from its effect in the very few cases in which it may be possible to strip a considerable degree of strength of its ability to hurt. When you do this you spoil it of everything sublime, and it immediately becomes contemptible." And this he illustrates by allusions to the ox, horse, and other animals.

Amid the Alps, where the grandest scenery is concentrated, we have different aspects of power; for example, the fire power, the ice power, the storm, snow, and torrent powers; but they are only varied forms of the great Creative power. The Alpine summits are steps which lead us up towards the throne of the Infinite, from whence power, in its grandest manifestations, has been revealed. We admit that terror may be associated with sublimity, as when Shakespeare pictures a scene from the lofty and dizzy elevation of Dover Cliffs; or we might ascend a steep, perilous crag among the Alps, and, looking down into the vast abyss, be terror-stricken with the thought of having to descend again; but surely we may realize sublimity without such foolish freaks of hardihood. We need not take the place of a goat or an eagle, in the strain for the sublime; we may reach a place of safety and hear the thunder of the rolling and falling avalanche, and gaze on the grand Alpine summits, without any feeling of danger or terror.

We readily admit that high mountains, deep abysses-that whatever in nature is greater or more mighty than man, does fill with a certain terror. Fear is one of the effects, but not the highest. Humility in the presence of magnitude, weakness

before might, do imply a certain passive endurance of fear, terror, and trembling. Yet we believe no man possessing manly fortitude can long abide in this subjection. The induced sense of weakness and humility is but the prelude to greater strength. The mountain will communicate to the sympathizing mind a portion of its might-will lead through fellowship to a noble equality with itself.

"It is only the man of prostrate weakness, constituted for passive endurance, fitted to crawl when he ought to soar, who, in the presence of the sublime, will fear without hope, suffer without effort, be humbled without pride. If mentally oppressed at the mountain base, a manly energy will seek the summit.

With each upward step the poet-tourist will gain accession of power. Crossing the mad torrent, pressing onward over rugged rocks, among trees mutilated by storm, he finds with increasing difficulty new energy. The mind triumphs over the body; the thoughts dilate with the grandeur of the scene. The heroic in nature begets heroism in enterprise. Danger adds to courage; mind and body are nerved to conquer opposition. Then is understood how patriotism and manly independence belong to mountain homes; how mental action takes on the intensity of natural phenomena; and that a stirring national history of bravery and exploit is indigenous to a land that has passed through vast natural convulsions. We would ask, then, what becomes of the doctrine that would make fear and trembling the essence of the sublime, when, on the contrary, as we have seen, danger rouses to enterprise and courage

-the grand in nature begetting the great in man." That is, of course, where there are noble qualities ; for we may be sure that mere grandeur will not make a hero, nor will beauty in its most exquisite form purify the mind; but while noble men feel humbled in the presence of immensity, it is the humility which leads to strength.

Just in proportion as power is superhuman and approaches the supernatural, it becomes sublime. The power which overturns a mountain, and the power of the highest genius in moments of highest inspiration, are sublime, because they transcend all ordinary operations and approach towards the infinite power and grandeur of God. We speak of a sublime composition, not from its vague, involved, and shadowy style, but because of its transcendent excellence-combining clearness and strength; or of a sublime action, because of its extraordinary bravery or virtue. We cannot accept of the dictum of Burke, however great our admiration of his genius and eloquence, viz., that "A clear idea is another name for a little idea." His opinion has been objected to and refuted by the late Archbishop Whately, who says, in his Preface to Lord Bacon's Essays: "Muddy water is apt to be supposed to be deeper than it is, because you cannot see to the bottom. Very clear water, on the contrary, will always seem less deep than it is, both from the well-known law of refraction, and also because it is so thoroughly penetrated by the sight." "The dark sayings,' on the contrary, of some admired writers, may be compared to a fog-bank at

sea, which the navigator at first glance takes for a chain of majestic mountains; but which, when approached closely, or when viewed through a good glass, proves to be a mere mass of unsubstantial vapours."

Mist magnifies a highlander on a mountain or a ship at sea, and shortens our vision, and a degree of obscurity may add to the gloomy grandeur of a sublime poem. This feature may be observed in the sublime description of Satan by Milton,

"He, above the rest

In shape and gesture proudly eminent,

Stood like a tower: his form had yet not lost
All its original brightness; nor appear'd
Less than arch-angel ruin'd, and the excess
Of glory obscured: as when the sun, new-risen
Looks through the horizontal misty air

Shorn of his beams; or, from behind the moon,
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds

On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs."*

The feeling of mental elevation to which we have referred, when weakness gathers strength by the presence of the great and mighty, may be confirmed by the graphic words of an Alpine tourist. He was resolved to cross the Col-de-Balme, but the ordinary route was blocked up with snow and impassable, so that the guide refused. The bold tourist applied to another guide, who said the road was blocked up; but that there was a gorge reaching nearly to the top of the pass, now half-filled with the wrecks of avalanches, which he thought might be travelled at least he was willing to try.

*"Paradise Lost," Book I.

It was a perilous journey. Fortunately the avalanches bore them. On they toiled, hour after hour, walking over fields of snow, beneath hanging precipices, and in constant danger of falling masses ; but upwards the tourist toiled, as dauntless as if he had borne a banner with the strange device, "Excelsior!" For a time the clear, rare atmosphere acted as a stimulant on his sensitive nature; but the fatigue was too much for his delicate nervous system and lack of more physical stamina, for on climbing the last hill, as he sunk mid-leg in the snow at every step, at length he fell on his face quite exhausted. The perspiration streamed from him in all directions, and soon he felt a cold shiver; he then made another effort, and succeeded in reaching a deserted house of refuge. It was nearly full of snow-drifts; he crept to the windward side to shelter from the freezing blast, and crouched and rested while the warm sunbeams fell upon him. Here it was a ruinous world of peaks, crags, and riven mountains; and thus he describes the scene:

"Farther on, and lo! the sweet vale of Chamouni burst on the sight, lying in an irregular line along the Arvé, that glittered like a silver chain in the light of the sun. Right out of its quiet bosom towered away in awful majesty the form of Mont Blanc. Oh! what a chaos of mountain peaks seemed to tear up the very sky around him. The 'lofty needles,' inaccessible to anything but the wing of the eagle, shot up their piercing tops over glaciers that rolled into confusion, and went streaming an ice-flood into the plains below. How can I