m too much, had fallen a victim to his stratagems. Whether
he had been true to me at the beginning, and then had faltered at
the last, or whether he had deceived me all along with affected
complaisance, I never knew. For when he came to see me one day, my
just resentment excited me to such a paroxysm of fury that the people
here recommended him not to return, and I have never seen him since.
So here I sit, in forced idleness, waiting for the arrival of some
one who shall appreciate my great idea, and release me for its
accomplishment. The people by whom I am surrounded are kind enough,
but ignorant; they admire me, but are unable to understand me. So they
bind me in silken chains, and clasp them with honeyed words, and I
remain a prisoner. It is thus that the world rewards its greatest
benefactors!

MRS. KNOLLYS.

BY J. S. OF DALE, AUTHOR OF "GUERNDALE."

_Century Magazine, November, 1883._

The great Pasterzen glacier rises in Western Austria, and flows into
Carinthia, and is fourteen or seventeen miles long, as you measure it
from its birth in the snow-field, or from where it begins to move from
the higher snows and its active course is marked by the first wrinkle.
It flows in a straight, steady sweep, a grand avenue, guarded by giant
mountains, steep and wide; a prototype, huge and undesigned, of the
giants' stairway in the Venice palace. No known force can block its
path; it would need a cataclysm to reverse its progress. What falls
upon it moves with it, what lies beneath it moves with it--down to the
polished surface of the earth's frame, laid bare; no blade of grass
grows so slowly as it moves, no meteor of the air is so irresistible.
Its substant ice curls freely, moulds, and breaks itself like
water,--breaks in waves, plastic like honey, crested lightly with a
frozen spray; it winds tenderly about the rocky shore, and the
granite, disintegrated into crumbs, flows on with it. All this so
quietly that busy, officious little Man lived a score of thousand
years before he noticed even that the glacier moved.

Now, however, men have learned to congregate upon its shores, and
admire. Scientists stick staves in the ground (not too near, lest the
earth should move with it), and appraise the majesty of its motion;
ladies, politely mystified, give little screams of pleased surprise;
young men, secretly exultant, pace the yard or two between the sticks,
a distance that takes the frozen stream a year to compas