dary; but the lake is as distant as before. Can he be deceived? No! for now he descries plainly the lonely rock and the stately palm tree reflected in the waving water. Strange that he cannot reach it; but it flies before him. Alas! it is a delusion! - the shadowy, insubstantial mirage of the desert, that has held out the crystal cup to thousands, and then snatched it suddenly from their eager lips! How sweet is hope! How bitter is disappointment! But can it be? Is it not really water that glistens in the sun yonder, reflecting every object as a mirror, and over which the swift-winged swallows are, even now, skimming to catch their prey? It is only the desert morass, and no water is there to slake the thirst of the sun-scorched traveller. Moab Ammel's heart is sad, as in speechless disappointment he withdraws his eyes from the cruel illusion. Look upwards, Moab ; for from thence alone cometh thy help and thy strength!

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Moab Ammel has anxiety on his sunburnt brow, as the fiery beam burns through the kerchief that but half defends him. The lurid sky is fearful, and the thick, dark haze gathers around like a wall of loose, suffocating sand. A portentous gloom prevails, and the air is horribly hot. How lonely are the mouldered walls yonder,-lonely and sad! There is by the old ruin a basin-like hollow in the arid desert; and dry as it now appears, the stunted and withered aquatic plants set forth the truth that it once contained water. Once !—what, has it none now? Then over the spot the ostrich may pursue her half-winged flight in safety, but the serpent alone can remain and live. The much-enduring camel cannot halt without halting for ever. It is the fiery death-bed of man and beast; for the nearest well is too distant for relief. When Ain-al-furaj Kadinah, (the spring of the old monument,) fails, there is no hope but in heaven! The camels halt as they arrive, and kneel down with their heavy burdens. Their riders' hearts are heavy; for no water and death are one-and the sentence has run through the horror-stricken company. The well is dry! Not a murmur is heard; for hope is extinguished, and every mind is absorbed in gloomy despair.

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Moab Ammel is looking up with thankfulness to the darkened heavens, and "Allah!" is hanging on his lips. A

feeble cry is suddenly raised-a cry of joy and delight that runs through the fainting throng-for rain, grateful, delightful, heart-reviving rain, is falling from the skies. Every face is turned upward, every mouth is open, and skins are spread wide to catch the descending moisture. The dispirited revive-the hopeless take heart-the dying live again. Down comes the unlooked-for blessing, cooling the arid air. Water is poured upon him that is thirsty, and floods upon the dry ground." Had not thirst been first endured, this delight could not thus be enjoyed. The dark African, the swarthy Asiatic, and the fairer European, are all revelling in the descending shower. Truly may one say, help cometh from above-"God is a very present help in trouble," Psalm xlvi. 1.

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Moab Ammel is seated on his dromedary, rolling to and fro a pebble in his mouth to allay his burning thirst. The air is hot and suffocating, and the sunbeam scorching, intense, and all but unendurable. Slowly onward move the toil-enduring, heavy-laden camels. There is no tree affording a friendly shelter! No "shadow of a great rock in a weary land!" Awed by the impressive silence of the motionless desert, and subdued by the relentless heat, the merchant would willingly barter his bales for a group of palm trees to defend his head, or for a cup of water to cool his burning tongue. See! see! the verdurous valley!-the oasis in the desert! Trees, tall trees, are lifting high their broad-leaved heads. Grass and shrubs adorn the ground, where the sound of running streams is heard, mingling with the voice of feathered songsters: "The wilderness and the solitary place are glad, and the desert rejoices and blossoms as the rose!"

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Moab Ammel is striving in vain to repress the speed of his dromedary; for he breaks away, ardent and unrestrainable. The horses are neighing with impatience,-rushing on regardless of their riders. Long has been the march, rugged and toilsome the way, and the heat is insufferable. The water-skins are dry, the plague of thirst is at its height, and the horses and the camels have scented the far-off water. The caravan is in confusion. A new energy has spread through man and beast,-it is rather a charge than a march, to the current that is pouring its streams through the arid

A PHILANTHROPIST.

MICHELE having procured us a carriage from Interlachen, says Dr. W. L. Alexander, we started from Neuhaus about eleven o'clock. An avenue lined with trees conducted us to Unterseen, a genuine Swiss village, with houses built of wood, and covered with red tiled roofs, and an old church whose square tower is surmounted with a roof of the same material. Passing through it, and leaving Interlachen a little to the left, we took the road for Lauterbrunnen. This road is a very good one, and passes through the most enchanting scenery. At first, the country for a mile or so is open, and the road lies through the midst of fertile meadow land; but presently the ravines close upon the traveller, and he pursues the rest of his journey encircled by hills, rocks, and streams. Some of the hills are covered with grass, but the greater part are clothed with pines, or lift up their bare and jagged fronts as if defying vegetation to rest upon them. Frequently the road appears as if utterly blocked up by a projecting precipice meeting a corresponding promontory on the opposite side, and the traveller wonders how he is to get past; and when at length he has wound through the defile, he perhaps finds himself in a long glen which appears closed in on every side, and where roaring streams, and nodding pines, and beetling crags, unite to compose a picture, the wild romance of which makes a prisoner of every sense. Of human habitations along this road, there are few. The ruined castle of Unspunnen, where reigned of yore the grim barons of that name, the lords of the Oberland from the Grimsel to the Gemmi, is pointed out to every traveller as the reputed residence of Byron's Manfred. A few poor looking villages, the inhabitants of which look unhealthy and sad, a chalet here and there picturesquely perched amid the crags, or nestling among the pines, with one or two residences of a superior kind; such are the scanty traces of man's presence in this region of grandeur and beauty.

Among the dwellings which one observes in travelling this road, there is one which I cannot pass without special notice. It is a house situated far up a gently sloping hill at a considerable distance from the road, but easily distinguishable by the cleared space around it, and by its own dazzling whiteness. It

a

is the residence of Dr. Guggenbuhl, young German physician, who has consecrated his property, talents, and energies to a great physical and moral experiment for the benefit of Switzerland, in the way of remedying its worst affliction

that of cretinism. I know not that the history of philanthropy contains a finer passage than is furnished by the benevolent labours of Dr. Guggenbuhl. The narrative of his efforts is briefly this:When he had finished his medical studies in his native country, he set out for a ramble in Switzerland. Here his professional interest was arrested by the new forms of disease which he saw around him, and his benevolent sympathies were deeply moved by the apparently hopeless condition of the miserable sufferers, especially the cretins. His confidence in the resources of his profession, co-operating with his pity, led him to cherish a hope that something might be effected even for these outcasts of humanity; and whilst his mind was in this state, an incident occurred which decided him to embark his all in the attempt. Passing along the road one morning, he saw a poor cretin fall down before an image of the virgin and child, reverently fold her hands, and appear as if offering prayer. Immediately the joyful conviction took possession of his mind, that intellect was not totally extinct in these hapless beings; for even supposing there was nothing in the scene he witnessed but mere imitation, still it was imitation under circumstances which clearly showed the existence of mind in the individual by whom it was performed. Closer observation, however, satisfied him that something more than mere imitation had led that poor female to her knees before the image; and that there really was in her mind a consciousness of reverence and worship. He from this drew the just inference, that if a cretin was capable of being inspired with feelings like these, the case of such was not to be treated as hopeless. At least he determined that the experiment should be fairly tried, whether it were not possible, by taking children afflicted with this calamity at an early age from districts in which it prevails, removing them to a purer and more bracing atmosphere, attending carefully to their diet and their general health, and using such means as experience has shown to be most effective for awakening thought and feeling in dormant natures, that a remedy might be found for this

frightful malady, or at least some mitigation of it effected. No sooner was the design formed than the benevolent young physician hastened to put it into effect. Returning home he sold some property which he possessed, and with the proceeds hastened to Switzerland, where he fitted up the house in which he now dwells. He there collected some children who appeared suitable for his experiment, and shut himself up with them in this secluded retreat, determined to leave nothing untried that skill or observation might suggest as likely to conduce to the success of the experiment. To such devoted and self-denying philanthropy it is impossible to pay too high a meed of praise. It is pleasant to be able to add, that Dr. Guggenbuhl, after several years' experience, has found his scheme productive of the most encouraging results. Though at first ridiculed as a sort of philanthropic fanatic, he has, by the published reports of his institution, and through the testimonies of competent judges who have visited it, compelled toward his experiment the attention both of physicians and economists. Among others who have enthusiastically espoused his cause, is the talented countess HahnHahn, who has written an interesting account of a visit paid by her to his institution. Every right-hearted reader will, I am sure, unite with me in the wish, “May he find his reward in the full realization of his benevolent design!"

APPEARANCES OF NATURE.

JANUARY.

THE striking of that midnight clock brought a solemn truth to the mind of every thinking hearer. It told the departure of another year! As time wings its swift course onward, we often forget its passage, till we have some memento of its flight. A year, with all its vicissitudes, errors, and sins, has passed away, never to return; and the contemplative mind will ponder its lapse with advantage. Few, however, regard it as they should, and in this respect the young are specially culpable. Calculating on a long career, they commonly allow the frivolities of the present to engross their attention, and forget the admonitions of the grey-haired man, who tells them how short-lived is the taper of life, even when it burns for the longest period. Few

anticipate the scenes through which they may yet pass, or even stop to muse on what cannot be recalled. Buoyant hope cheers them on, and throws a constant sunshine on their path, which will be overshadowed by many a dark cloud, that will be felt the more, from being unexpected, and their being unprepared for its coming.

The appearance of the landscape at this season is, to an ordinary eye, anything but prepossessing. December has been styled the gloomiest, and January the severest, month of the year. The days have sensibly lengthened, but, in the words of the old adage, "The cold strengthens.' Often is it a month of abundant snows, and all the intensity of frost, and the biting north wind, whirling from the open fields, pursues its uninterrupted course, and drives to their places of shelter every member of the animal creation. The snow-drift accumulates against every projecting object, figuring the walls and hedges with fantastic shapes. The traveller must take care as he passes the lanes, of ditches and pits, for the snow has filled them, and they are as traps for the unwary, while the heaths and open places are avoided, for there the wind is especially severe.

Meanwhile, under the influence of the wintry air, the fish in the ponds perish in great numbers, and sometimes they may be observed firmly embedded in the ice, their bright and silvery sides being distinguishable through its transparency. On some occasions, fishes thus frozen up, and apparently dead, have been restored to animation on being gradually thawed. The little birds are hopping, with halferected feathers, on the door-sills, seeking at the hands of man the food they cannot obtain from the usual sources. The gamekeeper is on the alert, for the snow betrays the footsteps of every moving creature, and advantage is taken to preserve game, while thousands of badgers, polecats, weasels, stoats, rats, and other vermin, are traced to their haunts, and destroyed. The poacher, too, pursues his illegal and dangerous plans with success, particularly on moonlight nights. Partridges, nestled in the stubble, pheasants perched on the boughs of trees, and hares driven for food to the gardens, fall victims to his gun and snare, while larks, wood-pigeons, and other members of the feathered race, are slaughtered without intermission. In towns, the lad just escaped from school shoulders his gun, and

thinks himself a sportsman, marching forth for the destruction of redwings, finches, sparrows, and even redbreasts, though his prey is probably small in amount. Pedestrians, who value their persons, keep at a distance from all hedges; for many a wound has been received by man, intended for the members of the feathered race, while many a cow, horse, or sheep, has been suddenly injured by a stray shot. The younger schoolboy, also, is bent on the capture of a share of the spoil, and sets his trap, made of four bricks and three pegs, or with a sieve, a stick, and a string drawn through a window or a keyhole, ready for anything that comes.

How that kite hovers over the farmyard, whetting his back on the keen air in "heaven's high arc." Down he comes into the midst of the poultry, seizing, perhaps, a fine hen, and flying down the wind with his screaming prey. That fowler, too, with his nets, has taken a lark. Poor bird! never again will it rise and take flight in the boundless air; it is destined to a narrow cage, and a turf, not so wide as its wings. Yonder a sportsman endeavours to approach that flock of larks, which has just flown away from the nets-he is perplexed by a whirling snipe just out of gun-shot. Watch that sparrow-hawk pursuing a fieldfare. Look, he is above his object; he hovers he stoops. But that gun has brought the bird to the ground, and the hawk, altering its course, flies off from so dangerous a neighbourhood, scared at the sight, to pursue his prey in other directions.

Nor are the birds safe during the night, for if they escape the net placed over the side of the stack in which they have found shelter, they are roused from their slumbers in hedges and copses by the beating of trees and bushes, while the dazzling light of a torch appears, and flying instinctively towards the flame, they are struck down and secured. This plan is adopted in some countries, and great numbers of game, besides thrushes, blackbirds, and innumerable small birds, reward the trouble of the catchers. This mode is denominated "bird-moping." With so many enemies to effect their destruction, may it not appear wonderful that the race is not extirpated; but there is one seated on the circle of the earth, who preserves them within the bounds that are most desirable.

Another remarkable fact may here be

noticed. It is a law of nature that bodies shall expand under the influence of heat, and contract under that of cold. When, therefore, heat is applied to the bottom of a vessel containing water, the particles become enlarged, and rise to the surface, while others take their place, and undergo the same process, till the whole has acquired a boiling heat. In cooling, the opposite of this occurs: the particles, as they decrease in temperature, by contact with the air, and also lessening in bulk, sink; others occupy the vacated place, till the whole body has acquired a lower temperature. If, however, this were the law which governed every movement in nature, most serious consequences would result. As for example, if the particles of water on the surface of the river became cooled and frozen, they would sink to the bottom, a bed of ice would be formed at the bed of the river, gradually accumulating, till the whole became a solid mass of the consistency of rock, and the ocean would be rendered inaccessible. Nor would the heat of the summer be sufficient to reduce it again to a fluid condition, because the heated particles, being the lightest, would constantly float at the top, and the warmth could only be diffused, as it is in solids, by conduction. Experiments have proved this, for water has been made to boil by the application of heat to a vessel partly filled with ice, without thawing the congealed body below. The benignant modification of the law now appears in all its beauty. When water has cooled to forty degrees, instead of continuing to contract, it suddenly begins to expand, and proceeds in this new course till it reaches thirty-two degrees, when it becomes ice. The ice, therefore, being lightest, occupies the surface, protecting the waters below from the cold, while it is itself exposed to the earliest influence which finer weather exerts.

"What can be more delicately beautiful," says a well-known writer, "than the spectacle which sometimes salutes the eye at the breakfast-room window, occasioned by the hoar-frost dew? If a jeweller had come to dress every plant over night, to surprise an eastern sultan, he could not produce anything like the

pearly drops,' or the 'silvery plumage.' An ordinary bed of greens, to those who are not at the mercy of their own vulgar associations, will sometimes look like crisp and corrugated emerald, powdered with diamonds."