ed that
he might be allowed to give concerts with his children. Franz labored
diligently at his studies, and already was he beginning to surprise
his friends, not only with his playing, but with his composition.

Years passed: there was a great gathering in that grand old capital. A
musical festival was in progress, and all the celebrities the world
over had congregated there. Franz Hoffner was in the zenith of his
glory. At the close of the performance, and while the entire audience
joined in acclamations of praise to the youthful leader, a rich medal
was presented. On one side the profile view of the elector and his
daughter, set round with diamonds; on the other, "Music is only
valuable as it lifts the heart and purifies our fallen nature."

Franz Hoffner lived to be a great musician; but he never ceased to
think of his parents and Nanette. Honors were empty, and applause
vain, only so far as they contributed to the happiness of those he
loved.

The Glaciers Of Savoy

After a few weeks passed in Geneva, we determined to go on to
Chamouni, and for this purpose engaged a guide accustomed for years to
the mountain passes, and on whom we were told that we could rely
implicitly.

This being arranged, we took a last drive around the environs of the
city; the views of the lake and of the mountains in every direction,
were enchanting and sublime. From the head of the lake, a greater
variety of interesting objects met the eye than can be seen perhaps
from any other spot in Europe. At your feet you behold a venerable and
populous city; while a vast and beautiful lake spreads its clear waves
beyond, amid a landscape rich in all the products a cultivated soil
can furnish; while vast and gloomy mountains stretch their giant forms
on high. In clear weather, Mont Blanc appears the venerable monarch of
the Alps. Below this, Saleve rises to upwards of three thousand feet,
with the uninterrupted length of the Jura on the left, whose highest
point is over four thousand. Proceeding along the banks of the Arve,
we at length alighted at the entrance of a thicket, through which we
made our way with difficulty, the path being hilly and very slippery,
to a place where we saw at our feet the celebrated junction of the
Arve and the Rhone. The Arve has a thick soapy appearance; the Rhone
is of a fine dark green, and seems for a while to spurn a connection
with its muddy visitor. For two or three miles the Rhone keeps up its
reser