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LE GLACIER DES BOIS. "A wintry waste in dire commotion all."

We know of nothing better calculated to impress the mind with the solemn feelings which certain aspects of nature never fail to call forth, or to convince man of his utter inability to stand against her "terrible majesty," when she reigns supreme in desolation, than to place him in the midst of one of those icy valleys, which constitute a portion of the Alpine glaciers. Let his foot be standing wherever it may, upon any part of the green earth, wild, dreary, and trackless as it may be, he can have no such sense of his own individual weakness to escape from its horrors, as when surrounded on all sides by the everlasting snows of these mountainous regions. Their very height above the habitable world seems to shut him out from all communication with his fellows, while the absence of everything that betokens life and vitality produces a sense of want, in addition to that of solitude; and if he happen to find himself in these pathless deserts when the tempest is brooding,

"Sudden and sad, with all its rising train,
Vapours, and clouds, and storms,"

it requires no other element of disquietude to fill up the measure of his fear and evil forebodings, and to lay prostrate his pride and self-sufficiency.

But there is a bright side to the picture, which, as just presented, shows only its dark and appalling features. Every traveller, who has visited the Glacier domains, speaks in most rapturous terms of their magnificence and beauty, when viewed under the influence of a clear, bright morning sun, or at its setting: the level plains of ice reflect its rays like a sea of glass, the spiral and conical shaped masses of frozen snow rise up, like the pinnacles of some vast cathedral with crockets and projecting ornamental work formed by successive driftings and showers, glitter and sparkle in the sun-beams, as if covered with the most dazzling gems; while the tops and the slopes of the mountains catch every tint of glory which the day, in its varied radiance, flings upon them. The dangers and difficulties of an Alpine ascent are amply compensated for by the scenes of beauty it reveals to the traveller. The glaciers of the Arctic regions must surpass those of more southern countries, in extent and sublimity; but their immensity,

THOMSON.

and the extreme rigour of the climate, altogether preclude the voyager from obtaining such a view of them as to form a just estimate of their grandeur, and to enjoy it even if he could bring them within the range of his vision.

Saussure, a French writer, has, perhaps, given the best detailed description of the glaciers of the Alps; he says, that if a person could be placed at such a height as to take in at one view the range of mountain scenery extending through Switzerland and Dauphiné, he would see a huge mass of lofty elevations, intersected by numerous valleys, and composed of parallel chains, the highest in the middle, and the others decreasing gradually as they recede. The central and highest chain would appear bristled with craggy rocks, covered, even in summer, with snow and ice, in all those parts that are not absolutely vertical; but on both sides of the chain, he would also discern deep and verdant valleys, well watered and covered with villages. Examining still more in detail, he would remark that the central range is composed of lofty peaks and smaller chains, covered with snow on their tops, but having all their slopes, that are not very much inclined, coated with ice, while the intervals between them form elevated valleys, filled with immense masses of ice, extending down into the deep and inhabited valleys which border on the great chain. M. Saussure seems to recognize two kinds of glaciers, quite distinct from each other, and to which all their varieties may be referred. The first are contained in the valleys more or less deep, and which, though at great elevations, are yet commanded on all sides by mountains still higher; while the second are not contained in the valleys, but are spread out on the slopes of the higher peaks. The distinction which this writer here makes, is not confirmed by the opinions of others, who consider that what he describes as two kinds, arises from the different situation of each, and is dependent upon it.

One of the most singular phenomena which the traveller may chance to see in these regions is the descent of the glaciers, when the warmth of the sun has disengaged them from the sides of the mountains, and they are impelled downwards by their own enormous weight. The natural heat of the earth loosens first the under surface of the masses; and when the sun's rays

have penetrated into the surrounding soil, the edges of the glaciers become thawed, and they rapidly glide down,-frequently rush downinto the valleys beneath, presenting the strange spectacle of a field of ice in close proximity to green pastures and wide acres of waving corn. The Alpine glaciers are of very considerable extent from Mount Blanc to the borders of the Tyrol, about four hundred are reckoned, ranging from three miles to fifteen miles in length, and from one to two and a quarter miles in breadth; the ice varies, generally,

from one hundred feet to six hundred in thickness.

How much of wonder and admiration is elicited by such a scene as is presented in the charming little engraving which has suggested these few brief remarks upon "the glaciers." How impressively are the thoughts borne upward to Him who "giveth snow like wool, and scattereth the hoar-frost like ashes: who casteth forth his ice like morsels." And how, almost involuntarily, we are forced to exclaim "Who can stand before His cold?"

A LETTER FROM IRELAND, IN SEPTEMBER, 1852.*

I WAS obliged to break off abruptly, the day after I complained of having no time for thought in Ireland. I was compelled, as you know, by an accident, to relinquish "sightsecing," and be content to listen, and think, and suffer. As a portion of our route from the house of one friend to the house of another, lay out of the regular line, we posted, and the further south we advanced, the more numerous became the ruined or deserted huts; with acres upon acres of uncultivated land, basking their crops of gigantic weeds beneath a fertilizing sky, passed over even by the rooks, as yielding nothing for their support; telling with mute eloquence, the oft repeated tale, of famine, death-or emigration. The failure of the potato crop this year has struck a panic into those who thought they would bide by the old country a little longer; so the tide of emigration flows more freshly and freely than ever; every living creature who can "rise" the price of a passage, "is determined to leave the old world for the new; "this is, therefore, now a fertile subject for beggary. "Ah, thin sure you won't refuse us the little sixpence, towards the price of the passage to Americkay-give it, and God bless yousure it's there we'll be out of your way intirely." And I was, in every instance where I conversed with those who were 66 flitting," most forcibly struck with the feeling expressed by the painter, Barry—“ Ireland gave me birth, but she would never have given me bread" -which seemed to have taken possession of every mind; the love of "the sod" is gonepatriotism is starved out; their affection for their kindred is as warm as ever; and the sums of money sent from the new world,

* Continued from page 250.

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to bring out even aged parents, so that 'they may live and not die," is positively astounding. Whatever be the faults of the Irish peasant, selfishness is not among the number; the last thing he thinks of is his own personal comfort or ease; he was the perfection of a sort of busy activity, which prompted him to make great efforts for others, little as he did for himself; and for a sudden burst of enthusiastic devotion to a person or a cause, he had no equal. But all this has changed; the starvation he has either suffered from or witnessed, has taken the spirit out of him; and he is fully impressed with the belief that there never will be any luck for him or his on "Ireland's ground." It was painful to me, to hear the poor speak as they did in a tone of heartlessness or contempt of the land of their birth.

I have nothing to leave behind,” said a young man, "but the bones of my people who died part of the sickness, part of starvation --and it's not likely I'd go on starving in a country that can't keep its own. My only brother's in Sidney, and it shows what a fine place that is, when he sent me the price of my passage, and he only in it five months."

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Anyway," said another, "we can't be worse where we're going than we've been here; it's not the country, but food, we want."

Stern, gaunt starvation had clutched them in its iron grasp, and they panted for escape. "I had no downright fear of starvation for myself," said a stout farmer, who had thrown up his farm, and with his family looked Irishcomfortable, and were packing for emigration, "but it's not pleasant to feel that you've no real interest in the bit of land, nor no Christian right to the bit of food, and so many hungry eyes on it; and that some plague or

another rises from the very thing you and your people before you, trusted in—if we are to eat the yellow meal, we may as well eat it where its grown."

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Some ten years ago, I saw the departure of an emigrant ship from Cork, and then the regrets were quite as much for the country, as for the "friends." I have seen them throw themselves on the ground and kiss it; I have known them gather the grass from off "their people's" graves, and fold it, as a sacred relic, in their bosoms; I have seen the stern man, as well as the young maiden, take the leaves of a tree, or even a handful of the thatch of their cabin, as mementoes of the land they loved; but this was before the visitation of the famine and pestilence. The advantages of emigration were questioned, and doubted, and debated; "there was plenty of land in their own country to emigrate to, if by any amount of law or labour they could make it their own;" they would "try" what could be done in the far west, and, please God, return with a "handful of money to ould Ireland, God bless it." They did not go away then with a fixed determination never to return, they did not loathe the soil they left; now they fly from that green and beautiful land, as in old times the people fled to their tents from the plague-stricken City of London. The penal laws, the fire and sword, the sacking and pillaging of the old policy, failed to depopulate the country. Now, emigration toils for the Saxon. It is no longer Ireland for the Irish, but Ireland for the stranger. Ireland, that is to say, the land-the earth-of that uninhabited country, will improve; when the English and the Scotch settle down upon its hills and valleys, and infuse their gold into its soil, circulate their wealth and intelligence amongst each other, and the emigrants will better themselves by removing to where their industry would yield them subsistence; but Ireland and the Irish are no longer one and the same thing, and to my simplicity, it seems that the policy which has induced and permitted this, to its present extent, is, to say the least of it, doubtful. The emigrants take with them a host of unkindly feelings towards the fatherland, and it is a question how these feelings may be employed in the "hereafter," which these rushing-on-times forces on so rapidly.

Certainly, the emigration movement I have observed since we came here, is so different from what I remember, that I scarcely recognize the people under its influence; the only "travellers" you meet on the high roads, are emigrants; they crowd the quays of Dublin

and Cork and Limerick. The mistress of this beautifully situated hotel, which, when I was last at Killarney, was the residence of one of the old gentry, complained to me bitterly this morning, that she could not get a good female servant, they were all gone to Australia; and when we inquired why, at this late season, the harvests were not gathered in, the reply was, we cannot get hands, they have emigrated! An eye-witness described to me a little scene which he saw at Limerick, bearing out the carelessness of country, which struck me as a new reading of Irish character. A little group of friends and relatives had gathered round a young man and woman, the former was about to leave Ireland, the latter was to receive money from her betrothed, to take her to him in the spring; the girl's mother, a remnant of the old school, was remonstrating with him. "Ah thin sure, can't ye make the money and come to her, and take the place ye'r people had before you, sure its your own country, dear; the SOD, darling, and you'll be happy in it, and not take from me the little girl that's the light of my eyes, and the joy of the poor widdy's heart!"

The young man replied to this with a bitter laugh; but a stern, strong man, who had been looking-on silently for some time, laid his hand on the old woman's shoulder, and, turning her, commanded she should "listen to him." "Hear him," "he's a fine man," "has fine learning," "poor craythur! he's gone through a dale of trouble," "whisht now, listen to him," exclaimed the little crowd.

"Whisht all of you," he said, "for you all ought to hear it, and to some of ye I've tould it more than once. What's to be got by staying in Ireland? tell me that; if there's nothing to be got by staying in it, what's to be got by returning to it?" True for ye, my poor man, nothing sure enough; its gone the miserablest country under the sun. "Its improv ing," suggested a voice. "Not for us," he replied, bitterly; "I hear of it, but I don't see it, I don't feel it. Its been promising that same a long time; we never got the repale HE promised, who's in his grave long enough now. Hasn't cholera, and fever, and the black blight of the potatoe been with us ever since that time? Havn't they rack-rented and ejected every soul belonging to me, and yet can find no one to roof the walls I left? Aint the heart's blood of the old gentry gone? Wouldn't their sons thank God they knew a trade, and their daughters be glad they had never been born? Isn't the Saxon riding on his iron horses through the country, and laughing, ay laugh

ing at the hills and fields? Doesn't he know they'll all be his, without more murderers than plague and famine clearing the way before him? The back of my hand to you, Ireland, for ever more," and he held his huge hand aloft, the palm turned towards the ship"the back of my hand to you for ever more -but there's a worse curse than mine over you, the famine and the cholera again and again, until the dead must bury their dead; never look to bring any one back you have any call to," he repeated, and turned away.

"He was a fine man onct," said the widow, "but his head's gone, that's it, dear!”

I am sure it would have been impossible for any Irish peasant to have used these words ten years ago; but suppose it possible, he would have been stoned where he stood; and it is not only amongst "the poor and friendless" that this feeling exists; a very respectable servant, in a friend's service, who, with her husband, had accumulated enough to purchase houses which brought them in thirty pounds a-year, told me, that after awhile they thought of going to America.

"But why should you go?" I questioned, 66 you are exceedingly comfortable, all your wants cared for, you are not over-worked, you have good wages, and property to the amount thirty pounds a-year." "But what is to become of our children?" was the reply of this most un-Irish Irishwoman, "the country is going every year more and more to the bad, and no one will stay in it that can help themselves out of it. We are in no hurry, but we don't mean to leave our bones in Ireland."

"But you are surely attached to the family with whom you have lived so long?"

"God bless them, I am, and so is my husband, and a good right we have; but they can't save the country, and so, when the children are not as soft (young) as they are now, why I suppose we must leave ill-luck and old Ireland behind us!"

I can understand both the charity and policy of clearing the "unions" of the young and the able-bodied, and shipping them to the colonies, but to suffer the better class of the population to pour away as they are doing, and have done, without an effort being made to induce them to remain, looks as if it was thought desirable the country should be cleared of the aborigines no matter what they were, or what they might become. In the county Limerick, we saw several cows labouring under an epidemic, which has prevailed in a fearful degree-a sort of foot-rot. At Lord M

we went to a field where five were lying

down, quite unable to stand, and fed from the cow-boy's hand. The local veterinary surgeon confessed he did not know what to make of it; it was piteous to see the melancholy expression of these patient animals, laying on the swad, and evidently trying to prevent their poor hoofs touching the ground.

"Another curse on the country, that's what it is, your honour," was the observation.

There seems less of this presentiment of evil to the country, at Killarney, than in other parts of "the south," here the unprecedented crowd of visitors has caused the pulses of the people to beat with something akin to hope— they all say they never had such a season.

The hotels have benefitted largely from this influx of "foreigners," and the lodging houses in the dirty and neglected town of Killarney, must have realized little fortunes, and certainly there is more hope of these "fortunes" being laid out to advantage, than there was ten years ago; the people have imbibed not only a value for money, but some idea that cleanliness is a good speculation. "How could the gentleman take you for a guide, and you so dirty," I heard one man say to another. I do not think that I ever heard "dirt" put in that light before, by one of "the people." If "the pledge" that holy compact between labour and prosperity-has been broken by some, it has been the temporal salvation of others; I can recal the time when boatmen, who now bend to their oars in clean white flannel jackets and smart hats, and look the "picture" of cleanliness and health, were poor, squalid, worn-out drunkards, whom I trembled to trust myself with on the Lake. Time has reversed the order of things;-and but for the greeting, which an Irish peasant never forgets recalling to your mind a former meeting, by a sly compliment or a jest-I should not have believed it possible that even temperance could have brought such health and prosperity to the poor boatman.

You remember Spillane, who in your day, was the only "bugler,” as Gandsey was the only piper of the lakes-they still maintain their superiority. The echoes of "the gap," and of the "eagle's nest," obey Spillane's bugle with redoubled vigour, to what they bestow on other bugles; and "gay, old Gandsey" has no rival near his throne, though we heard a piper at Glena, who, were he a younger man, we should say might one day claim his crown and sceptre, but both in humour and pathos, Gandsey is still unrivalled. You will be glad to hear that, in the "dead season," the young Spillanes, who are so exceedingly and deser

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