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to maintain its distance above us. We at length cleared the ice, and gained a stretch of snow which enabled us to treble our upward speed. Thence
to some loose and shingly rocks, again to the snow, whence a sharp edge led directly up to the top. The exhilaration of success was here added to that derived from physical nature. On the top fluttered a little black flag planted by our most recent predecessors. We reached it at 7:15 A. M., having accomplished the ascent from the Faulberg in six hours. The snow was flattened on either side of the apex so as to enable us all to stand upon it, and here we stood for some time, with all the magnificence of the Alps unrolled before us.
We may look upon these mountains again and again from a dozen different points of view, a perennial glory surrounds them which associates with every new prospect fresh impressions. I thought I had scarely ever seen the Alps to greater advantage. Hardly ever was their majesty more fully revealed or more overpowering. The coloring of the air contributed as much to the effect as the grandeur of the masses on which the coloring fell. A calm splendor overspread the mountains, softening the harshness of the outlines without detracting from their strength. But half the interest of such scenes is psychological; the soul takes the tint of surrounding nature, and in its turn becomes majestic.
And as I looked over this wondrous scene toward Mont Blanc, the Grand Combin, the Dent Blanche, the Weisshorn, the Dom, and the thousand lesser peaks which seemed to join in celebration of the risen day, I asked myself, as on previous occasions: How was this colossal work performed? Who chiselled these mighty and picturesque masses out of a mere protuberance of the earth? And the answer was at hand. Ever young, ever mightywith the vigor of a thousand worlds still within him—the real sculptor was even then climbing up the eastern sky. It was he who raised aloft the waters which cut out these ravines; it was he who planted the glaciers on the mountain-slopes, thus giving gravity a plow to open out the valleys; and it is he who, acting through the ages, will finally lay low these mighty mountains, rolling them gradually seaward
“Sowing the seeds of continents to be”; so that the people of an older earth may see mould spread and corn wave over the hidden rocks which at this moment bear the weight of the Jungfrau.
ABOU BEN ADHEM
By LEIGH HUNT
BOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe in
crease!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight of his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of goldExceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?” The vision raised its head, And with a look made all of sweet accord, Answer'd, “The names of those who love the
Lord.” “And is mine one?” said Abou. "Nay, not so,” Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
. But cheerily still, and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one who loves his fellow men.”
The angel wrote and vanish’d. The next night
bless'd, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
By ANNA McCALEB LORENCE NIGHTINGALE, the youngest daughter of Edward Shore Nightingale, was born in 1820 in Florence, Italy, and was named for the city. Her father was of the family of Shores of Embley, Hants, and had
adopted the name of Nightingale in accordance with the will of his grand-uncle, Peter Nightingale, from whom he had inherited the estate of Lea Hurst in Derbyshire. Mr. Nightingale was a man of wealth and prominence. He had ideas far in advance of his age in regard to the training of girls, and his daughters, Frances and Florence, were instructed in music, in modern languages, in the classics and in mathematics. Miss Florence was a special favorite, and this does not seem strange when one learns what manner of child she
The desire to do something to help, which was so strong in her all her life, showed itself very early, and one of the best-known stories of her childhood relates to her first attempt at nursing.
According to this story, Florence was one day riding with the vicar, a friend of the family, who was especially fond of the unselfish, helpful child, and who often took her with him on his rounds. They came upon an old shepherd of Mr. Nightingale's, who was in the field attempting to gather his flock together, but with no great success.