fantastic forms, jutting forth into the heavens like enormous trees, thrusting out umbrageous branches which bloomed and glistened in the solar rays. Along the whole southern heaven these fantastic masses were ranged close together, but still perfectly isolated, until on reaching a certain altitude they seemed to meet a region of wind which blew their tops like streamers far away through the air. Warmed and tinted by the morning sun those unsubstantial masses rivaled in grandeur the mountains themselves.

The final peak of the Jungfrau is now before us, and apparently so near! But the mountaineer alone knows how delusive the impression of nearness often is in the Alps.

To reach the slope which led up to the peak we must scale or round the barrier already spoken of. From the coping and the ledges of this beautiful wall hung long stalactites of ice, in some cases like inverted spears, with their sharp points free in air. In other cases, the icicles which descended from the overhanging top reached a projecting lower ledge, and stretched like a crystal railing from the one to the other.

To the right of this barrier was a narrow gangway, from which the snow had not yet broken away so as to form a vertical or overhanging wall. It was one of those accidents which the mountains seldom fail to furnish, and on the existence of which the success

of the climber entirely depends. Up this steep and narrow gangway we cut our steps, and a few minutes placed us safely at the bottom of the final pyramid of the Jungfrau.

snow which enabled Thence to some loose

The work upon this final ice slope was long and heavy, and during this time the summit appeared to maintain its distance above us. We at length cleared the ice, and gained a stretch of us to treble our upward speed. and shingly rocks, again to snow, whence a sharp edge led directly to the top. The exhilaration of success was here added to that derived from physical

nature.

On the top fluttered a little black flag, planted by our most recent predecessors. The snow was flattened on either side of the apex so as to enable us to stand upon it, and here we stood for some time, with all the magnificence of the Alps unrolled before us.

We may look upon those mountains again and again from a dozen different points of view, a perennial glory surrounds them which associates with every new prospect fresh impressions. I thought I had scarcely ever seen the Alps to greater advantage. Hardly ever was their majesty more fully revealed or more overpowering.

The coloring of the air contributed as much to the effect as the grandeur of the masses on which that coloring fell. A calm splendor overspread the mountains, softening the harshness of the outline, without

detracting from their strength. But half the interest of such scenes is psychological; the soul takes the tint of surrounding nature, and in its turn becomes majestic. And as I looked over this wondrous scene toward Mont Blanc, and the thousand lesser peaks which seemed to join in celebration of the risen day, I asked myself, as on previous occasions: How was this colossal work performed? Who chiseled these mighty and picturesque masses out of a mere protuberance of the earth?

And the answer was at hand. Ever young, ever mighty with the vigor of a thousand worlds still within him the real sculptor was even then climbing up the eastern sky. It was he who raised aloft the waters which cut out these ravines; it was he who planted the glaciers on the mountain slopes, thus giving gravity a plow to open out the valleys; and it is he who, acting through the ages, will finally lay low these mighty monuments, rolling them gradually seaward, sowing the "dust of continents to be"; so that the people of an older earth may see mold spread and corn wave over the hidden rocks which at this moment bear the weight of the Jungfrau.

JOHN TYNDALL.

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains:
They crowned him long ago

On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow.

BYRON.

INVOCATION TO MIRTH.

JOHN MILTON was born in London, Dec. 9, 1608. He has himself said that he was destined from infancy to the study of polite literature. At the age of ten years he first wrote verse. At Cambridge University he gained high honors as scholar and poet. He graduated in 1632. Excessive application to literary pursuits produced a weakness of the eyes, and in 1653 he became totally blind. Notwithstanding this misfortune he wrote, by dictation, his great epic poem, the "Paradise Lost," and other works, in prose and verse, all of a high order. Many of his shorter poems are marvels of

melodious diction, and contain lines that have become proverbial for their beauty.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee

Jest, and youthful Jollity,

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,

Nod, and becks, and wreathéd smiles,

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek ;
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as you go,

On the light fantastic toe;

And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honor due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovéd pleasures free;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watchtower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise.

Then to come in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the sweetbrier, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine: . . .
While the plowman near at hand
Whistles o'er the furrowed land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the vale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,

Whilst the landscape round it measures:

Russet lawns, and fallows gray,

Where the nibbling flocks do stray,

Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.

Sometimes with secure delight
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecs sound

To many a youth and many a maid,
Dancing in the checkered shade;

And young and old come forth to play
On a sunshine holiday.

JOHN MILTON.