between the extreme western terrace of the Alps, and the first or eastern ridge of the Jura. In its immediate vicinity there are vast morasses, which have been laid dry by canals, cut in every direction, so as to render the soil fertile and the air salubrious. The well-cultivated plain is watered by the river Orbe, which, issuing from the caverns of the Jura, at the distance of no more than a day's journey from Yverdon, and descending through the romantic scenery of Valorbe, forms a superb cascade about the middle of its rapid course, where the whole river, swelled in the early part of summer, by the thaw of the mountain snows, into a majestic torrent, precipitates itself with a sudden fall of about twenty feet over a mass of steep rocks, and fills the neighbouring forest with the echoes of its never ceasing thunders. From thence its turbulent waves roll on over their rough bed, now expanding over a verdant plain, closely surrounded by an amphitheatre of hills and woods; and now again narrowly hemmed in between crags which descend perpendicularly upon the margin of the floods, and whose corresponding angles testify that, united in one mountain in ages unrecorded, they were rent asunder on one of those days when the foundations of the hills moved and were shaken.' A gradual ascent of successive terraces leads from the plain of Yverdon to the eminence which, at a terrific depth beneath, the Orbe is seen bathing with the foam of its mouth the foot of the immovable rocks, and at last working out his passage into the plain through which, as if conscious of his triumph, he proceeds in a slow and circuitous course, to blend his pale waters with the deep azure of the lake. This fine landscape in the back-ground is beautifully contrasted by the prospect of a longitudinal sheet of water, of from six to ten miles in breadth, extending in the direction of N.N.E. to a distance at which the opposite shore can only be distinguished in a perfectly clear state of the atmosphere. The eastern border is formed by several chains of hills, covered with wood, which run parallel to each other, and whose promontories, projecting into the lake, break the uniformity of their gloomy aspect. Violent hurricanes, descending from time to time with a sudden gust from the opposite heights of the Jura, where they are generated by conflicting currents of air in the narrow mountain passes, and stirring up the waters to the very depth, have heaped up the sands on this side, and created extensive shoals, which render navigation, even in still weather, impracticable. The opposite shore, on the contrary, presents a fine coast, rising in an easy slope from the water's edge, whose laughing vineyards, interrupted only by gay villages, are overshadowed by the dark firs with which the Jura is girded round its breast, while its broad front presents, in the region of the clouds, long tracts of rich pasture, with now and then a small hamlet boldly hanging on the brow. To complete the magnificence of this scene, one-half of the horizon, from northeast to south-west, is crowned with the snowy pinnacles of the Alps, raised above one another; and, towering above them all, the giant Mont Blanc, with his everlasting pillars of ice.

"Such was the school in which the pupils of Pestalozzi learned how the earth is fashioned, and what is the appointed course of the waters. He taught them to watch the gathering up of the morning mists, and the shadows of the early clouds, which, passing over the glittering lake, hid for a moment, as with a veil of dark gauze, its streams of undulating gold. He directed their eyes to the flaming characters with which the sun writes the farewell of day on the trackless surface of eternal snow-he stood listening with them to the majestic voice of Nature, when the autumnal gale, howling on the floods, rolled billow after billow to the bleak shore-he guided their steps to the mountain caves, from whose deep recesses the stately rivers draw their inexhaustible supplies. Wherever he found a leaf in the mysterious book of creation laid open, he gave it them to read; and thus, within the narrow sphere of their horizon, taught them more of earth and earth-born beings than they could have learned by travelling, in the pages of a heavy volume, all round the globe."

Though Pestalozzi's method was organised into a system, it was not sacrificed to system, like many similiar institutions, but kept up through Pestalozzi's vigorous lifetime its essentially intuitional

character. Its normal constitution was altogether subordinate to this, what may be termed the spiritual life which gave that constitution vitality. In the hands of many who imitated him, however, it degenerated into a dead normal factory, where educational fabrics were woven to clothe the nakedness of ignorance, exciting a negative heat, and neglecting the true internal source-the living thought— which never shall be cast off, but shall pass with us, as part of our eternal garmentry, to heaven. Pestalozzi was no scholar, but he was what was infinitely better-a thinker. He required but the elements of knowledge for his purpose, for he used them but as materials for thinking, and the young minds he was training could only digest elementary knowledge. We must not, however, deem Pestalozzi a superficial thinker. He thought for himself, and that, with much natural power, made him a strong and penetrating thinker.

Power He was earnest,

His heart, too, was as sound and as great as his intellect. and simplicity were alike characteristic of him. and that was much. His own description of himself we had realised

ere we had read its confession:

"Thousands pass away, as nature gave them birth, in the corruption of sensual gratification, and they seek no more.

"Tens of thousands are overwhelmed by the burdens of craft and trade, by the weight of the hammer, the ell, or the crown, and they seek no more.

"But I know a man who did seek more. The joy of simplicity dwelt in his heart, and he had faith in mankind such as few men have; his soul was made for friendship: love was his aliment, and fidelity his strongest tie.

"But he was not made by this world, nor for it; and wherever he was placed in it, he was found unfit.

"And the world that found him thus, asked not whether it was his fault, or the fault of another; but it bruised him with an iron hammer, as the bricklayers break an old brick to fill up crevices.

"But though bruised, he yet trusted in mankind more than in himself; and he proposed to himself a great purpose, which to attain, he suffered agonies, and learned lessons such as few mortals had learned before him.

"He could not, nor would he become generally useful, but for his purpose he was more useful than most men are for theirs, and he expected justice at the hands of mankind, whom he still loved with an innocent love. But he found Those that erected themselves into his judges, without further examination, confirmed the former sentence, that he was generally and absolutely useless. "This was the grain of sand which decided the doubtful balance of his wretched destines.

none.

"He is no more; thou wouldst know him no more; all that remains of him are the decayed remnants of his destroyed existence.

"He fell as a fruit that falls before it is ripe, whose blossom has been nipped by the northern gale, or whose core is eaten out by the gnawing worm.

"Stranger that passest by, refuse not a tear of sympathy; even in falling, this fruit turned itself towards the stem, on the branches of which it lingered through the summer, and it whispered to the tree, Verily, even in my death will I nourish thy roots.'

"Stranger that passest by, spare the perishing fruit, and allow the dust of its corruption to nourish the roots of the tree on whose branches it lived, sickened, and died."

But though Pestalozzi had the gratification of proving the practicability of his scheme, he had to submit to the pain of seeing his institution ruined by internal discord, caused by one of his assistants, Joseph Schmid. This cast a gloom over the last days of his life

darker than he had ever felt before, and that, when his years precluded the buoyant indulgence of hope. A mind, however, such as his must have felt a serious satisfaction in having worked out to the utmost of his ability that mission which the extent and character of his capacities so well qualified him to undertake as the distinctive duty he was called upon by the terms of his existence to perform. He died at Brugg, in the Canton of Basle, on Feb. 17, 1827. He was one of those few great original thinkers, who seem born specially for their time to direct the current of civilisation into its true channel.

A TALE OF STRATH-CLUTHA.

"TWAS calm: 'twas stilly calm; beneath the eye
The unruffled lake a mighty mirror lay

Of molten silver, whilst on either side
The mountains sloped with an uncertain swell
Into the azure sky, where the bright moon,
Like some fond mother o'er her slumbering child,
With wakeful eye smiled on the scene beneath.
No sound disturbed the stillness of the scene,
Save on the lone hill-side the leveret's cry
Broke now and then; the porpoise on the lake
Breathed hard and low; and nearer still
The regal salmon sprang into the air

In all the pride of his high-vaulting strength,
And in the golden beauty of the hour

Bathed for one little moment, and then dropped
With sunken plash into the deep again.

In the clear moonlight you could trace full well
The varied windings of the pebbly bays,
That silver-fringed the outline of the lake.

Far in the distance, Gourock's glimmering lights
Shone faint and dim. Oft in the stormy night
They've been the guide of him who braves the main
To earn a scanty pittance from its depths.
Far down the coast stood Clutha's sentinel*
With ever-wakeful eye-the rock-bound shore
Faithfully guarding through the watch of night,
Lest in the darkness, or the maze of mist,
The toil-worn sailor, in his battered ship,
Miss his true path, and on the sunken reef
Shatter his bark and sink in sight of home!
On such a night as this, its constant light
Seemed useless; for the brighter lamp above
Diffused a universal light around,

Eclipsing all, save her own children fair

The bright-eyed stars that form her glorious train,
And with the sweetness of their mother's smile,
Shed a new beauty o'er the entrancing scene.
Across the bosom of the silent lake

Sped a light bark with outspread bank of oars,
Dashing to either side the silver spray

With steady buoyant prow, urged by the nerve
Of four stout seamen, who, with measured chant,
Winnowed the yielding deep with ceaseless stroke-

*The Cloch Lighthouse.

A fifth with guiding hand controlled her course.
Forth had they sped from Gourock's sheltered shore,
To suare with deadly net the unwary trout,
Which at that hour suspect no wily foe.
The fishermen, accustomed to the lake-
The scene to them of oft-recurring toil—
Felt not so much the magic of the hour,
As he, who, seated at the helm, gazed round
In dreamy admiration of the scene.

To him the scene was new, and he had come
With other thought than that of making gain.
A sailor he of gentle birth, whose youth
Upon the untamed billows of the main
Had ripened into manhood bold and free.

O'er the wide world he'd been, where'er there was
The beautiful or grand-and danger that
Must oft be run in perilous emprise.

He learned to love-and in his youth had stood
By Nelson's side when blasting Britain's foes,
And won approval from that hero's lips

For daring deeds that made the bravest quail.
The noble frankness of his heart had won
A gentle maid, who loved him tenderly.
That full-orbed moon on high was but the third
Had smiled upon their union; but the wild
Majestic beauty of the hills-the still,
Clear, calmness of the sea-born lake, had won
Him from her side for one short summer night.
She, though the night was clear, the sea so calm,
Slept not; but at the window-casement looked
Full out upon the sea-watched all alone.
Ere daylight faded from the sky, had she
Sat down to see them starting from the shore,
And with her kerchief white returned the waive
Of his fond arm, that meant to say "Good night!"
The eve had passed into the night, and still
She sat, dividing her sad gaze between
The sea and sky: she feared, though now so calm,
The sky would frown before the boat's return,
And lash the sleeping billows into rage.

Why dost thou fear, fond heart? Is there a sign
Within thine eye-range that unsettles thee?
Not one-a liquid hush is over all;
But lurketh still a boding fear within:
She feels it, yet she cannot reason why.
Ashamed at length of her fond causeless fear,
She quick unrobed, and gliding into bed
Tried hard to drown her fears in careless sleep.
Alas! 'twas vain-the moonlight on the bed
She could not help but gaze at, and still watch.
Sudden the place whereon the moonbeams fell
Grew dark-she started up, as if a form
Unearthly had stalked past her in the night.
She darted to the window, there she saw
A dark cloud shroud the moon, and underneath,
The waves quick fretted by the rising wind.
With sinking heart she saw the clouds increase-

With terror heard the rising wind sweep past,
And the hoarse roar along the rocky shore.
She tried to pierce the gathering gloom-perchance
The skilful fishermen foresee the storm,
And home return before the appointed time.
Ah no! her eye-search meets no likely thing
That may take on the form of their light skiff.
The angry waves swell higher-the wild wind
Tears the white foam from off their seething tops,
And drives it fine as snowdrift through the air.
Ah! woe to that devoted bark, if she

Hath not found safety in some neighbouring port!
No strength or skill of man can save her now!
The clouds, winds, waves, rush madly on together,
And here and there a fitful lurid gleam
Of the pale moon breaks out and disappears,
As if it cannot bear to look upon

The fury of the scene, but late so calm.
Sudden she heard quick voices on the road
Beneath the window; bending o'er, she saw
Dark figures moving past with torches lit.
Wrapping a cloak around her trembling form,
She rushed amid the group and found them friends,
The anxious relatives of those at sea.

"Quick-let us hasten to the Lighthouse point,"
Cried one-a veteran, who best could tell

Where they would try to make their landing good.
Scarce had she heard their purpose, when she snatched
A blazing torch, and foremost led the way:
"We may arrive too late to help," she cried,
"Speed, speed your steps, and may God aid us now!"
The fishermen had seen the rising storm-

Were eager hastening to regain their home
Before its rage should burst. Alas! 'twas vain—
The wind and tide were adverse: they were caught

In the mid channel by the first fell blast
That swept the spray in showers into the boat.
Their bark is frail-they may not dare to stem
The mad conflicting fury of the waves,
Shaking their angry manes free of the blast
That clutches them with fierce relentless grip,
As the fell eagle does its struggling prey.
They seize a passing lull to veer her round,
And let her drive before the angry blast.
The same hand holds the helm; with steady skill
Doth make the obedient bark dash off the waves
That threaten to o'erleap her-in their wrath
Tossing their quivering crests up to the sky,
Gnashing away their spite in seething foam.
Swift with the swelling wind the frail bark flies,
The gaping waves relentlessly pursue
Their helpless prey, like hounds full-cry upon
A panting stag that dares not stand at bay.

Right towards the Cloch they bend the boat's swift course;
A rock-bound shore and dangerous, but wind

And wrathful waves cut off all other ports;
And the light gleaming from the lofty tower