In another place, a child two years old was found unhurt, lying on his straw mattress upon the mud, without any vestige of the house from which he had been separated.  Such a mass of earth and stones rushed at once into the lake of Sowertey, although five miles distant, that one end of it was filled up, and a prodigious wave passing completely over the island of Schwanau, seventy feet above the usual level of the water, overwhelmed the opposite shore, and, as it returned, swept away into the lake many houses with their inhabitants.  The chapel of Olton, built of wood, was found half a league from the place it had previously occupied, and many large blocks of stone completely changed their position.

SIMOND’S Switzerland.

THE RIFLEMAN OF CHIPPEWA.

At the time of the French and Indian wars, the American army was encamped on the plains of Chippewa.  Colonel St. Clair, the commander, was a bold and meritorious officer; but there was mixed with his bravery a large share of rashness or indiscretion.  His rashness, in this case, consisted in encamping on an open plain beside a thick wood, from which an Indian scout could easily pick off his outposts, without being exposed, in the least, to the fire of the sentinel.

Five nights had passed, and every night he had been surprised by the disappearance of a sentry, who stood at a lonely post in the vicinity of the forest.  These repeated disasters had struck such a dread into the breasts of the remaining soldiers, that no one would volunteer to take the post, and the commander, knowing it would be throwing away their lives, let it remain unoccupied several nights.

At length a rifleman of the Virginia corps, volunteered his services.  He was told the danger of the duty; but he laughed at the fears of his comrades, saying he would return safe, to drink the health of his commander in the morning.  The guard marched up soon after, and he shouldered his rifle, and fell in.  He arrived at his bounds, and, bidding his fellow-sentinels good-night, assumed the duties of his post.

The night was dark, from the thick clouds that overspread the firmament.  No star shone on the sentinel as he paced his lonely path, and naught was heard but the mournful hoot of the owl, as she raised her nightly wail from the withered branch of the venerable oak.  At length, a low rustling among the bushes on the right, caught his ear.  He gazed long toward the spot whence the sound seemed to proceed; but saw nothing, save the impenetrable gloom of the thick forest which surrounded the encampment.  Then, as he marched onward, he heard the joyful cry of “all’s well,” after which he seated himself upon a stump, and fell into a reverie.  While he thus sat, a savage entered the open space behind, and, after buckling his tunic, with numerous folds, tight around his body, drew over his head the skin of a wild boar, with the