The following interesting description of the Mer de Glace, or Sea of Ice, a celebrated Glacier in Switzerland, is from the pen of a recent traveller : About one o'clock we arrived at the town of Chamouny, commonly called Le Prieuré, or the Priory, and took rooms at the English, or London Hotel. No time was to be lost; we therefore immediately sent for guides and mules, for our excursion to the Mer de Glace. These were soon obtained; and we were glad to find that our principal man was no other than the one who accompanied the famous Saussure in exploring these mountainous regions. The most esteemed guides have surnames, derived from the heights or passes which they first explore, or have been most successful in traversing. Thus one is called Mont Blanc; another L'Aiguille; and our guide Le Géant. Before setting out, we were all furnished with a baton ferré, or long staff, with a sharp iron ferrule at the end, to assist us in the steep and slippery parts of our excursion. As we crossed the plain, between the Priory and the foot of the mountain, we presented quite a formidable appearance. First marched, as our commander, Le Géant; then I came, flourishing the baton ferré in great glee; then my travelling companions on mules; and lastly, two or three minor guides and servants. After ascending the mountain for some distance, by a steep and craggy path, my strength began to fail. By the advice, and often the example, of one of our attendants, I took hold of the long tail of one of the mules, and was thus pulled on some distance further-the good mule clambering along, with this appendage, with the mosɩ perfect sang froid. Before setting out, my companion and myself both determined to walk; we were, however, advised to take along a mule, in case either should become much fatigued. My friend now kindly insisted on my taking the animal, preferring himself to walk the rest of the distance. I therefore renounced his tail, and joyfully mounted on the back of the mule. About half way up the mountain, there is an agreeable resting place, at a copious fountain of water. Two or three miles farther on, there is a ravine, apparently formed by the falling of large masses of rocks and uprooted trees, at different periods. Here we had the unexpected pleasure of witnessing an avalanche of snow, tumbling from a distant summit. As it rushed along it produced a roaring, stunning sound, which echoed through the mountains. Le Géant, who was near me, stopped for a moment, and then marched on, saying it was 'only a little one.' In something more than three hours after leaving the Priory, we arrived at the little pavilion, on the top of Montanvert. This small building was erected by a French gentleman, for the accommodation of travellers. It stands on a verdant plain, at the foot of the Aiguille de Charmos, and commands a good view of the celebrated glacier called the 'Sea of Ice,' which is a little below it. After resting and taking some refreshment, at this hospitable edifice, 'dedicated to nature,' we descended by a rough, steep path, to the Mer de Glace. Passing the edge, which is formed of loose masses of ice and rock, we followed Le Géant a considerable distance on the ice. We walked between a number of clefts or chasms, which yawned around us in every direction. Some of these are quite narrow, and others a number of feet in breadth. Within them the ice is of an azure color. Their depth cannot be sounded. Some suppose they reach to the very earth, on which the glacier reposes. When in London, I was advised not to cross this frozen sea; as these clefts are often concealed by patches of encrusted snow. A person this year came very near perishing, in attempting to cross one of these frail bridges; it sunk under his weight, but as the crevice was not very wide, he had presence of mind enough to thrust the iron point of his mountain spear into the ice, as he was sinking, and by this means was rescued. Standing on the ice and looking up, as it were to the source of this frozen river, you behold a mass of ice, seven or eight miles long, and more than a mile in breadth. Its whole extent, however, is more than as many leagues. On one side it is bounded by Montanvert, and on the other by a number of colossal and precipitous ridges. Numerous Aiguilles, or needle-like rocks, shoot up to an astonishing height, in all directions around. Our guide pointed out, with peculiar animation, that called Le Géant, the one which he first explored; and where, I think, Saussure remained fifteen days with him, pursuing meteorological investigations. Beyond the Mer de Glace, there is a famous glacier called the Garden. It is a verdant spot, full of Alpine flowers, though completely surrounded with walls of ice, and requires much strength and hardihood to reach. The disemboguement, if I may so call it, of the Mer de Glace, into the valley of Chamouny, is called the Glacier des Bois; from beneath which and through an icy cavern, a torrent of water rolled-this is the source of the Arvéron. As our guide informed us that this vault or arch of ice was, at this season, scarcely worth examining, we were content to view the spot at a distance, as we returned. BEAUTIFUL SENTIMENT. "As the vine, which has long twined its foliage around the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling around it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its scattering boughs; so it is bountifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependant and ornament to man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace, when smitten with sudden calamity, winding herself in the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart." ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED WIFE. Written for the Monthly Repository and Library of Entertaining Knowledge. BY THE REV. GEORGE COLES. Of all the social relationships of life, there is none so sacred, so sweet, and so increasingly dear, as that which subsists between husband and wife. It is an emblem of the mystery of the incarnation, and of the love that Christ bears to his Church. No wonder then, that, human art has invented means of perpetuating the memory of that union when once it has been broken by death. For this the marble tablet is erected, and the monument is placed in a conspicuous situation, that the passing stranger may read and remember the virtues of the pious dead. For this the sculptor employs his skill, not to give life to the deceased, but to preserve the semblance of feature, as much as may be; that the bereaved may gaze with delight, and remember with pleasure, the excellencies of departed worth. To this end are the labors of the pencil directed, and the pale and spotless canvass is made to glow with the beauty of youth, and to exhibit the wisdom of maturer years. But alas! the tablet, the monument, the bust, and the portrait, are but cold and dull remembrancers of our departed friends. Their works are like the gods of the heathen: "they have eyes, but they see not;" and they give us but faint recollections of the departed originals. The orator, the poet, the historian, and the printer can do more. The orator, glowing with the fires of eloquence, gives life and beauty to his description, and by the magic power of his voice almost raises from the dead, those whom the grave had long concealed from our eyes. The poet also, kindling with celestial fires, by the aid of numbers draws the moral likeness of our departed friends, paints them in unfading colors, and with the aid of Castalia's fount renders their fame imperishable. The historian takes us back to the period when they lived, and tells us the very thoughts that inspired their breasts, and the very words that fell from their lips. While the printer, like a faithful chronicler of events, perpetuates the whole to the latest generations. But these also, like all human efforts, fail in satisfying the boundless desires of the immortal mind. "They cannot give us life for love." They can only tell us what our friends once were, and partly what they now are, but nothing of what they will be through the countless ages of unending duration. But where sense sets us down, faith takes us up, and through the medium of divine revelation we see our friends in all the loveliness of immortality, in all the beauty of holiness, and in all the perfection of bliss. Even now we behold them "arrayed in glory and light from above," and waiting for that "far more exceeding, and eternal weight of glory, which shall soon be revealed." O what a glorious change have they experienced! A little while since they were "prisoners of hope," now they have entered the "palace of the glorious king," and the "groaning of the prisoners appointed to die," has been exchanged for those "songs of the redeemed," and that "everlasting joy," which shall be "upon the heads" of all "the ransomed of the Lord." "They have exchanged the warrior's sword," for the "conqueror's crown," the clay-built tenement," for the "house not made with hands," a "howling wilderness," for the 'heavenly Canaan,” sorrows and sighs," and "doubts and fears," for "songs of deliverance," and the "beatific sight" of "heaven and eternal glory." Well might an apostle say, "to die is gain! And well may the sorrowing and bereaved pilgrim be encouraged to "gird up the loins of his mind, be sober, and hope to the end, for the grace that is to be brought at the revelation of Jesus Christ." "O let our heart and mind Continually ascend, That haven of repose to find, Our suffering and our pain; WHO MEET ON THAT ETERNAL SHORA HARTFORD, JULY 13th, 1831. HEBREW POETS. The sacred poets never contemplated the glories of Creation, but with the lively gratitude of sincere worshippers, delighted to witness and to feel the all prevad |