villagers who were at leisure to listen. Not long were they left in doubt. A cry was heard—

"The waters are coming! the torrents have swollen the mountain stream! we shall be lost, lost!"—

And some strained their sight to the utmost, as if eager to meet the coming danger; others threw their arms about in wild dismay; while the women, tender and true to nature, embraced their little ones, and pressed them still more closely to their throbbing hearts:-some among them, without waiting for treasure or thinking of friend, commenced a hasty and fearful march up towards the summit of the mountain, as though their trembling step could outrun the speed of the rushing torrent ;-others chose rather to perish by their own hearth-stones. Rapidly, rapidly the waters came on, gathering strength as they proceeded, and silently, like the spirit of destruction, overwhelming every object that appeared for one moment to obstruct their progress,chalets, trees, flocks, screaming men, and helpless children, were alike swept away.

A small band of villagers had taken refuge in the Pastor's house, and they stood there watching death as it approached them. Suddenly, the love of life, strongest at the last moment, impelled them to fly, to escape, though but for a second, the raging waters. Papa Claude was about to follow, but his steps were arrested. A small hand, strong in its impotence, was laid on his arm, and a clear and firm, though childish voice cried out, "Pray, my father, pray!-What can we do but pray!"-And the child, without loosing her hold, turned round and ascended the steps that

led to the roof. All the fugitives, as though yielding to a supernatural impulse, followed; and there, on the roof of the lowly cottage, with bowed heads and on bended knees, they prayed. The pastor was in the midst of them, and the child Lily kneeled by his side; her countenance, vacant no longer, upturned towards the sky; her dark eyes, beaming with intellect, spoke faith, and hope, and resignation; and her lip, trembling, yet eloquent, spoke as though the treasured petitions of years had been withheld, only to be poured forth now in the hour of extremest need. Suddenly, the beating hearts were stilled in the intensity of dread; the rushing of the waters approached; it passed them by-passed them by in safety, while hundreds of their fellow-villagers were swept off by the streaming torrent! The accent of prayer was changed for that of subdued thanksgiving; the eloquent words of Lily were stayed; her head sunk in the folds of her mantle; she pressed convulsively the hand of Papa Claude; murmured fondly "Thanks, oh, my father!" and sunk powerless in his arms. Every member of the little band arose, with streaming eyes and thankful hearts,-thankful for their own wonderful preservation, but mournful because, in that moment of fearful excitement, the soul f the Innocent had passed away!

More rich than other climes' fertility;

Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced

With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.

INTRODUCTORY LETTER.

BYRON.

Milan.

ITALY, lovely Italy, rich art thou in the external beauty with which thy Creator has endowed thee! It might seem that thy profusion of outward ornament-sun-touched crag- smiling valley-polished city-rainbow-tinted foliage-radiant flowers and abundant fruitage, were enough to satisfy the eye!

It might seem that thy soft luxurious climate

thy sun, calling up all nature to life and light, and imparting some portion of its warmth and brilliance to every living creature, dressing every face in smiles, and sending the blood in quicker circulation through the veins, were enough to satisfy the heart! Yet are all these fair and lovely things among the least of thy endowments, oh thou Eden of this faded and fallen world!

Among thy marble fanes did the spirit of painting in olden days choose his dwelling-place, and though he be now departed, yet do we still meet at every step the lingering traces of his foot-prints. At every step we meet with forms of imperishable beauty, which show us, what human nature in its perfection of loveliness and strength might be. O'er thee the angel of poesy did hang entranced, and stay her rapid flight, while the rich droppings that fell from her ambrosial wings did sink with power to purify and soften on the spirits of thy inhabitants, and straightway were they endued with power to see and to appreciate all holy and beautiful sights and sounds in nature.

Lovely Italy! lovely Italy! what tribute shall they pay, whose great happiness it is to gaze on thee in the sweet spring-time of their own youth, ere yet the desolating storms of passion have visited their hearts with power to blast and to destroy its sweetest impulses; ere yet experience of hope's falsehood and satiety of earthly enjoyment have chilled their first holy enthusiasm; ere yet the toils and cares of earth, the necessity of providing for the morrow, have dimmed their perceptions of the noble and beautiful?

This tribute shall they pay. They shall not conclude their first rapturous day upon thy land without recording thy praise, and adding a floweret, lowly though it be, to the wreath which travellers and poets of all ages and of all lands have twined for thy adornment.

Even while descending the mountains that separate this garden of the earth from the duller world beyond, did we perceive that we were treading a new earth, and breathing a purer atmosphere. Instead of the rugged mountains crowned with snow-the pine-clad precipice the frowning ravine, down which one may not look without a shudder - the desolate refuge - leafless branches, and brown, dry moss, and pale, pale lichen - bare earth and gloomy sky, which had greeted us on our ascent, we beheld rocks richly coloured, red, and purple, and amber, ornamented with moss and shrubs of the most vivid green,― greener, as Emmy observed, than the fairies' dresses. Now, a cascade foaming and frothing; then a simple bridge of Alpine construction. Anon, we entered a long covered passage, whose entrance, formed of rough, shapeless stones, gave it the appearance of a bandit's cave; then we burst out into life and light, and, perhaps, came suddenly upon a pretty white cottage, on a velvet lawn of soft, green grass, with goats skipping about, and peasants dressed, as though just fresh from Arcady, with long, deep, straw baskets buckled on their shoulders. Flowers spring here, brilliant and abundant as though they were the dewdrops of the morning, petrified while yet reflecting the sun's earliest radiance. Even the names of the towns we passed through, Isella,