BOHREN.-MOURON. THE REICHENBACH.

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it is indeed time to go-love must give place to the stern law of necessity! . . . They have parted, and with the speed of the bouquetin, the Alpine lover retraces his steps, while the newly-betrothed follows his shadow as he fleets along the snow, with feelings which at once delight and distract her spirit. But why distrust? the sky is cloudless; and although the wind sweeps howlingly through the gorge, the hurricane is far off; and she at length retires to press that pillow which her present thoughts have rendered too delicious for the vulgar enjoyment of sleep.-As the first breath of day pervaded the green pastures, a piercing shriek escaped her lips, and brought her mother anxiously to her bed-sidefor when is a mother deaf to the voice of her child? "It was nothing," she said—" a mere phantom which had crossed her dream." But it was a phantom that had changed her look and complexion, and her hand shook convulsively as she raised it to wipe off the cold dew that had started suddenly to her forehead. We need only add, that at that hour a landslip on the Lütschinen overwhelmed the narrow valley while her lover passed, and with its ruins combined that of as true a heart as was ever pledged to woman in the valley of Grindelwald.

Among numerous examples of the dangers by which the inhabitants of these regions are beset, even in the occupations of daily life, the following fact may be recorded. Christopher Bohren, the inn-keeper at Grindelwald, having occasion to cross the glacier situated between the Wetterhorn and Mettenberg, was considerably advanced on his way, when the ice beneath him suddenly breaking, he was plunged to a depth of sixty-four feet. With his arm broken, and wrist dislocated by the fall, he had still sufficient presence of mind to make some exertion for his preservation. Stunned, and half frozen, he groped about him, and in the bottom of his icy prison discovered a tunnel through which the melted waters of the glacier had forced an outlet. Insinuating himself into this canal, he advanced painfully, and despairing of ever again beholding the light. The warmth of life was fast yielding to the deadly chill of the cavern in which, to all appearance, he was doomed to perish. Every step he advanced on his knees and elbow, (for of the latter he had but one left,) threw a keener pang into his heart, and the mingled gurgling, rushing, and tinkling sound of the deeply channelled waters, sounded in his ear like a horrid dirge that pronounced his wife a widow, and his children fatherless! This very thought, however, was probably the cause of his redoubled exertion, and made the agony of fear the beginning of hope; for when he had crawled along the icy current for about twenty fathoms, he suddenly emerged into the light of day. The torrent had there its issue, and the captive, following its direction, was

speedily restored to the world, and lived many years after to narrate the circumstances of his miraculous escape. *

Following the left margin of the Reichenbach, we come to those celebrated falls, which so completely fix the stranger's attention as to form almost the principal object of the tour, and amply repay him for any fatigue he may have encountered by the way. Of these tremendous features, however, Mr. Bartlett has given so vivid and correct a representation, that very little description will suffice. All who have witnessed the natural picture will at once recognise and applaud the force and fidelity of the mimic pencil; while those who have not "stood upon the perilous verge," will form an accurate conception of its wild magnificence from the delineations before them. The great body of water which is here hurled foaming and howling from the precipice, is furnished by the Scheideck, Rosenlaui, and the Schwartzwald, and rushes through a rocky gorge of the Swirgi. The first stage exhibits a fall in profile, and about a hundred feet in height; the second and more stupendous of the two superior falls, presents a breadth of about thirty feet, and plunges by a single bound of four hundred feet into the boiling cauldron at its base. Around the shattered precipices—

"Trees and shrubs, in wild disorder, fringe the gulf's horrific border;

While, ceaseless from the dread 'profound,' breezes waft the dismal sound." From the small belveder, erected for this purpose, the fall is observed in all its stages-from the wave-worn precipice, where it makes its first trial of strength, to the next appalling shock, where the wide volume is dissipated in snow and spray-crushing the rock in its descent-filling the ear with the roar of its agony and the mind with images of horror and destruction. It is on this point that all who would feel, as well as contemplate, the sublimity of the scene, should take their stand; and

"There watch the "hell of waters

under-swift as light and loud as thunder!"

* The following is an occurrence still lamented by many living. On the 31st of August, 1831, M. Mouron, a Protestant clergyman from near Lausanne, was lost in one of those icy gulfs which open at intervals among the glaciers. This sudden and awful catastrophe took place in presence of the guide who accompanied him. He had only arrived in Grindelwald the preceding night, and the next morning set out on a survey of the sea-of-ice. Perceiving one of the openings alluded to, his curiosity was thereby attracted, and he approached the brink; but that he might look down into it with safety, he struck the spike end of his pole into the ice, and leaned forward upon its head. In an instant the spike, propelled by the additional weight, penetrated the ice, or slid forward, and Mouron, losing his balance, was precipitated into the chasm, nearly eight hundred feet deep. Three attempts were made to recover the body, and the last having succeeded, the head was found soft with contusions, and a thigh and arm fractured. In all probability he did not survive the descent: but who can imagine the horror of that moment when he felt the prop give way-or the agony that may have been crowded into the brief space between the brink and the abyss! His body was interred in the village church-yard, and a marble slab, inscribed with a simple and affecting epitaph, there records the melancholy event.