ating the force of avalanches or infusing their propitious influence into falling waters.

The Swiss, like the natives of mountainous countries generally, have no admiration for the scenery around them. Beauty both in nature and art is felt by the sense, but recognized and comprehended by the understanding. Hence the varied attractions of a noble landscape can be appreciated only by persons of cultivation and refinement. To such they afford the most innocent and delightful of all the enjoyments of earth. This was the feeling of Scott, when he said, "If I did not see my own heather-covered hills at least once a year, I believe I should die." But the mountain peasant has no sympathy with Nature, and no knowledge of her great laws. He perceives not the mysterious chain of harmony which binds all together. Where others admire, he cowers in superstitious fear. To him the roaring avalanche, the lightning splintering the already jagged peak, the thunder resounding from glen to glen, as if even those mute and dim recesses uttered the name of God, appear neither sublime nor elevating. He thinks only of the ruin they cause. Yet, in spite of his indifference to their grandeur, his attachment for his native mountains is proverbial, and years of absence only strengthen it. This arises from the peculiar manners and habits to which he is brought up, and from the simple and independent life he leads. Were the beauty and grandeur of the Alps the only source of their influence upon the Swiss, they

would care no more for them than do the inhabitants of the mountain region of New Hampshire for the scenery of the White Hills, these not being sufficiently high or vast to cause any difference in the mode of life of those who live near and among them from that of others, and therefore not exciting among an illiterate people the same attachment as the Alps.

In all their mountain life there is nothing more attractive to the Swiss than the chase of the chamois. The danger, the excitement, and the uncertainties of this sport render it extremely fascinating. They feel the same love for it that the Western trapper feels for his outcast and lonely life amongst deserts and Indians. They always return to it with fresh eagerness. Sometimes a limb is broken; sometimes a life is lost in a crevasse or over a precipice. But the most solemn oath will never bind them to refrain from the sport. On some fair morning the hunter does not appear at his frugal meal with his family, and it is at once sadly understood that he has gone to pursue the chamois. Perhaps he returns the next day. Perchance day after day passes, and he never comes again. Hope gradually gives way to despair, and despair to the bitterness of grief. He has died, no one knows how, in some lonely waste by himself; and the corroding sorrow of his widow and orphans is slowly smoothed away by the rough friction of hard work, for it is only gentlefolk who can indulge the luxury of woe, and "sit in the house.

wi' handkerchers at their een when they lose a friend." Yet many of these mountain hunters are long-lived, and active to the last. "With mountains as with weapons armed," they defend themselves against the approach of death to a good old age. They are generally excellent guides, and the bold deeds of these adventurous cragsmen have ennobled many a pass and peak, and saved many a life. There is nothing among these mountains more heroic or more famous than their achievements. Yet I mistake. There are those who have done more. It is those pioneers of learning who are willing to dare every danger to life and limb, if so be they can thereby aid their favorite cause, and help the onward and resistless progress of humanity. For this they have run every risk of storm, of avalanche, of torrent. For this they have gone where no Alpine hunter was bold enough to follow them, or to bear what they endured. Again and again has Tyndall planted the banner of science on the summit of Monte Rosa; while Agassiz, for months solitary and alone, mounts the car of the glacier and is borne onward by that omnipotent power whose sources he seeks. Where can a more fitting chariot be found for such a conqueror? Where a more kingly triumph than this, the great discoverer of nature's laws amidst those hoary kings of the Preadamite world, looking down, voiceless as Niobe, silent as the Pyramids, while he bears away their treasures, garnered up of old?

Saussure, in his extremely entertaining "Voyages dans les Alpes," has given such an interesting and copious account of the life of the chamois-hunter that I have thought best to quote it in full, being convinced that most readers of the present day will not regret to see it :

"The chase of the chamois engages many of the inhabitants of the mountains, and frequently carries off, in the flower of their age, men dear to their families. When one knows how this is conducted, he is astonished that a mode of life, at once so painful and so dangerous, should have irresistible attractions for those who have accustomed themselves to it. The chamois-hunter generally departs in the night, that he may reach at break of day, before the arrival of the flocks, the highest pastures, where the chamois are wont to feed. As soon as he can discern the localities where he hopes to find his game, he examines them with his glass. If he does not see any chamois, he moves forward to a greater height; if he perceives them, he endeavors to mount higher than they, and to approach them along a ravine, or behind. some eminence or rock. Having arrived at a position where he can distinguish their horns, (it is by this that he judges of the distance,) he rests his gun upon a rock, takes aim with great coolness, and rarely does he miss his mark. If he has killed the chamois, he runs to his prey and assures himself of it by cutting the hamstrings; then he considers the way which it is necessary for him to take, in order to regain his village. If the route be very difficult, he

flays the chamois and takes only his skin. But if the way be practicable, he places the game upon his shoulders, and takes it with him, often over precipices and to great distances; he feeds himself and family with the meat, which is very good, especially when the animal is young, and dries the skin for sale.

"But if, as is most frequently the case, the vigilant animal perceives the approach of the hunter, he flees with the greatest swiftness over the glaciers, snows, and steepest rocks. It is especially difficult to approach them when there are several together. In that case, while the rest feed, one of them stations himself as a sentinel upon the point of some rock which overlooks every avenue of approach. As soon as he perceives an object of apprehension, he utters a sort of whistle, at the sound of which all the other chamois run to him, in order to decide for themselves the nature of the threatened danger. Then, if they see that it is a savage beast, or a hunter, the most experienced puts himself at their head, and they flee in a line to the most inaccessible spots. It is then that the fatigues of the hunter begin, for, carried away by his passion, he thinks not of danger; he passes over the snow without caring for the abysses which it may conceal; he follows the most perilous paths, climbs, and throws himself from rock to rock, without knowing how he will be able to return. Night often comes upon him in the midst of his pursuit, but he does not give it up for that; he flatters himself that the same cause will arrest the chamois,