QUARTET.

Time, in his mantle's sunniest fold,
Uplifted in his arms the child;
And, while the fearless infant smiled,
Her happier destiny foretold :-
'Infancy, by wisdom mild,

Trained to health and artless beauty.
Youth, by pleasure unbeguiled

From the lore of lofty duty.
Womanhood, in pure renown,
Seated on her lineal throne,
Leaves of myrtle in her crown,
Fresh with lustre all their own.
Love, the treasure worth possessing,
More than all the world beside:
This shall be her choicest blessing,
Oft to royal hearts denied.'

This designed for lyric poetry! All of it, too, untrue
in fact, seeing that Queen Victoria was not born to a
certain expectation of the throne, and that therefore no
joyful cry whatever ran through the land on account of
her advent into the world. Criticism on the quartet
part is forbidden by decorum; but we hope that the
Queen knows how to estimate expressions which would
be equally bestowed by a court poet on any person
whatever occupying her place. The best, however, is
now to come. We are next called upon either to be-
lieve as fact, or to regard as a pleasant poetical fancy,
that at some indefinite time in the Queen's infancy,
called 'that eve,' the following supernatural occurrences
took place :-

RECIT. (ACCOMPANIED)-BASS.

That eve the star of Brunswick shone
With steadfast ray benign

On Gotha's ducal roof, and on
The softly flowing Leine:

Nor failed to gild the spires of Bonn,
And glittered on the Rhine.

Old Camus, too, on that prophetic night,
Was conscious of the ray;

And his willows whispered in its light,

Not to the zephyr's sway,

But with a Delphic life, in sight

Of this auspicious day.

CHORUS.

This day, when Granta hails her chosen lord,
And proud of her award,
Confiding in the star serene,

Welcomes the consort of a happy queen.

From some recollections of Milton's Lycidas, we presume that Old Camus is the genius of the river Cam, a gentleman who speaks by his willows; thus, like the duke, finding tongues in trees, though, it would appear, not very truthful ones, since Granta could scarcely be considered as proud of an award in which her mind was very nearly as much for no as yes. Could some power but give us a correct return of the various motives which went to make up the majority that chose the Prince, oh William Wordsworth! what a comment we should have upon Granta's confidence in star serene.' Let us hear, however, what farther these willows of Old Camus have to say-

the

AIR-CONTRALTO.

Prince, to these collegiate bowers,

Where science, leagued with holier truth,
Guards the sacred heart of youth,
Solemn monitors are ours.

These reverend aisles, these hallowed towers,
Raised by many a hand august,
Are haunted by majestic powers,
The memories of the wise and just,
Who, faithful to a pious trust,
Here, in the founder's spirit sought
To mould and stamp the ore of thought,
In that bold form and impress high
That best betoken patriot loyalty.

Not in vain those sages taught-
True disciples, good as great,

Have pondered here their country's weal,
Weighed the future by the past,
Learned how social frames may last,

And how a land may rule its fate,
By constancy inviolate,

Though worlds to their foundations reel,
The sport of factious hate or godless zeal.

For comment on this we are content to wait for the university commission, that cannot be much longer delayed. Now for a crash of sentiment to bring out all the musical powers of the affair—

AIR-BASS.

Albert, in thy race we cherish

A nation's strength that will not perish
While England's sceptered line

True to the King of Kings is found;
Like that wise* ancestor of thine

Who threw the Saxon shield o'er Luther's life,
When first above the yells of bigot strife

The trumpet of the Living Word
Assumed a voice of deep portentous sound,
From gladdened Elbe to startled Tiber heard.

CHORUS.

What shield more sublime

E'er was blazoned or sung?
And the Prince whom we greet
From its hero is sprung.

Resound, resound the strain,
That hails him for our own!
Again, again, and yet again,

For the Church, the State, the Throne!
And that presence fair and bright,
Ever blest wherever seen,

Who deigns to grace our festal rite,

The Pride of the Islands, Victoria the Queen!

And so it closes, without one poetical thought or happy expression from beginning to end, much less with a single gleam of healthy, natural, sincere sentiment-the whole a piece of the merest crambo, scarcely worthy of hoarse Fitzgerald, and certainly much less likely to have met with success in a tavern hall, had it been there spouted, than were the ordinary creaking couplets of that hero. What on earth can have induced the poet of the lakes to consent to the degradation of writing such a poem!

ASCENT OF THE BUET.

IF the Alpine tourist be possessed of tolerable activity,
and be desirous to obtain an unequalled mountain view
-and, more particularly, a view of the monarch of
mountains, Mont Blanc, sublimely seated in his awful
state-let him, the tourist, if he be within any moderate
distance of the mountain, by no means omit to ascend
the Buet; for many years, until English perseverance
highest accessible point of the Alps.
and activity proved the contrary, supposed to be the

with my guide, Ferdinand Tissay, each mounted on a
It was on the 24th of July 1844 that I left Chamouny,
mule, at half-past three in the morning, on our way to
the Buet. At half-past four we reached Argentiere;
and here I could not help stopping for several minutes
to admire, though I had many times seen it before, the
wonderful ice-battlemented glacier of Argentiere, and
the sublime granite spire of the Aiguille Verte, now
tinged with the earliest beams of the sun, which, for
peaks of such stupendous elevation, had already risen.
At half-past five, we stopped for a short time at the
Chalets of Poyat; after which we took the direction of
the Col du Bérard. Our way at first lay over a stony
and rather boggy ascent; and afterwards up an exceed-
ingly wild and picturesque valley, with a loud torrent
foaming as usual through it. Here the path became
so exceedingly rough and steep, that I confess I was
not sorry to leave the mules before we came to the
Pierre de Bérard, which we were obliged to do, in
consequence of our finding so much yet unmelted win-
ter's snow. We left our mules with a youth who had
preceded us on foot from Chamouny, and began our own
journey on foot at half-past six, passing over a bed of
snow, with a torrent audibly running underneath, for
half an hour or more. At a quarter past seven we
reached the Pierre de Bérard, a point beyond which
mules never pass. Travellers have frequently made the
Pierre de Bérard their halting-place for the night; and
indeed there is a hollow under this rock large enough

* Frederic the Wise, Elector of Saxony.

to shelter several people; and an additional poor pro- impression of stillness shall never forget. Close on tection is afforded by a rough wall of stones to keep out the edge of the highest point of the mountain, where the wind. But it is needless to add that bivouacs in the precipice suddenly sinks down with frightful rapi. such places, though no doubt highly romantic, should for dity, and to which we scarcely dared approach, for fear obvious reasons be avoided, unless in cases of extreme of dislodging a mass of the soft snow, we saw the track necessity. For, after all, even for beggars or thieves,' of a chamois, that must have very lately passed. I a worse lodging could scarcely be found. I am always, observed several insects half dead lying on the snow I confess, for a good night's rest; and am apt to suspect during our ascent; and whilst we stood on the summit the energy and perseverance of those who affect to de--oh, satire on human ambition!-several common butspise conveniences. The hovel, formed in this desolate terflies flew over our heads. spot almost wholly by nature, was very damp and dirty, and contained a large patch of snow, yet remaining from the blasts and drifts of the winter. At this spot we first obtained a sight of the Oberland Alps, and from hence our way, though steep, was for a time free from snow. The weather was quite perfect; not a cloud was visible; the sky was clear of haze, and the air mild, yet not close. This pass of Bérard is one of those better known to shepherds and smugglers than to any other description of travellers.

At a quarter past eight we had of course gained somewhat in height; but we nevertheless saw cattle passing the snow, one by one, at a great height above us, and in a few minutes more we again entered on the snow. At a quarter before nine we caught sight of Mont Blanc appearing over the range of the Aiguilles Rouges. At twenty minutes past nine we attained a rough slaty ridge, quite free from snow; in fact the ridge of the pass. From hence we had a wonderful view of mountain-tops in all directions. It was not cold, but the sky now put on the appearance of the weather being about to change for the worse. Every peak, however, even the most distant, was quite clear; nor was there the slightest cloud or haze upon any part of Mont Blanc. From this pass we might have descended directly to Servoz; but our purpose was of a much more aspiring nature. After pausing a few minutes, we commenced and completed a fatiguing ascent of the now eternal snow, which was succeeded by a heart-breaking slope of bare slaty débris, occupying us together till forty minutes after ten o'clock. Again another slope of snow succeeded, and again another ascent of slaty fragments, which brought us, at a quarter past eleven, to the remains of the stone hovel of the philosopher Pictet, in which he used to take shelter when overtaken by bad weather in this elevated desert. One more short slaty ridge, and a steep slope of soft snow, brought us to the summit of the Buet, 10,154 English feet, according to De Saussure, above the level of the sea, at half-past eleven, after a fatiguing walk of five hours from the place where we left the mules, and eight hours exactly from Chamouny. The sun at half-past eleven was exactly over the Aiguille du Midi, as seen from hence. From this fine mountainsummit we looked clear away over the summit of the Brever, and of the Aiguilles Rouges (which we had so often looked up to from Chamouny), to Mont Blanc, and his attendant Aiguilles in all their glory. Mont Blanc, seen from this height, and at this distance, towered in kingly state over all his vassals. There were some clouds about, but none to impede the view; nor was there a breath of wind. The air, too, was quite mild; but my feet now became excessively cold, from my having been so long walking in the soft snow. The mountain summits visible from hence are so numerous, that to mention them all would be to make a catalogue of a considerable portion of the Alps. Beyond the range of Mont Blanc, towards the west, far in the Taxentaise, I saw very many undulating snowy summits, with a light thrown over them that gave them the appearance of the coloured waves seen in a surface of mother-ofpearl; in another direction, through a mountain gap, we got a peep of the Lake of Geneva. The Jura range, on the other side of the lake, was very distinct; so were the summits of the Oberland Alps, and all the heights quite round towards the Simplon. We were here, although the air was perfectly calm, at a height to which the voice of the torrent did not reach; and the

The view from the summit of the Buet reminds one forcibly of one of the old-fashioned maps of all the mountains in the world at one view. In a word, it is the most unpicturesque thing possible, but possessing a grandeur and sublimity peculiar to itself, which, once seen, is never through life forgotten.

We could not remain on the actual summit for any length of time, for the snow was so soft, that we could not sit down, and no dry rock was visible, and my feet were aching excessively with the cold of the wet snow; so we descended to some dry rocks a little way down, where we changed our stockings, and got quite warm, and enjoyed the luncheon we brought with us very much. We remained here until one o'clock. Neither on the summit, nor during the ascent, did either I or my guide experience any inconvenience from the rarity of the air. During the ascent, I twice heard that peculiar solemn noise, difficult to describe, something between a deep sigh and a lourd, heavy, sullen, subdued sound of an explosion, which no doubt is frequently to be heard in these upper regions. It is probably occasioned by some slip or giving way of the snow under the influence of the mid-day sun. Beneath the snowcliffs, my guide pointed out to me a place which, he told me, was that in which, in the year 1800, Mr Eschen, a Dane, lost his life. In the spot which he pointed out, the snow appeared deeply crevassed; and to the most unpractised eye, it was evidently not the way up the mountain. It was hard to believe that any one would have ventured into such a place.

་

I have already mentioned the stone hovel on the summit of the Buet, erected for the accommodation of the philosopher Pictet. I believe he made on this spot many observations with the barometer, as well as experiments on heat and radiation; the Buet is also alluded to by name, in a paper by him in the English Philosophical Transactions,' concerning the measurement of an arch of the meridian, dated 1791.

The steep and fatiguing slopes of slaty débris which I have mentioned before, are enriched with some of the rarest of the Alpine plants.

In descending, we glissaded the greater part of the slopes of snow; but where we kept the track of our ascent, I was surprised to find that our footsteps, though very deeply impressed, were almost entirely effaced by the action of the sun. Our descent was very rapid, and varied with frequent falls; the ensuing glissading of which may, without care, be carried far beyond a joke. So overpowering was the glare from the snow on the Buet, that I did not find a large goggling pair of green spectacles, together with a thick black crape veil, more protection to the eyes than was necessary.

We finally reached the spot where we had left our mules, below the Pierre de Bérard, at a quarter before three o'clock; that is, in an hour and three-quarters from the summit of the mountain, it having taken us five hours to ascend the same distance. I continued my way on foot, leaving the guide and mules to follow all the way down, and had now ample leisure to admire the scenery of the valley we had ridden up in the morning, which presents one of the wildest and most thoroughly picturesque scenes I ever beheld. Some of the rock and water scenes are scarcely to be exceeded for beauty and grandeur. No one should omit, if possible, during a séjour at Chamouny, an excursion as far at least as the Pierre de Bérard.

We arrived at the Chalets de Poyat at four o'clock, and I got back to Chamouny on my mule at a quarter

before six. Thus the expedition from Chamouny to the summit of the Buet, and back, occupies just about fifteen hours.

THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF LEIGH HUNT. [From the Manchester Examiner."]

Or all living English writers, there is not one towards whom there exists a more general feeling of kindliness and gratitude than Leigh Hunt. This friendly gratitude has arisen from the peculiar characteristics of his writings from their sympathy and genuine cordiality-their cheerful, hopeful tone-in short, their fulness to overflowing with that spirit which is best expressed by the beautiful but neglected old English word loving-kindness.' We know of no writer who has done more to make hearths and homes happy by peopling them with pleasant thoughts; for he quickens us into a livelier consciousness of our blessings, and communicates to our ordinary duties, and the simple objects of our daily wayside walk, a freshness and interest which it becomes a kind of grateful duty to him to acknowledge.

The tendency of all that Leigh Hunt has written is to cheerfulise existence. He reconciles us to ourselves, draws off our minds from remote visions of some future possible good, or painful remembrances of the past, and fixes our attention upon the actual blessings and privileges about us. He is one of the best teachers we know of that kind of contentment and gratitude which arises from a thankful recognition of those minor joys by which all of us are more or less surrounded, and to the value of which most of us are by far too insensible. And then with what a delicate and fine touch he pierces our selfishness! In what a kindly way he convinces us of our uncharitableness, and puts to rout our self-indulgent fallacies! With what a jovial hilarity he banters us out of our moroseness, and laughs at our ill-humour, until at last we are ashamed of our weakness, and determine to be wiser and better for the future! We never rose from a few hours' perusal of any of his charming books, without a sense of obligation to him for stimulating to a desire of generous activity those sympathies which habit and daily contact too often render languid and inert. Everything that comes from his pen is refreshing, and full of good-will to all the world. A belief in good, the recognition of universal beauty, and a brotherly consideration for mistake and circumstance,' will be found pervading every essay he has written. To minds disturbed, or set on edge by crosses and disappointments, we know of no more effectual soother than a course' of Leigh Hunt. His own buoyant spirit is a fine example of the impossibility of crushing the heart of a true man, be his misfortunes and hardships ever so severe; and no man has suffered the rubs of fortune more bravely than he has done. A popular writer once spoke of him as 'the gray-headed boy whose heart can never grow old.' Those who are familiar with his writings will recognise the truthfulness of this remark, and remember how this perpetual youthfulness of feeling shows itself, in a thousand different ways, throughout all his works.

Another winning peculiarity of Leigh Hunt's writings is their frank, friendly, conversational tone-the pleasantlyegotistical and almost confidential manner in which he tells us every now and then of his own private notions and sentiments so that we begin to fancy he is addressing ourselves in particular, and not his readers in general. There is such an easy, fireside-way about him, that it is like talking with an old intimate friend. He runs on from one theme to another with the most sprightly exuberance-now discussing with hearty sympathy the merits of Chaucer or Spenser, or some other old poet, and pointing out to us the beauty and true meaning of a favourite passage-now bringing out the sentiment of an ancient classical story, or dwelling upon his first impressions of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments then, perhaps, entering into a curious speculation regarding persons one would wish to have seen,' Shakspeare, for instance, or Petrarch, or Mahomet, or Cromwell, or Sir Philip Sydney-or, in a more gossiping vein, relating some characteristic anecdote of Cowley, or Pope, or Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, or Colley Cibber, or Mrs Centlivre; or reporting snatches of racy court scandal from the diary of Samuel Pepys. Then he will get into a philosophical humour, and discourse of the slow rise of the most rational opinions,' and quote wise and stately sentences from Lord Bacon's 'Essays' or Milton's 'Areopagitica.' On another occasion he comes to us when he is running over with news of the fields

Or it

and the woods, and can speak of nothing but May-day, and
May-poles, and the young spring flowers. He will give an
hour's description of the pleasures of breakfasting in the
country on a fine summer morning, with open window look-
ing out upon a bright green lawn, with the air breathing in
fresh and balmy, the sunlight streaming through the foliage,
and casting its chequering shadows upon the favourite books
and pictures with which the parlour walls are adorned;
upon the table a few pansies freshly plucked, contrasting
well with the snow-white cloth; and a bee humming about
from cup to cup, seeking to partake of the honey which she
herself probably assisted to furnish. At another time, per-
haps, when some calamity has overtaken you, and affliction
lies heavy upon a household, he comes in the guise of an
old and tried friend of the family, with all a friend's privi-
leges; and sits by your hearth, and suggests many a tender
manner has more than its usual kindness; his voice sounds
and solemn thought about death and immortality. His
gravely, yet there is almost cheerfulness in its tone when
he says that the best part of what you loved still re-
mains, an indestructible possession-that although the
visible form be taken away, yet that was only lent for a
season, whereas the love itself is immortal, and the con-
sciousness of it will ever abide to strengthen your faith,
and soothe you amid the stir and fever of life.'
may be that he speaks of 'The Deaths of Little Children,'
and then he almost makes you feel as if his true friend's
hand were pressing your own, as he goes on to tell you
that those who have lost an infant are never, as it were,
without an infant child-that the other children grow up
to manhood and womanhood, and suffer all the changes
of mortality; but this one alone is rendered an immortal
child; for death has arrested it with his kindly harshness,
and blessed it into an eternal image of youth and inno-
cence.' In the rough winter time again, when wind and
rain beat dark December,' he will tell you of 'A Day by the
Fire' which he had not long since-with all its home com-
forts and accompaniments-the pleasant hour before the
candles are lighted-the gazing meditatively into the fire
-the kettle whispering its faint under-song,' and the
cheerful tea-table with its joyous faces, and the pleasant |
hours between tea-time and bed-time spent in the free
utterance of thought as it comes, with a little music per-
haps, or the reading of some favourite passages to stimulate
the conversational powers of the circle; while every now
and then the rain rattled against the windows, and the
wind howled in such a way as to make everybody think of
the sea and the poor sailors, and people who have to be
out of doors in such weather; and last of all, the quiet
half-hour after every one had retired but himself—when all
around was silent, the cares of the day gone to sleep, and
the fading embers reminding him where he should be: all
these, and a thousand things else, in-doors and out of doors,
in books, in nature, and in men, he talks about in a way so
natural, easy, and colloquial-so marked by a pervading
kindness of feeling-entering so heartily into all our tastes
and thoughts, and enlisting all the while so thoroughly our
sympathies, that we cannot but class him in the foremost
rank of our most genial essayists, and place his writings
among our choicest parlour window-seat books,' to be
taken up in the brief intervals of active and social life, sure
to find in them something which appeals to our most
cherished tastes, and meets with our immediate appre-
ciation.

IMPORTANCE OF HEALTH TO THE LABOURING CLASSES.

Of all the members of society, the labouring man is the most dependent. Health is his only wealth, his capital, his stock in trade. When disease attacks him, the very source of his subsistence is dried up. He must earn his daily bread by daily toil; and, unlike many who occupy a higher position in society, he cannot do his work by deputy, nor postpone the doing of it till his health is re-established. Day by day the expense of sickness is added to the loss of income; and too often he recovers only to find his place occupied by another, and the first hours of convalescence spent in an anxious, and too often a fruitless, search after employment.-Dr Guy.

Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, High Street, Edinburgh. Also

sold by D. CHAMBERS, 98 Miller Street, Glasgow; W. S. Oan, 147 Strand, and Amen Corner, London; and J. M'GLASHAN, 21 D'Olier Street, Dublin.-Printed by W. and R. CHAMBERS, Edinburgh.

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, EDITORS OF CHAMBERS'S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE,''CHAMBERS'S EDUCATIONAL COURSE,' &c.