indulge our fancy: let us draw a sketch or two in keeping with these dreary wilds.

The mountains are covered with grey mist, for the sun has not risen; yet, already, the chamoishunter is abroad. He has toiled up the rugged steeps in the night, that he may look down on the chamois at the peep of dawn. With his spiked shoes, his cord, his axe, and his wallet, his flask, his iron-shod pole, and his double-barrelled gun, he winds round the craggy rock, threads the narrow ravine, rests his unerring tube on the projecting point, and the death-shot is re-echoed in all directions.

The chamois is wounded; he flies over the glaciers and frozen snow, and leaps down the most fearful precipices: but see! the hunter is on his track. With desperate energy, he flings himself with his pole over the ravines; with resolute determination he lets himself down the precipices with his cord, and hews himself steps with his axe; difficulty only excites his ardour; his courage is increased by his danger; he overtakes the wounded chamois on a narrow ledge of rock, hardly broad enough to stand on, with a fall of a hundred fathoms below.

Again he mounts the craggy barrier, his shoulders burdened with the slaughtered chamois; he halts on a broader ledge of rock, while the sun gilds up the snowy peaks above and below him ; he takes from his bag a bit of cheese, with a

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morsel of barley-bread, and raises his flask to his lips; with recruited strength, he pursues his dizzy and dangerous course. He flings himself over the chasm; he avoids the tumbling avalanche; he descends the precipice, and is met some distance up the mountain by his anxious wife and eldest daughter. They know that there is but a step between him and death, and the frail tenure on which they hold him as a husband and a father makes them cling to him with tenacious affection.

See! yonder is a party toiling through that narrow pass. Even yet the glaciers glitter in the ruddy beams of the rejoicing sun, and the pinky rhododendron throws cheerfulness around: but another tale is told in the northern sky; the black-winged tempest is flying abroad. Look at the party in the pass now! The frowning avalanche is trembling above them; it falls !they are buried in the overwhelming ruin! Not a sigh is heard-not a struggle seen. The snow lies smooth and unsullied over the hapless beings it has entombed. Scenes like these are far too common; when we hear of them in England, they reach us as the echo of a calamity that is past; we feel not the dread reality of a present and overwhelming affliction.

Who goes yonder? It is one of the party, a traveller, who has scrambled his way through the falling avalanche, with a child in his arms. He

has been lost in the intricate windings and dangerous passes of the place, and is fainting with want, fatigue, and anxiety; he sinks exhausted upon the cold snow, and presses his frost-bitten child to his bosom. What has made him again raise his dejected head? He has heard a panting near him; he has felt the warm breath of an animal close to his mouth. Is it a wolf about to devour him? He opens his eyes; the warm red tongue of a shaggy dog is licking his hands and his face; he makes an effort to rise, and finds a flask of spirits fastened round the dog's neck; he puts it first to his own mouth, and then to that of his child; they both revive; the dog leads the way, barking loudly; the traveller and child follow. They are soon met by two monks, summoned to the spot by the barking of the dog, who conduct them to the hospitable convent or the Great St. Bernard.

How like an angel man appears, when, with a face beaming with compassion, he goes forth on an errand of mercy! Monks of St. Bernard, Samaritans of the mountains, I fling you my warmest thanks; they are the free-will offering of a stranger—the ardent outpourings of a heart that honours you.

The peopled side of the panorama is far from uninteresting. That cross is almost a reality. The led mule, the old man with his stick, and the lady in the blue bonnet, seem to live and more

as we gaze upon them. The guide, there, gathering a flower, is a picture of itself; but enough: those who visit this Alpine scene will leave it with a feeling of having travelled-as though Switzerland and they were not entirely strangers.

Some, too, by the mountainous masses, will be more deeply impressed with the power of the Almighty Maker of the "everlasting hills," and find more than ordinary comfort in calling to mind that merciful promise in God's holy word, "The mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed; but my kindness shall not depart from thee, neither shall the covenant of my peace be removed, saith the Lord that hath mercy on thee."

"Yes, sooner all the hills shall flee,
And hide themselves beneath the sea;
Or ocean, starting from its bed,

Rush o'er the cloud-topp'd mountain's head;
The sun, exhausted of its light,

Become the source of endless night!

And ruin spread from pole to pole,

Than Christ forsake the humble soul."

LIMA, AND THE LAGO MAGGIORE.

AND this is "Lima," of the "land of the sun;" the "city of the kings;" the "Peruvian capital!" The broad masses of greenish white in the foreground buildings, the vivid colours of the flags

and other objects, and the blue mountains in the distance, mingle too much together. A little time must be allowed for these objects to disentangle themselves; the edifices must take up their proper stations, and the hills must withdraw to a greater distance.

Ay! now the scene is more intelligible; the chaos is assuming an appearance of order and distinctness. I can now gaze on it with pleasure.

Lima must be estimated rather for its scenery than its associations. It has neither the antiquity of Thebes, nor the heart-thrilling interest of Jerusalem. The associations which cling to Lima are of a melancholy cast; but of them we will speak by and by.

The spectacle is very imposing. It has a novelty and freshness which greatly recommend it; and if the foreground buildings are monotonous, the distant prospect is varied and delightful.

It is pleasant to catch the glimpses of character, the little vignettes that, every now and then, may be noticed among the visitors of a public exhibition.

The young people on my left seem somewhat puzzled about the situation of Lima. One thinks it must be in the East Indies; while the little fellow in the yellow cap and gold tassels, standing on tiptoe, looking at the friars in their white dresses, has just cried out, "I can see the Turks very plain, mamma.”