who perished on St. Bernard have all the natural expression of life; they bear in their protruding eyes and half-opened mouths the frightful energy of suffering and despair. They are living!-what is it they would say? I exclaimed. And thus it is that death came upon them, not slowly and by degrees extinguishing one faculty after another, but in one fell swoop arresting the unhappy sufferers at the very moment in which they were writhing under the agony of the intensest and bitterest emotions. There was a mother who stood just opposite me with her babe folded to her bosom; her glazed eye-balls were protruding, and her head, half turned round, bent eagerly towards me, as if she would speak to me-entreat me by all a mother's love to aid her. Oh, how graphic and how frightful was that image of despair! In that circling close embrace I recognized all the strength of a mother's love; and those eyes-those eyes-what terror they expressed! Near her stood a man half clothed, silent and lifeless companion of her wretchedness; whilst scattered here and there in this chamber of death, against the walls or on the cold, cold rock, were many others who had perished on the mountain. How often do we work up our imagination to paint unreal forms of wretchedness, whilst around us there are subjects for tragedy more harrowing than the imagination has ever conceived! Often since that day have I sate and recalled to mind that little square chamber, with its ghastly tenants. There was a story in every attitude and expression, which any one who has a heart may read, and must read with tears. For myself, I have often in my fancy worked up all the terrible and affecting details, till those visages have haunted me. I never can forget them-I wish I could. We were looking upon this melancholy scene, when out came bounding six fine dogs, the remnants of those noble animals who seem to have been endowed with almost human intelligence. It was a striking contrast which their animated movements made with the House of Death, as they came leaping through the snow. The very cold which froze us to the marrow, seemed to render them more agile, and burying their heads in the snow, and rolling and bounding and jumping up till they placed their great paws on our breasts, they rendered yet more palpable the terrible circumstances we had been contemplating. Life and death were thus placed in as striking an opposition as they could be. For us, however, there was no enduring the intensity of the cold; so we returned to the monastery as best we could. Our conductor, a fine young fellow, who, alas! has since met the fate he so graphically described, was very communicative. For meat and other provisions, he told us, a party go down once a fortnight to Aosta, and often are exposed to imminent danger: he, with two companions, had been buried beneath an avalanche last winter, but by dint of great exertion they had effected their escape from their living tomb.

The morning was now advanced, and it was time to leave; for though the ascent was of course more difficult and wearisome than the descent, yet it was a long journey we had to make before we could arrive at Martigny. As I stood trembling and waiting at the gate for some of the party-who, like most ladies, have always something to do at the very last moment-I had my doubts whether I should ever get down alive, such was the intensity of the cold, and such the effect it had produced upon me: however, wrapping up myself as well as I could, and covering up my mouth, I set off with the gentlemen of our

party, followed by the ladies, their guides and the mules, at a short distance. Together with us was a Piedmontese workman, who came up at the commencement of the summer, he told us, to work at Geneva, and returned at the beginning of the winter. Running, trembling, floundering and sliding (for walking was out of the question), we soon put ourselves d'abri of the blast, which on the heights cut us nearly in two. Sometimes stopping for the party in the rear, we took shelter in one of those open buildings called houses of refuge, and then off again we ran, but too glad to be in motion. One of the first indications, I remember, we had of our having escaped from the regions of eternal snow and storm, was, that instead of being enveloped in an obscure and misty atmosphere, we now could see the swelling, fleecy clouds above our heads chasing one another with the varying rapidity of the wind. Then we came upon patches of dirty snow and sodden grass, or the Alpine rose, putting forth its vivid hues in contrast with the snowy scenes around; and then near some straggling trees, affording shelter at once and fuel, we found the wild hut of some herdsman tending the herds of the monastery. Thus gradually we emerged from the clouds, and, leaving those savage scenes behind us, we soon arrived at Liddes. Who could resist its luxuries, after such a morning? Half an hour's repose, and once again we set out on foot-that is, my brother and I-leaving the rest of the party to follow in the chars à bancs, which we had left here the preceding day. There was a glorious sun above us, shining down so warm and cheering, as if to console us for our long privation of its beams. All nature seemed to have put on fresh charms since yesterday. The birds sang more sweetly, and the trees wore a brighter green-in short, we had passed from winter to summer in a morning, and had found in that short space of time that elasticity of life and limb which the same joyous change in nature never fails to give. Nor must I omit to say that we had relieved ourselves of a burthen of intentions, and accomplished what had become to us a mighty object. Wonder not, then, if our self-gratulation, and the remembrance of what we had passed through, and the bright and smiling prospect-nay, even the menacing clouds which, rolled up one upon the other, hung like a growling savage animal around the heights of St. Bernard, but on which we now looked back with more of defiance than of terror, as the school-boy, who has escaped his tyrant and shut the door, insults him from the window-wonder not, I say, if all these circumstances combined put us in mighty good temper, and disposed us to discover beauty on every side. Yes, dear Reynell, that was one of the many happy mornings, and one of the many happy walks, we have enjoyed together. Distant from thee and alone, I cannot tell with what pleasure I now recal its delightful incidents. How many aerial castles did we build, for we both are masterhands at that imaginative work, many of which, alas! have since toppled down from their baseless elevation! How many a sweet and pleasant confidence did we both receive and give! And then the many incidents of the road-trifling in themselves, but to us buoyant with enjoyment, sufficiently diverting, and chasing away all sensation of fatigue! How many are they I could now enumerate which called forth our merry laugh, or awakened our tenderer sensibilities, or prompted the sober moral! And thus it was that, laughing and confiding and moralizing and sentimentalizing-was it not so?-we

A few

arrived at Martigny. Intentions long cherished were fulfilled, and another picture, perhaps the sublimest in the collection, was suspended in the galleries of the Memory; though (to transform my picture) I had paid dear for my whistle, as poor Richard says; for from that time to this, the slightest ascent has more than usually inconvenienced me, and this winter has at times not very pleasantly awakened reminiscences of the trip. Happy had it been, however, if a little personal suffering had been the only circumstance which had awakened reminiscences of that day; but as I was looking over the "Giornale delle due Sicilie," some time since, the following extract from a Vallese paper called my attention: "On the afternoon of November 12th, three domestics of the Hospice of St. Bernard, whose courageous inmates have saved the lives of so many unfortunate travellers, were out upon that mountain, together with a priest, to meet some travellers and shew them the direction of the road. When distant about ten minutes' walk from the Hospice, they were all suddenly buried beneath an avalanche of snow. Every attempt was made that same day to disinter the bodies of these unhappy victims of Christian charity, but they could not be found till the next day. Mons. Curt, the priest, and one of the domestics, lay beneath a mass of snow 14 feet in depth. Immediately after, the bodies of the other unhappy sufferers were found." And thus their love was finished, nor had they any more a portion for ever in any thing that is done under the sun. With what painful interest I read this short statement, I cannot tell you. short weeks before, and this good priest had been my host, and I had received from him those attentions which his Christian charity had so often rendered to many others. Another of the unhappy victims, too, was he who had conducted me to the Morgue-had told me his tale of danger-his escape during the preceding winter, and a variety of interesting particulars of this tremendous dwelling-place in the clouds. And now the same fate which they had so often been instrumental in averting from others, had overtaken and overwhelmed them. Amidst the cutting blasts and the driving snows of those awful heights, they sleep their last sleep. No friend was there to smooth their dying pillow, or whisper to them in tones of love the consolations of friendship and religion-no funeral pomp accompanied them to the gravenor did the pealing organ breathe forth its sad and touching requiem above their frozen limbs; but if there be any praise or reward for whatsoever things are pure and lovely, the songs of angels welcomed them to the abodes of bliss, and God, the God of Love, received these good and faithful servants of Jesus Christ, his Son. Traveller over the wide world's waste, go thou and do likewise! Thy destiny has not cast thee on the heights of St. Bernard, but every footstep of thy way presents thee with opportunities of exercising exalted Charity. Amidst the highways and byways of life, there are wilds as desolate, and there are miseries as harrowing, as any which can be found amidst those regions of eternal snow. Waste not thy sensibilities on sufferings which it cometh not within thy province to relieve. Look round about thee on thy neighbour and thy brother-fulfil those offices of love which thy station indicates, secure of receiving, with the monk of St. Bernard, the rewards of thy Christian Charity.

HENRY W

A DREAM.

I DREAMED a dream of a fairer clime,

Far, far away!

Where spring never ceased from her golden prime,
And no envious cloud obscured the day:
But the sun shed on me a milder light,
And the moon besilvered a starlit night,
With purer ray.

Chrystal-like rivers aye murmured along,
O'er sands of gold:

Deep were the woods where the nightingale's song
Ever her story of true love told:

Clear was the sea that girded those isles
And dimpled o'er with a thousand smiles,
As it heaved and rolled.

Death might not enter those happy bowers,
Nor biting care:

Sin might not sadden the laughing hours,
Nor Shame lay her hand on the dwellers there:
And I looked on the forms of the long-since dead
As they passed around me, with noiseless tread,
But aspect fair.

And She was there with her poor pale brow,
So sadly wise-

She, the fair one who died but now,
And left us nought but weeping eyes:

And her sweet lips murmured a brother's name,
And a gush of love from her warm heart came
For glad surprise.

And she flung her arms about my neck
And spake of love,

That earth's chill vapours did but check,
And earthly sorrows sorely prove;

For love, she said, is renewed in heaven,

And hearts that on earth death's hand hath riven,
Are joined above!

Hath the circling earth no happy bowers,
As bright and fair?

Doth grief aye sadden the sweet wood-flowers,
And sorrow lurk in the summer air?

Is the mounting lark's full matin song
A tale of sin and shame and wrong
And cankering care?

Have youth's full heart, and woman's love,
And manhood's worth,

Left our poor world for the stars above,
Or perished away from the saddened earth?
Has the step of youth lost its joyous bound?
Do the blooming fields no more resound
With childhood's mirth?

Ah no!-glad Nature laughs to scorn
The heresy!

Childhood is still a golden morn,

And the voice of youth hath not lost its glee,
The fields yet echo with Nature's mirth,

And Love hath changed the once sorrowing earth
To heaven for me!

SUNDAY-SCHOOL EDUCATION.

FIRST ANNUAL REPORT OF THE MANCHESTER DISTRICT SUNDAYSCHOOL ASSOCIATION.*

FIRST PART-presented and read by Mr. E. P. LAMPORT.

In the first Report of the Manchester District Sunday-School Association, it may not be out of place briefly to glance at the circumstances under which it was originated, and to enter, somewhat in detail, into a statement of its character and objects. Two years ago, an aggregate meeting of teachers connected with the three Sunday-schools in Manchester was held in the large room, Lower Mosley Street, and attended by upwards of one hundred teachers. The object of this meeting was to promote a more friendly intercourse among the teachers, and to discuss subjects connected with Sunday-school education. The success of this first effort was such as to induce a further carrying out of the same plan the following year, teachers from other schools in the neighbourhood being also invited. The second meeting was held in the large room under the Strangeways chapel, and was attended by between three and four hundred teachers and friends. All the arrangements of the tea-party were kindly undertaken by the teachers and members of that congregation. The proceedings were of a highly interesting character; and it being the general wish that such meetings should be held regularly and their influence extended, it was resolved that a District Sunday-School Association should be formed. A Committee was appointed to make the necessary arrangements, consisting of the following gentlemen: Messrs. J. O. Curtis, E. P. Lamport, Travers Madge, Brittain, Palmer, Winstanley and Rev. J. H. Layhe. This Committee met, and drew up the following Rules as the basis of the Association: 1. That this Society be named "The Manchester District Sunday-School Association."

2. That the objects of this Association be, the promotion of Sunday-school education by the holding of aggregate meetings of teachers and friends, -the visiting of Schools in the district, and the collecting and diffusing of information on all subjects connected with Sunday-schools. 3. That all Schools in the district can join the Association by signifying their desire to the Secretaries.

4. That all Schools in the Association send a Report to the Secretaries previous to the Annual Meeting.

5. That the management of the Association shall be vested in a Committee