bright. Never, surely, did moss so brightly green as this enwreathe the stem of any tree but of mountain pine; buttercups and daisies are here, which must have been transplanted from Brobdignag;violets, primroses, periwinkles and other treasures, names unknown; large white ray-like flowers, stalkless, and lying close to the ground, as if just plucked and flung there; blossoms and bells of every colour in the rainbow, and tinted as softly, as brightly as though the pencil that tinted them had drawn its colours thence, -oh, for the power to render them immortal! flowers, those only of earth's gifts which fulfil yet more than they promise!

Turn we aside into this narrow, grassy path, down which a white kid is playfully leaping to meet us, and rest we awhile under the tall pine trees. Here is a snug little covert on the very edge of a deep ravine. There is music; what may it be?-what, but the sound, faint yet distinct, of the sheep-bell; how sweetly it comes and recedes with the breeze, rising and swelling on the ear, and anon, dying imperceptibly away; methinks there is something holy in the sound, heard in a solitude like this.-On, on! for day advances; our path is on the ledge of the rock; it is bounded on the right by lofty mountains, rugged and covered at the summit with snow; on our left is the precipice, down which we may scarcely venture to look. Yet let us stand a moment on its edge;-a fog arises, the whole valley is filled with the vapour; it rolls slowly away like a vast curtain unfolding; and what may transcend the beauty of the scene that sleeps in sweet repose, down in the fathomless valley. It is a picture, a miniature picture of a world at rest;

villages scarcely larger than emmets' nests-churches perched like eagles' eyries among the rocks, and the Rhine meandering like a silver thread in the vale. Some there are who would look on this scene with a fanciful eye, and say it was a type of the mists of ignorance and superstition, clearing away from the world, and unfolding, by gentle degrees, the beauty of the earth filled with the knowledge of the Lord.

But we approach the first refuge-a refuge! sweet and appropriate name! for to how many has it not proved a refuge and a respite from the gates of death. It was a blessed impulse that prompted the founders of these lowly edifices; and it is cheering to them, who hear much of the wickedness of this fallen world, silently to mark how Charity wandereth, silverhanded, up and down, ministering to all want, providing for every accident, soothing every sorrow, not even forgetting the tempest-driven wanderer on the Alps. And now the scene becomes wilder, and vegetation assumes a darker aspect; the goats spring playfully from height to height, and ever and anon we pass through a covered archway, cut sometimes through the solid rock, to shelter passengers from the falling avalanche:-methinks I should almost like to see one fall; to stand at a safe distance, and hear the awful silence broken by the only sound that would harmonize with the dreariness of the scene.Aye, it is dreary: countless Alps around; clothed with snow-now assuming a veil of green, of blue, of rose colour, pressing around and weighing one down with a sense of utter insignificance; others afar beyond the precipice, their outline almost lost among the clouds; the vast forms themselves faint

some

and indistinct as the shadow of a thought; even the mountain-gentian, one of the hardiest of nature's favourites, has disappeared. There is not a flower, not a blade of grass to enliven the pathway;-the firs, poor, stunted, miserable objects, are quite leafless; they stand pointing their withered branches to the frowning sky, as if vainly soliciting a beam of the glad sun to warm their sapless shoots into life.-No; vegetation is not quite at an end; there is in some places a dry brown moss on the ground, and now and then we espy a large mass of rock by the road side, covered, as it were, with a garment of pale, bluish green lichens::-Nature loves to ornament even these rude mountain passes. This is the kingdom of silence; and here, more especially, man seems to stand alone with his Maker;-every thing around speaks of eternity, nothing of time!—here, man, with his busy restless fingers, has not been at work; we might fancy ourselves the only living being who ever trod these passes; nothing tells of change or of decay.— The waters have foamed and frothed, the snow has rested on the way-side since time begun;-here, clouds roll on, and the giant forms around us, and the purple masses in the distance, and the snowy peaks, shining dimly afar off, impress us with a sense of our own infinite insignificance,-of the measureless power of Him from whom we derive our being. Yes, it is good to be alone in a scene like this; self, for once, is utterly forgotten;- Eternity is our only thought, and prayer and praise our only language!

72

THE INNocent.

NEARLY twenty years ago there lived at Martigny, a good old pastor whose name was D'Albe. He had come as a messenger of peace and love to this little mountain village, himself in the very prime of life, and well had he fulfilled his part. None knew aught concerning his former life, except that it had been much marked by sorrow; that they guessed from the peculiar pleasure he took in solacing the sorrows of others. His every action seemed to be guided by one motive, that of rendering service to his God by bringing his fellow-creatures to the same holy knowledge, and sweet service to which he had vowed himself. One stormy evening he was sitting in his humble study-alone, for there were none sick or wretched in the village to need his presence; it was a sad anniversary for him; so, after vainly trying to concentrate his thoughts, he shut up the huge silver clasped bible that was open before him, and laying it reverentially aside, he said with a sigh, "I must give up this one evening to the memory of the past, it is impossible to read; let me think of them to whom I must one day go,-alas! they cannot come to me;" then the old man drew nigher to the half expiring embers, and thought of his young and beautiful bride and his fair child, whom he had lost so long ago,-so long that their very names were forgotten, by all beside, but who yet lived in his memory, fair and fresh, and blooming, as though the grave had not closed over them years-long, long years ago.

He was aroused from his reverie by a low tap at his window, and a hurried call," Papa Claude! Papa Claude!" In another moment the good pastor was among them. Two young peasants, returning from a distant village, had passed a fallen avalanche, and fancied, as they passed, that they heard a faint moaning from beneath it. Aware that their own unassisted strength would be as nothing, they redoubled their speed towards the village, and had now come for assistance to him of whom it was never asked in vain. Five minutes had not elapsed before a band of strong mountain youths, well armed with pickaxe and shovel, accompanied by their pastor, were seen swiftly following, along the mountain path, the guidance of the two wanderers. They halted not until they reached the avalanche: then the old pastor took off his cap, and raising his eyes to Him from whom cometh every good thing, reverentially exclaimed, "Thy help, O Lord! we entreat, if it seem good to thee, that we should succeed in this labour, for the sake of Him through whose name alone we dare approach thee!" Long and earnestly they laboured; it would have been thought that each man expected to find some dear relation of his own within the frozen tomb: never once did they halt for breath or for repose, until they heard, or fancied they heard, a low faint moan issue from beneath-one moment of glad pause-one encouraging shout, and the labour recommenced. The avalanche had fallen upon one of those lofty sheds erected on the heights for the accommodation of the shepherds in the summer season; the door of the humble edifice first appeared-they started, and turned pale, the foremost of the labourers, for there,

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