as fashionable as was a journey to London by a Northumbrian three centuries ago. Geneva is about to be connected with Calais or Cologne by a continuous line of railway; and, even now, all who can muster a dozen pounds, and as many days' leave of absence, may have the luxury of plunging into the deep blue waters of the lake of Geneva; of visiting the city of Calvin; of snuffing the breezes from the flanks of Mont Blanc, or of sitting in the presence of the great monarch himself, clothed in his snowy vestments, and rising majestically above his attendant satellites. Oh! one glance of Mont Blanc from the crest of the Jura more than repays the traveller all the trouble it may have cost him. That first glance remains with him for life, and floats before his fancy like some beautiful dream of heaven.

If the sky be propitious, the finest view of Mont Blanc is confessedly that which is obtained on crossing the Jura range from Dijon or Dole to Geneva. From a bend in the road you find yourself fronting the whole range, with the Great Valley of Switzerland intervening at a depth below of two thousand feet; while the precipitous cliffs of lime-stone, rising like the battlements of a fortress amid the dense foliage on either hand, form an admirable foreground to the pano

rama.

From that position you command at one view the Alpine range with an elevation of thirteen thousand feet above the Valley of the Rhone;* and

thus you can trace for many miles its three great zones, stretching in horizontal lines along the flanks; the lowest extending upwards to the limits of the pines, (6,300 feet); the next-that of the Rhododendron, (Rose des Alpes)-reaching to the snow line (7,600), rendered almost black by the nearly transparent whiteness of the region of perpetual snow, which forms the third and highest

zone.

To this region we beg the company of the reader; and if he has not already become familiar with the nature and effects of Glaciers in ancient and modern times, he may find that the subject possesses more of interest and novelty than he anticipates. It is to be regretted that, out of the hundreds who annually visit the Mer de Glace, and other Glaciers of Switzerland, but few are in the least acquainted with their nature, or with the astonishing results they have accomplished in the production of the scenery and characteristic phenomena of the Alps.

There is no Glacier in Savoy which has attracted so large a share of attention as the Mer de Glace, the finest of several streams of ice which debouche into the Vale of Chamounix. It was the Mer de Glace which our countryman, Professor J. Forbes, selected as the site for the elaborate series of observations which enabled him to propound the true theory of Glacier motion. Not the least valuable portion of Professor Forbes's work is the large map of the Mer de Glace, embracing the summit of

Mont Blanc is 15,744 feet, the crest of the Jura about 5,200 feet, above the sea. Travels in the Alps of Savoy.

Mont Blanc, the "Jardin," and part of the Valley of Chamounix, which enables us at a glance to form some just conception of the magnitude of this great Ice-stream; and of the exhaustless reservoirs of snow from which it is fed.

The river-like nature of the Glacier becomes apparent; and the junction of the two tributaries which combined form the Mer, each with its lines of moraines, at once produces the impression-which is the true onethat the Glacier is a river of ice, flowing down, though so slowly as to be imperceptible, from the heights to the plain.

The Mer de Glace is generally viewed and crossed from Montanvert, a chalet 6,242 feet above the sea, at the upper limits of the Pines. From this point you look down at the Glacier, 500 feet below, appearing like a vast torrent which had suddenly become congealed while careering headlong down the gorge. The surface is broken into innumerable wave-like ridges, with their bounding fissures, called crevasses, traversing the sea diagonally in curved lines. Through these fissures the deep blueish-green of the ice may be seen, and you can hear the roar of the torrent below the ice, probably at a depth of several hundred feet. Indeed this roar can easily be heard at a thousand feet above Montanvert. Precipitous cliffs of slate line the chasm on either side, which contracts farther down into nearly half the width of the Mer de Glace at its widest part. This narrow portion is called the Glacier des Bois. At the foot of these cliffs, on either side, are accumulated huge irregular walls, or moraines, formed of blocks carried down from the upper regions by the ice, and left stranded at the sides. Other irregular lines of rock may be observed on the surface of the Glacier itself, stretching away upwards as far as the eye can reach; these are medial moraines, and have their origin in the masses of rock, which every year's 'frost and snow detache from the cliffs, even far above the limit of perpetual snow. Some of these blocks are of huge dimensions-from twenty to thirty feet in diameter-and are generally composed of gneiss, or granite-the rock of which the highest

*

parts of the Mont Blanc range are formed.

The upper part of the Glacier, the Mer de Glace proper, is nearly a mile in width, and is formed by the junction of the Glacier de Lechaud and the Glacier de Tacul. At the angle rises abruptly the majestic Aiguille de Tacul, like the spire of a Gothic cathedral amidst several smaller pinnacles; and the Glacier can be traced some distance from its base till it is lost in the desolate regions of snow beyond.

The surface of the Glacier is covered with gravel and dust, as well as by the moraines already alluded to, which greatly detract from its beauty. The blocks of the moraines are often of astonishing magnitude, and bear testimony to the great transporting power of the Glacier. They are occasionally found in the most fantastic positions; as when they are perched on pedestals of ice, and hence called "Glacier Tables." A tinted litho graph of one of these, seen by himself in 1842, is given by Professor Forbes. During summer the surface of the ice melts with rapidity, especially when under the direct rays of the sun; and when a block or slab screens these rays, the exposed surface beyond its influence gradually sinks, and thus the block becomes apparently elevated on a pillar of ice. Mr. Darwin mentions a glacial table of another kind. On crossing the Andes of Chili, considerably above the snow line, he observed an object which excited his curiosity. On approaching, he found it to be a glacial table; but in this case, the upper part was formed of the carcase of a horse, lying on its back, with the legs stuck up into the air.*

One is not to suppose that the Glacier is formed of snow, for in its texture it is very different from the snows by which it is fed. Its nature is rather that of ice in a viscous or semi-fluid state, in which layers of porous ice alternate with others of a more compact texture, and deep blueish-green color. Professor Forbes has shown that, in its motion, the Glacier obeys the laws which regulate the movements of rivers; that it moves, by virtue of its own gravity,

Journal of the Voyage of the Beagle.

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