have

up a horse, and which you love to dance upon in summer-time. Now the water of all these springs is nothing but the rain, and mist, and dew, which has sunk down first through the peaty soil, and then through the gravel and sand, and there has stopped. And why? Because under the gravel and under the sand, there is an entirely different set of beds; and in those beds there is a vein of clay; and through that clay the water cannot get, as you seen yourself, when you dug it out in the field below, to puddle the pond-head, and very good fun you thought it, and a very pretty mess you made of yourself. Well because the water cannot get through this clay, and must go somewhere, it runs out continually along the top of the clay, and as it runs undermines the bank, and brings down sand and gravel continually, for the next shower to wash into the stream below.

Now think for one moment how wonderful it is that the shape of these glens, of which you are so fond, was settled by the particular order in which the gravel and sand and mud were laid down at the bottom of the sea, ages and ages ago. This is what I told you, that the least thing that is done to-day may take effect hundreds and thousands of years hence.

* But I must tell you I think there was a time when this glen was of a very different shape from what it is now; and I dare say, according to your notions, of a much prettier shape. It was once just like one of those Chines which we used to see at Bournemouth. You recollect them? How there was a

narrow gap in the cliff of striped sands and gravels; and out of the mouth of that gap, only a few feet across, there poured down a great slope of mud and sand the shape of half a bun, some wet and some dry, up which we used to scramble and get into the Chine, and call the Chine what it was in the truest sense, Fairyland. You recollect how it was all eaten out into mountain ranges, pinnacles, steep cliffs of white, and yellow, and pink, standing up against the clear blue sky: till we agreed that, putting aside the difference of size, they were as beautiful and grand as any Alps we had ever seen in pictures. And how we saw (for there could be no mistake about it there) that the Chine was being hollowed out by the springs which broke out high up the cliff, and by the rain which wore the sand into furrowed pinnacles and peaks. You recollect the beautiful places, and how, when we looked back down upon them, we saw between the miniature mountain walls the bright blue sea, and heard it murmur on the sands outside. So I verily believe we might have done, if we had stood somewhere at the bottom of this glen thousands of years ago. We should have seen the sea in front of us, or, rather, an arm of the sea; for the ridges opposite, instead of being covered with farms, and woodlands, and purple heath above, would have been steep cliffs of sand and clay, just like those you see at Bournemouth now; and—what would have spoiled somewhat the beauty of the sight-along the shores there would have floated, at least in winter, great blocks and floes of ice, such as you might have seen in the tide-way at King's Lynn

the winter before last, growling and crashing, grubbing and ploughing the sand, and the gravel, and the mud, and sweeping them away into seas towards the North, which are now all fruitful land.

QUESTIONS.-Where do the mist and rain go that fall on the hills and downs? How does the moor end? What do you see at the foot of the bank? Why does the water come out there? What was the glen once like? What was the sea like at the foot of the bank then?

But what could change a beautiful Chine like that at Bournemouth into a wide sloping glen like this, with a wood many acres large in the middle of it?

Well now, think. Suppose the whole coast of Bournemouth were lifted up only twenty or even ten feet higher out of the sea than it is now. The coast of South America has been thus rising for ages. The west coast of Norway is now rising quietly—all that vast range of mountain wall and iron-bound cliff-at the rate of some four feet in a hundred years, without making the least noise or confusion, or even causing an extra ripple on the

sea.

Now, if the mouth of that Chine at Bournemouth was lifted twenty feet out of the sea, one thing would happen, that the high tide would not come up any longer, and wash away the cake of dirt at the entrance, as we saw it do so often. But if the mud stopped there, the mud behind it would come down more slowly, and lodge inside more and more, till the Chine was half filled up, and only the upper part of the cliffs continue to be eaten away, above the level where the springs ran out. So, gradually, the Chine, instead of being deep and narrow, would become broad and shallow; and instead of hollowing itself rapidly after every shower of rain, as you saw the Chine at Bournemouth doing, would hollow itself out slowly, as this glen is doing now. And one thing more would happen,-when the sea ceased to gnaw at the foot of the cliffs outside, and to. carry away every stone and grain of sand which fell from them, the cliffs would very soon cease to be cliffs; the rain and the frost would still crumble them down: but the dirt that fell would lie at their feet, and gradually make a slope of dry land, far out, where the

shallow sea had been; and their tops, instead of being steep as now, would become smooth and rounded; and so at last, instead of two sharp walls of cliff at the Chine's mouth, you might have just what you have here at the mouth of this glen,-long slopes, with sheets of drifted gravel and sand at their feet, stretching down into what was once an icy sea, and is now a valley.

And there is a way of seeing if my guess holds good-that is to look at other valleys-in clay, in chalk, in limestone, in hard rock-and see whether my guess does not hold good about them too; whether all of them, deep or shallow, broad or narrow, rock or earth, may not have been hollowed out by running water. I am sure if you would do this you would find something to amuse you, and something to instruct you, whenever you wish. I know that I do. To me the longest railroad journey, instead of being stupid, is like continually turning over the leaves of a wonderful book, or looking at wonderful pictures of old worlds which were made and unmade thousands of years ago. For I keep looking, not only at the railway cuttings, where the bones of the old worlds are laid bare, but at the surface of the ground; at the plains and downs, banks and knolls, hills and mountains; and continually asking what gave them each its shape; and I will soon teach you to do the same. you do, I tell you fairly the answer will be in almost every case Running water.” Either water running when soft as it usually is: or water running when it is hard-in plain words, moving ice.

When