of the ice at the lower end of a glacier as between a recent deposit of coral sand or a mud-bed in an estuary and the metamorphic limestone or clay slate twisted and broken as they are seen in the very chains of mountains from which the glaciers descend.  A geologist, familiar with all the changes to which a bed of rock may be subjected from the time it was deposited in horizontal layers up to the time when it was raised by Plutonic agencies along the sides of a mountain-ridge, bent and distorted in a thousand directions, broken through the thickness of its mass, and traversed by innumerable fissures which are themselves filled with new materials, will best be able to understand how the stratification of snow may be modified by pressure and displacement so as finally to appear like a laminated mass full of cracks and crevices, in which the original stratification is recognized only by the practical student.  I trust in my next article I shall be able to explain intelligibly to my readers even these extreme alterations in the condition of the primitive snow of the Alpine summits.

* * * * *

TWO SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF BLONDEL.

SCENE I.—­Near a Castle in Germany.

    ’Twere no hard task, perchance, to win
      The popular laurel for my song;
    ’Twere only to comply with sin,
      And own the crown, though snatched by wrong: 
    Rather Truth’s chaplet let me wear,
     Though sharp as death its thorns may sting;
    Loyal to Loyalty, I bear
     No badge but of my rightful king.

    Patient by town and tower I wait,
     Or o’er the blustering moorland go;
    I buy no praise at cheaper rate,
     Or what faint hearts may fancy so: 
    For me, no joy in lady’s bower,
      Or hall, or tourney, will I sing,
    Till the slow stars wheel round the hour
      That crowns my hero and my king.

    While all the land runs red with strife,
      And wealth is won by peddler-crimes,
    Let who will find content in life
      And tinkle in unmanly rhymes: 
    I wait and seek; through dark and light,
      Safe in my heart my hope I bring,
    Till I once more my faith may plight
      To him my whole soul owns her king.

    When power is filched by drone and dolt,
      And, with caught breath and flashing eye,
    Her knuckles whitening round the bolt,
      Vengeance leans eager from the sky,—­
    While this and that the people guess,
      And to the skirts of praters cling,
    Who court the crowd they should compress,—­
      I turn in scorn to seek my king.

    Shut in what tower of darkling chance
      Or dungeon of a narrow doom,
    Dream’st thou of battle-axe and lance
      That for the cross make crashing room? 
    Come! with strained eyes the battle waits
      In the wild van thy mace’s swing;
    While doubters parley with their fates,
      Make thou thine own and ours, my king!