THE HUNTERS OF THE ALPS. An excellent account of the perilous employment of Chamois Hunting among the Glaciers of the Alps is given in M. SIMOND'S Switzerland, from which we extract the following particulars.

The hunter must have an excellent constitution, to enable him to bear the extreme of cold after being heated by exercise, sleeping on the damp ground, hunger and thirst, and every other hardship and privation. He must have great muscular strength, to climb all day with a heavy gun, ammunition, and provisions, and the game he kills; he must have a keen sight, a steady foot and head, and patience equal to his courage.

Chamois goats are very fearful, and their sense of smell and sight being most acute, it is frequently difficult to approach them. They are sometimes hunted with dogs, but oftener without, as dogs drive them to places where it is difficult to follow. When a dog is used he is led silently to the track, which he never will afterwards lose, the scent being very strong. The hunter either lies in wait in some narrow pass through which the game will most probably take its flight, or follows his dog, with which he keeps pace by taking a straighter direction, but calls him back when he judges the chamois to be inclined to lie down to rest. An old male will frequently turn against the dog, when pursued, and while keeping him at bay, allows the hunter to approach near him.

Hunters, two or three in company, generally proceed without dogs. They carry a sharp hoe to cut steps in the ice, each his rifle, hooks to be fastened to his shoes, a mountain stick with a point of iron, a short spy glass, barley-cakes, cheese, and brandy made of gentian or cherries. Sleeping the first night at some of those huts, which are left open at all times, and always provided with a little dry wood for a fire, they reach their hunting grounds at day-light.

The utmost watchfulness and patience are requisite on the part of the hunter, when approaching his game; a windward situation would infallibly betray him by the scent. He creeps on from one hiding rock to another, with his shirt over his clothes, and lies motionless in the snow, often for half an hour together, when the herd appears alarmed and near taking flight. Whenever he is near enough to distinguish the bending of the horns, that is, about the distance of

two hundred or two hundred and fifty steps, he takes aim; but if at the moment of raising his piece the chamois should look towards him, he must remain perfectly still, the least motion would put them to flight, before he could fire, and he is too far to risk a shot otherwise than at rest. In taking aim he endeavours to pick out the darkest coat, which is always the fattest animal. Accustomed as the chamois are to frequent and loud noises among the glaciers, they do not mind the report of the arms so much as the smell of gunpowder, or the sight of a man. There are instances of the hunter having time to load again, and fire a second time after missing the first, if not seen. No one but such a sportsman can understand the joy of him, who, after so much toil, sees his prey fall. With shouts of savage triumph he springs to seize it, up to his knees in snow, despatches the victim if he finds it not quite dead, and often swallows a draught of warm blood, deemed a specific against giddiness! He then guts the beast, to lessen its weight, ties the feet together, in such a manner as to pass his arms through on each side, and proceeds down the mountain, much lighter for the additional load he carries!

At home the chamois is cut up, and the pieces salted or smoked; the skin is sold to make gloves and leathern breeches, and the horns are hung up as a trophy in the family. A middle-sized chamois weighs from fifty to seventy pounds, and when in good case yields as much as seven pounds of fat.

Our engraving represents the perilous situation of John Fellmann and Gabriel Schitts, two chamois hunters on the Finsteraarhorn in Switzerland, on the 14th Oct. 1822. In the eager pursuit of their prey, they had both slipped down to a narrow shelf of the mountain, overhanging a precipice of fearful depth. Behind them was an almost perpendicular rock, up which it appeared impossible for any human being to climb. After remaining in this alarming situation for some time, one of them bent down with his foot overhanging the precipice, so that the other might step on his shoulder and thus reach a small projection of the rock, by means of which he contrived to arrive at the top, and then let down a rope to his companion.

Not unfrequently the best marksman is selected to lie in wait for the game, while his associates, leaving their rifles loaded by him, and acting the part of hounds, drive it towards the spot. Sometimes when

the passage is too narrow, a chamois, reduced to the last extremity, will rush headlong on the foe, whose only resource to avoid the encounter, which on the brink of precipices must be fatal, is to lie down, and let the frightened animal pass over him. It is Wonderful to see them climb abrupt and naked rocks, and leap from one narrow cliff to another, the smallest projection serving them for a point of rest, upoй which they alight, but only to take another spring.

The leader of the herd is always an old female, hever à male. She stands watching, when the others lie down, and rests, when they are up at feed, listening to every sound, and anxiously looking round. She often ascends a fragment of rock, or heap of drifted snow, for a wide field of observation, making a sort of gentle hissing noise when she suspects any danger. But when the sound rises to a sharper note the whole troop flies at once, like the wind, to some more remote and higher part of the mountain: the death of this old leader is generally fatal to the herd. Their fondfess for salt makes them frequent salt-springs and salt marshes, where hunters lie in wait for them. The hunters sometimes practise a very odd seheme. The chamois being apt to approach cattle in the pastures, and graze near them, a hunter will crawl on all fours, with salt spread on his back, to attract the cattle, and is immediately surrounded and hidden by them so completely, that he finds no difficulty in advancing very near the chamois and taking a sure aim. At other times, when discovered, he will drive his stick into the snow, and placing his hat on the top of it, creep away, and while the game remains intent on the strange object, he will return by another way.

In May the young are brought forth, which walk from the moment of their birth, and are very pretty and tame. When caught, they are easily reared, but cannot live in a warm stable in winter. The age of each individual is known by the number of rings marked on its horns, each year adding a new one. In winter, they subsist on mosses, which are not unlike Iceland moss, and on the young shoots, and the bark of pines. By scratching away the snow, they also come at the grass and moss on the ground, and it frequently happens that a whole bed of snow, sliding off a steep declivity, lays bare a great extent of pasture. Those that frequent forests are generally larger and better fed than those which live mostly on the high and naked parts of the mountain, but none of them are lean in winter. In spring, on the contrary, when they feed on new grass, they become sickly and poor.

Who would suppose that the French Revolution and invasion of Switzerland could have affected chamois among the glaciers of the Alps! Yet so it was; all restrictions on hunting having been set aside, they were in a few years almost annihilated. Where herds of fifty chamois used often to be seen together, scarcely more than ten were afterwards met, and the species would by this time have been extinct, if the former restrictions on hunting had not been re-established. It is not uncommon in the spring, to see on the glaciers the bodies of chamois, killed during the winter by avalanches, by stones rolling down upon them, and occasionally by unsuccessful leaps. Sometimes they are attacked by the lämmergeyer, and a stroke of its powerful wing is sufficient to dash them down precipices, where the ravenous bird follows them, and feeds at leisure on their flesh. Those who hunt the chamois also meet with dreadful accidents; in 1799, on the Wetterhorn, a falling stone carried off the head of one of them, and threw his body down a precipice, while the companion of the unfortunate hunter, three steps off, escaped unhurt. This continual exposure to danger and hardships, and the solitary life they lead,

SUNDAY AT SEA,

WRITTEN BY THE LATE BISHOP TURNER,
on his Voyage to India.
Bounding along the obedient surges,
Cheerly on her onward way,
Her course the gallant vessel urges

Across thy stormy gulph, Biscay!
In the sun the bright waves glisten.

Rising slow with measured swell, Hark! what sounds unwonted! Listen! Listen! 'tis the Sabbath bell. Hushed the tempest's wild commotion,

Winds and waves have ceased their war, O'er the wide and sullen ocean

That shrill sound is heard afar. And comes it as a note of gladness,

To thy tried spirit? wanderer tell: Or rather does thy heart's deep sadness, Wake at that simple Sabbath bell?

It speaks of ties which duties sever,

Of hearts so fondly knit to thee; Kind hands, kind looks, which, wanderer, never Thine hand shall grasp, thine eye shall see. It speaks of home and all its pleasures,

Of scenes where memory loves to dwell; And bids thee count thy heart's best treasures: Far, far away, that Sabbath bell.

Listen again; thy wounded spirit

Shall soar from earth, and seek above
That kingdom which the blest inherit,
The mansions of eternal love.
Earth and its lowly cares forsaking,

(Pursued too keenly, loved too well) To faith and hope thy soul awaking,

Thou hearest with joy the Sabbath bell.

ON THE DUTIES AND ADVANTAGES OF
SOCIETY.

No. II. BENEFIT SOCIETIES.

IN a former paper, (page 30) we introduced the subject of BENEFIT SOCIETIES, and we now proceed to a more particular discussion of the principles applicable to such associations, previously to entering into the details of their management.

It has been said that where practicable, self-relief is always the best; but in some cases it is not possible, and in others it is not perhaps, even desirable. Doubtless it is true that every man should provide against the evil day,—that he should not as we are all too apt to do take the sunny hours of life for the average of it. The hour of fame is but too often the rock upon which the lovers of glory split; the smiles of fortune delude the merchant; and the labourer but too often buys poverty and misery, while his sinews are strong and his labour in great demand. There is, indeed, so much of self-flattery in our composition, that our own anticipation of life is seldom a safe guide to us, unless we take with it our experience of the fate of others.

But there are dangers on both sides. A rock as well as a quicksand. We must provide against the evil day; but we must provide honestly against it. Not merely honestly in the common sense of the word; but honestly, so that we may keep the heart pure and the affections warm; and thus enjoy life as well as acquire the means of supporting it. The man whose thoughts are wholly occupied about getting money, and who through fear of want some day, lives in want every day, is far more to be pitied than the more generous man who has not a penny. He is also in some danger of defeating his own object, because he is not so free to apply his mind to the doing of that which he is called upon to do. That cold love of money

which such a disposition iosters, withers all our good feelings. In a country so mercantile as England, there may be some danger of the increase of such a spirit: one of the best means of counteracting it, is by showing men that they may have other attachments to their fellow men than those which spring merely from money; and it is one of the advantages of BENEFIT SOCIETIES, that they tend to produce such a feeling. It is needless to plead the tendency that working people have to spend what they earn as fast as they earn it, in a country where there are so many enjoyments to be bought as there are in England; for we have the fact itself to prove the tendency, and we have it in other classes besides the mere labourers.

and spur on those of duller powers. When society is properly constituted, there are bonds of union among all the classes; but then there may be, is, and should be, esteem and kindly dispositions in the members of every rank towards each other. But there can be no very intimate and profitable friendship, except among those who in point of station are nearly equal. Friendship requires like habits, and modes of thinking; and to give it its full usefulness, something at least approaching to a likeness of pursuits. No doubt this may be carried to too great an extent, and render those among whom it subsists, a knot, or combination, apart from the rest of society; ignorant of its duties, and therefore less capable of performing their parts in it. within due bounds, and these are by no means narrow, its effects are highly beneficial.

But

In the first place, some of the vices, and much of the misery of the married working people of this country, and of their children, arise from the fact of the parents having got into a habit of spending more upon themselves before marriage than they can afford to spend after. Marriage brings neither new skill to the head nor dexterity to the hands,-tends in no way whatever to increase either the quantity or the quality of work; and therefore, though some are in the habit of giving more wages to married men than to single, such a practice is rather to be set down to the score of expediency, than justified upon principle. When the parties find their enjoyments lessened after marriage, they often blame each other; and the peace of the family is broken, never again to be wholly made up. Each, too, will resort to some of their old gratifications whenever they can, even though it be at the expense of the children. But if young men (and women) were to pay into a Benefit Society a part of their earnings, they would avoid some of their unnecessary expenditure before marriage; the funds of the Society would be increased; and provision might thus be made for furnishing the house at the time of marriage.

Secondly, the members of such Society being of the same class, the benefit is mutual; therefore none need feel degraded when getting support. They are, in fact, only reaping that which they themselves have sown; and reaping it with the feeling that it has been a benefit to others during the time that they themselves did not need it.

Thirdly, from the favourable view which all people take of their own fortunes and success, more especially when they are young, those who join such a Benefit Society, have a feeling, that in so doing they are performing a good and generous action; and thus they have an immediate share of the blessedness of those who give.' The young man who pays his sixpence a week, or a month, or whatever it may be, into the Society's funds, has a nobler feeling than if he put it into his box. If being a member of the Society had no other advantage than the producing, or perhaps it is more correct to say, the keeping alive of this generous feeling, still that would be well worth all the rest. Fourthly, the Benefit Society is a bond of union among the members, because they have a common interest in it, and a common care over it. In the management of it, they are each 'helping his neighbour,' and saying to his brother, 'Be of good courage.' they do that habitually on one subject, they will do it on other subjects. Each will thus find friends in the very class of society in which it is most desirable to have them; and the intelligent and active will inform

If

Fifthly, those who are members of Benefit Socie ties, are exempted from many anxieties and fears, to which those who have no such dependance are sub

more are those apprehensions likely to prey on his mind, and bring about the very evils which he dreads. Many workmen are much exposed to accidents in the course of their business; all are liable to disease, and certain of death; and any of these may come at very short warning.

Now, if a man has much feeling, every time that he is placed in danger, and every time that he feels pain, the danger must be increased, and the pain rendered more sharp, by the thoughts of his family. When he is laid upon a sick-bed, his affliction must be deepened, and his recovery hindered, by the thought that his family are in absolute want, or dependent on the charity of others. And when the hour of death arrives, that sad and solemn parting hour will be embittered by the thought that those whom he loved, and had reason to love, are left destitute; and that his own body can only be saved from burial at the expense of the parish, by their sacrificing the necessaries of life. He who has a provision, however small, in the funds of the Benefit Society, and who feels that that provision is his own, has a reason for calmness of mind in those hours of trial, to which the others are utter strangers. Some may set lightly by these things, and call them matters of mere feeling; but they who do so are themselves little worthy of attention, except as mistaken people, whom we charitably hope to win from the error of their way.

Sixthly, there are advantages and securities in regard to funds placed in a Benefit Society, which are not attainable by any other means. The money is more secure than in the hands of the party; for if it were in his own hands he might be tempted to use it at every little reverse. A needy man's money Some may

cannot be in worse hands than his own. be disposed to put these considerations forward as more important than the matters of feeling; but, in reality, they are not so important. Money is the measure of its own value; but no sum can measure the value of that good conduct, which is the necessary fruit of right feelings.

ANECDOTE OF FREDERICK THE GREAT. THE following interesting anecdote of Frederick the Second, King of Prussia, better known as Frederick the Great, is given by Lord Dover in his life of that monarch.

During one of Frederick's journeys through Silesia, the wife of a peasant, near Breslau, had presented to him a basket of fruit; and had been so touched by the kindness with which he received it, that she determined to send him another the next year to Pots.

dam. She accompanied the offering with the following note.

"Most dear, and most clement, our lord the king,

"As our fruit has not succeeded better this year than the last, you must condescend to receive it, such as it is. I and my husband have picked out the best we could find, and we have packed it up as well as we were able with straw and hay. We hope you will eat it in good health. Pray God give you a long life, in order that you may be able to come and see us for many years to come. I will always keep the best I have for you. I and my husband entreat you, therefore, to regard us with favour; especially, because our little bit of land produces less than it did, and that we have a debt upon it of 120 crowns, ten groschen, and six fenins. Moreover, we commend you to the protection of Almighty God; and we shall be, till death, and for ever, of your majesty, "the faithful and devoted subjects, "I AND MY HUSBAND." To this communication Frederick replied thus :— Good mother,

"I am much obliged to you for your fine fruit. If God grants health and life to me, I will return and see you a year hence. Keep something for me, in order that I may find it when I come to you. With regard to what you tell me of your little bit of land being charged with a debt of 120 crowns, ten groschen, and six fenins, that is really a bad business. You should be very economical, otherwise your affairs will go back instead of advancing. I send you herewith 200 crowns, which I have also packed up as well as I was able. Pay your debts with them, and free your bit of land. Take care to economise as much as you are able: this is a counsel which I give you seriously, as your attached king, "FREDERIC."

HOPE.

HUMAN life has not a surer friend, nor many times a greater enemy, than Hope. Hope is the miserable man's God, which in the hardest gripe of calamity never fails to yield him beams of comfort. It is to the presumptuous man a Devil, which leads him awhile in a smooth way, and then on a sudden makes him break his neck. Hope is to man as a bladder to one learning to swim; it keeps him from sinking in the bosom of the waves, and by that help he may attain the exercise; but yet it many times makes him venture beyond his height; and then if that breaks, or a storm rises, he drowns without recovery. How many would die, did not Hope sustain them! How many have died by hoping too much! This wonder we may find in Hope; that she is both a flatterer and a true friend. Like a valiant captain in a losing battle, it is ever encouraging man, and never leaves him, till they both expire together. While breath pants in the dying body, there is Hope fleeting in the wavering soul. It is almost as the air on which the mind doth live.

There is one thing which may add to our value of it; that it is appropriate unto man alone. For surely beasts have not Hope at all; they are only capable of the present; whereas man apprehending future things, hath this given him for the sustentation of his drooping soul. Who could live surrounded by calamities, did not smiling Hope cheer him with expectation of deliverance? There is no estate so miserable as to exclude her comfort. Imprison, vex, fright, torture, shew death with his horridest brow, yet Hope will dash in her reviving rays, that shall illumine and exhilarate in the swell of these.

Nor does Hope more friend us with her gentle shine, than she often fools us with her sweet delusions. She cozens the thief of the coin he steals; and cheats the gamester more than even the falsest die. It abuseth universal man, from him that stoops to the loam wall (a cot of clay) upon the naked common, to the monarch on his purple throne. Whatsoever good we

see, it tells us we may obtam it, and in a little time tumble ourselves in the down-bed of our wishes; but it often performs like Domitian, promising all with nothing. It is indeed the rattle which Nature did provide, to still the froward crying of the fond child, man. Certainly it requires a great deal of judgment to balance our hopes even. He that hopes for nothing will never attain to any thing. This good comes of overhoping, that it sweetens our passage through the world, and sometimes so sets us to work as to produce great actions. But then again he that hopes too much shall deceive himself at the last; especially if his industry is a barren undoer. The best is to hope for things goes not along to fertilize it. For Hope without action possible and probable. If we can take her comforts without transferring to her our confidence, we shall surely find her a sweet companion. I will be content my hope shall travail beyond reason; but I would not have her build there. So I shall thus reap the benefit of her present service, yet prevent the treason she might beguile me with.-Owen FELTHAM, 1636.

The swelling of an outward fortune can
Create a prosp'rous, not a happy man;
A peacefull Conscience is the true Content,
And Wealth is but her golden ornament.
QUARLES. 1630.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.