knew best if I were not justified in saying it. She looked frightened and disconcerted, made an attempt to speak, but appeared unable to articulate a word; then she rose and left the house without uttered remonstrance. Neil and I had a bitter quarrel, that ended in granite silence; but at last, as I sat one day thinking of all she had been to me in the past, I determined, after a sharp inward struggle, to submit my pride, and ask her to forgive the slight I had put upon her friend, and demand a reconciliation. She was very generous, and I did not fear a repulse, nor martyred looks, nor anythink that sours a pardon. I finished my chat with the Captain of the Swallow, whose vessel was off on a three years' cruise in the Indian waters that afternoon, went home, though it was early, and found that my wife had gone out. There was nothing strange in the circumstance, yet a hideous gaingiving turned me cold. In my room I found this note from her:

"You have relented already, dear Berkeley, and I do not need to tell you how deep and hard to bear alone my repentance has been. Relying really upon your magnanimity, dear, I have gone to her, to my friend. Her husband has tracked her here, in hopes to extort money from her. I doubt if he can do worse than annoy her, but she fears him terribly, and has sent to beg me to stay with her until to-morrow morning. She is alone in the world, with no one to take her part. Can I selfishly shake her off when she appeals to me, just because the world has slandered her? Your own heart

cries out, no. Then good-bye till to-morrow morning.

"NEIL."

"By heavens!" I cried, crushing the paper in my hand, while the blood surged into my face like a tide, “she has defied me. My commands are no more to her than my wishes. She will compromise herself as she pleases? So be it. That to-morrow is a distant one when she sees my face again. I will give her cause not to forget this day."

I was beside myself with anger.

I sent some clothing forward to the wharves, borrowed money of a capitalist with whom I was on certain terms, and sailed on board the Swallow that evening for the Malay Peninsula.

The voyage made me old. There are no words to describe the variations of feeling to which I was a prey-the bitter remorse, the forced self-justification; but when I reached the East my mind was made up that it was better for us to be parted a while-it was always so. I should write her all particulars, and what her own plans had better be. Her family would be returning, and in a year, perhaps, we, too, might come together, older, and sobered, and better controlled. I joined a naturalists' party to visit the islands of the Malay Archi

VOL. II. 35.

| pelago, and in Sumatra was ill for many months of coast fever, with only a little thief of an Arab to pull me through. I longed for home and Neil. The large, rich life of those volcanic seas only deepened the weariness it should have consoled. There was nothing for it but to make the speediest journey possible back to the United States.

I stood at last, with a throbbing heart, before my own little home. During my long absence I had received no communication from my wife nor from her relatives, yet I had no misgivings about my welcome.

A slatternly girl opened the door, and, before I could speak, nodded rapidly, saying: "Oh, the gentleman to be measured. Miss Frankland expects you, sir, up-stairs."

And, preceding me, she ushered me into what had been my own room. By the window, Neil sat, sewing. The woman left us, and, with a a hoarse cry of apprehension and appeal, I held out my arms to my wife. She slowly raised her eyes. O God! In those glorious eyes there was not one ray of recollection as she scanned my sun-burned face.

"Sit down, sir," she said, quietly. "In one moment I can take your measure. You are not the gentleman I expected. Did Judge Russell recommend me to you?"

"Don't you know me?" I asked, frantically. "Neil, I have come back to be forgiven. Forget what your people have taught you to think of me. I have never loved you less for a moment."

She seemed to fear me, but that terrible strangeness did not fade from her eyes.

"Who are you?" she asked, haughtily. "Do I need to say? O my love! I am your miserable husband, Berkeley Craven." She laughed a little.

"I am sorry you are miserable,” she said, "but I have no husband, and I must insist upon being called Miss Frankland by you."

I came a step nearer, and looked yearningly in her face. She stood up and pointed to the door."

"You must go now," she said, decidedly.

A great dread was wrenching at my heart. I asked her for Judge Russell's address, and she wrote it upon the back of a card advertising her as a shirt-maker. Going from one to another, I unraveled the mystery of what was to me the tragedy of my whole life. For three days after my departure, Neil had been like one distracted; and at last, when my registered name was found, and she knew that I had left her, the shock, combined with her exhaustion and long self-repression, had resulted in brain-fever, from

which she had arisen perfectly forgetful of me, of her marriage, of all but the haunting consciousness of a rooted sorrow. Her father had died abroad, and her mother and sister returned to find that the estate had melted away in the settlement, and now they were taking scholars. Neil seemed to understand their position, but any intellectual employment distressed her since her illness; so, with the influence of her father's friends, she had taken up her present occupation. She clung to our little house as her home, and they rented two of the sunniest rooms for her. She was fading rapidly; was unfit for any work, especially for the confinement of sewing, but she would not relinquish the pleasure of adding something to the family treasury. I determined that she should have rest; and, braving the black looks and hatred of her family, bent my pride to persuade them of my affection and repentance, and to beg that my wife should be given back into my keeping. I took what employment I could get-not elevated nor elevating-and put my poor girl into more secluded and commodious rooms; and, with a physician's aid, strove to bring her back to life and memory. She seemed to know that she could not live long, but deprecated whatever was done for her, imagining all to be the work of her mother and sister, and they never tried to make her comprehend my return; but I waited in patience, with an aching heart. At night, when she slept, I used to sit by her bedside, watching her by the pale lamplight. She was worn and wasted, and the heavy shadow of grief lay on her purple eyelids. One night as I lingered near her, and it was almost dawn, she awoke, and our eyes met.

"You know people say shells echo with the lost sea," she said, quietly, as if we had been talking. "My mind echoes with such a sound; it is the voice of some one I have lost. Is it

my father's voice that I hear chiming always in my ears, eager and imperious? And in your face there is a look I have only observed lately, when you come to sit by me, that reminds me of some one I have seen before. Who is it? Who can it be?"

I fixed her eyes with mine. I willed her to know me, now at this supreme moment, with the passion of prayer.

"Look at me," I whispered, bending over her.

A strong shudder ran through her frame; she recoiled, putting up her hand as if to ward off a blow, and then bent her eyes upon my face with a terrible frown.

"You have been here a long time!" she gasped, seizing her head hard in her hands.

“And

I could not-wait, wait one moment-it is all coming back to me. Ah, Berkeley! my husband."

She strained me to her in her emaciated arms. I laid her down dead. She lies there among the red flowers that she loved so. "The white wreaths make me cold," she once said. "When I am dead at last, bury me with red flowers, half-faded, fiery blossoms, full of bitter summer."

The fine lips press restfully upon each other, the shadowy lids, so slow to close in sleep, are quite drooped. And the great, true heart is still, and the flame of the abounding life that I had so prodigally wasted, burned out as consumed with desire of Death's strange eyes.

And I rave impotently, O my well beloved! while your untamed, long-imprisoned soul rejoices to spurn its cage and be at liberty. You have been stretched out upon the rack of this tough world, but the torture is over. The cry of my heart is as old as the sin of the world: "My punishment is greater than I can bear."

PHILIP SHIRLEY.

All California has been heavily glaciated, the broad plains and valleys so warm and fertile now, and the coast ranges and foothills, covered with forests and chaparral, as well as the bald, rocky summits of the Sierra Nevada, swelling high in the cold sky.

Go where you may, throughout the length and breadth of the State, unmistakable evidence is everywhere presented of the former existence of an ice-sheet, thousands of feet in thickness,

beneath whose heavy folds all the present landscapes have been molded; while on both flanks of the Sierra we find the fresher and more appreciable traces of the individual glaciers, or ice-rivers, into which that portion of the icesheet which covered the range was divided toward the close of the glacial period.

No other mountain chain on the globe seems to be so rich in emphatic, well preserved glacial monuments, easily seen by anybody capa

ble of looking. Every feature is more or less glacial. Not a peak, ridge, dome, or mere rock, cañon, lake-basin, forest, or stream, but in some way explains the past existence and modes of action of flowing, grinding ice. For, notwithstanding the post-glacial agents-the air, rain, snow, frost, rivers, etc.-have been incessantly at work upon the greater portion of the range for tens of thousands of storiny years, each engraving their own characters more and more deeply over those of the ice, the latter are so enduring and so heavily emphasized, they still rise in sublime relief, clear and legible, through every after inscription, whether of the mighty avalanche, the torrent, or universal, eroding atmosphere. To-day, in higher latitudes, the great glacial winter still prevails in all its cold, white grandeur. The unborn landscapes of North Greenland, and some of those of our own Alaska, are still being fashioned beneath a deep, slow-crawling mantle of ice, from a quarter of a mile to more than a mile in thickness, presenting noble illustrations of the ancient condition of California, when all its sublime scenery was sealed up, or in process of formation. On the Himalaya, and the mountains of Norway and Switzerland, and on most of those of Alaska, the ice-mantle has been melted away from the ridges and table-lands, where it was thinnest, thus separating it into distinct glaciers that flow, river-like, through the valleys, illustrating a similar past condition in the Sierra, when every cañon and valley was the channel of an ice-stream, all of which may be easily traced back to where their fountains lay in the recesses of the alpine summits, and where some sixty-five of their topmost residual branches still linger beneath cool shadows.

The transition from one to the other of those glacial conditions was gradual and shadow-like. When the great cycle of cold, snowy years— called the glacial period-was nearly complete, the ice-mantle, wasting from season to season faster than it was renewed, began to withdraw from the lowlands along the base of the range, and gradually became shallower everywhere. Then the highest of the granite domes began to appear above the icy sea, and long, dividing ridges, containing distinct glaciers, between them. These glaciers at first remained united in one continuous sheet toward the summit of the range for many centuries. But as the snowfall diminished, and the climate became milder, this upper ice-sheet was also in turn separated into distinct glaciers, and these again into smaller ones, as one tributary after another was cut off from its trunk and became independent; while at the same time all were growing shorter and shallower, though fluctuations of the

climate would now and then occur which would bring the receding snouts to a stand-still, or even enable them to advance for a few tens or hundreds of years, when they would again begin to recede.

In the meantime the plants were coming on, the hardiest species establishing themselves on the moraine soils and in fissures of the rocks, pushing upward along every sun-warmed slope, and following close upon the retreating ice, which, like shreds of summer clouds, at length vanished from the new-born mountains, leaving them in all their main telling features nearly as we find them now.

It will be seen, therefore, that the lowlands near the level of the sea, and the foothills, and the tops of the highest domes and ridges, were the first to see the light, and therefore have been longer exposed to post-glacial weathering. Accordingly, we find that their glacial characters are more worn and obscured than those of the higher regions, though all are still legible to the patient student.

GLACIER PAVEMENTS.

By far the most striking and attractive of the glacial phenomena presented to the non-scientific observer in the Sierra are the polished glacier pavements, because they are so beautiful, and their beauty is of so rare a kind, so unlike any portion of the loose, earthy lowlands where people make homes and earn their bread. They are simply flat or gently undulating areas of solid granite, which present the unchanged surface upon which the ancient glaciers flowed, and are found in the most perfect condition in the sub-alpine region, at an elevation of from eight thousand to nine thousand feet. Some are miles in extent, only slightly interrupted by spots that have given way to the weather, while the best preserved portions are bright and stainless as the sky, reflecting the sunbeams like glass, and shining as if polished afresh every day, notwithstanding they have been exposed to corroding rains, dew, frost, and snow for thousands of years.

The attention of the game-seeking and goldseeking mountaineer is seldom commanded by other glacial phenomena, as moraines, however regular and artificial in form, or cañons, however deep, or strangely modeled rocks, however high and sheer; but when he comes to these bare pavements he stoops and rubs his hand admiringly on their shining surfaces, and tries hard to account for their mysterious smoothness and brilliancy. He may have seen the winter avalanches of snow descending in awful majesty through the woods, sweeping away the trees

that stood in their way like slender weeds, but concludes that this cannot be the work of avalanches, because the scratches and fine polishing striæ show that the agent, whatever it was, moved along, and up over the rocks, as well as downward. Neither can he see how water may possibly have been the agent, for he finds the same strange polish upon lofty, isolated tables beyond the reach of any conceivable flood. Only the winds seem capable of moving across the face of the country in the directions indicated by the scratches and grooves. Even dogs and horses, when first led up the mountains, study geology to this extent, that they gaze wonderingly at the strange brightness of the ground, and smell it, and place their feet cautiously upon it, as if afraid of falling or sinking.

In the production of this admirable hard finish, the glaciers, in many places, bore down with a pressure of more than a hundred tons to the square foot, slipping, and pressing, and planing down granite, slate, and quartz alike, and bringing out the veins and crystals of the rocks with beautiful distinctness. Most of the granite below the sources of the Tuolumne and Merced is porphyritic, the feldspar crystals in many places forming the greater part of the rock, and these, when planed off level with the general surface, give rise to a beautiful mosaic, and when the sunlight falls upon it the multitude of starry crystals shining at different angles make a blaze of white beams, as if the ground were covered with burnished silver.

The brightest and most elaborately finished of the Sierra landscapes lie on the headwaters of the Tuolumne and Merced, above Yosemite Valley. The mountains, both to the north and south of this region, were, perhaps, subjected to about as long and intense a glaciation; but, because the rocks are less resisting, their polished surfaces have succumbed to the attacks of the weather, leaving only here and there small, imperfect patches. The lowest remnants of the old glacial surface are about from three thousand to five thousand feet above the level of the sea, and thirty to forty miles from the axis of the range, on the west flank. The short, steeply inclined cañons of the eastern flank also contain enduring montoned bosses, and sloping aprons, brilliantly striated and finished, but these are far less magnificent than those of the broad western flank.

Perhaps the one best general view of these brilliant landscapes, that is easily accessible, and comprehends specimens of all the more striking of the glacial characters, is to be had from the top of a lofty conoidal rock that I have called the Glacier Monument. It is a majestic monolith of porphyry, about fifteen

hundred feet high, situated on the left bank of the ancient Tuolmune mer de glace, a short distance to the north of Cathedral Peak. At first sight it seems absolutely inaccessible, though a good climber will find that it may be scaled on the south side. Approaching it on this side, you pass through a beautiful spruce forest growing on the lateral moraine, catching glimpses now and then of what appears to be a perfect cone of granite, towering to an immense hight above the dark evergreens; and when at length you have made your way across the woods, wading through thickets of azalea and ledum, you step abruptly out of the tree shadows and leafy, mossy softness, upon a naked curve of porphyry, that forms the base of the monument, which is now beheld unveiled in all its grandeur. Fancy a well proportioned monument, of comprehensible size, say eight or ten feet high, formed of one stone, exquisitely finished, and set, not in a graveyard, but in a wild pleasure-ground. Now, magnify it to a hight of fifteen hundred feet, retaining its simplicity of form, and fineness, and brilliancy, and fill its surface with crystals; then you may have some conception of the rare beauty and sublimity of this ice-burnished cone, one of the noblest monuments of the glacial period to be found in the range.

In making the ascent we find that the curves of the base rapidly steepen, but the feldspar crystals, two or three inches long, having offered greater resistance to atmospheric erosion than the mass of the rock in which they are imbedded, have been brought into relief, roughening the surface here and there, and offering slight footholds, while some of them have been weathered out altogether, and rolled to the bottom, forming a glittering ring around the base. And it is interesting to observe that, after the outer layer of crystals, whose upper surfaces formed part of the original glaciated surface, have been weathered out, the lower layers, as they successively come to the surface, unprotected by the glacier polish, have but little superior power of resisting disintegration, and, therefore, the whole surface is subsequently weathered off at about the same general rate.

The summit of the monument is burnished and scored like the sides and base, the scratches and striæ indicating that the mighty glacier of the Tuolumne Basin overwhelmed it while it lay dark and steadfast beneath the crystal flood, like a bowlder at the bottom of a river. How enormous the pressure it withstood! Had it been less solidly built, it would have been carried away-ground into moraine fragments, like the adjacent rock in which it lay imbeded; for it is only a residual knot, brought into relief by the removal of the less resisting rock about it

Hardly less wonderful is its present unwasted condition, when we contemplate the long, dark procession of storms that have fallen upon it since first its crown rose above the icy sea. The whole quantity of post-glacial wear and tear it has suffered has not degraded it a single inch, as may readily be shown by measuring from the level of the polished portions of the surface.

A few erratic bowlders, nicely poised on the rounded summit, tell an interesting story, for they came from the alpine peaks twelve miles away, drifting like chips on the frozen sea, and were stranded here, while their companions, whose positions chanced to be above the slopes of the sides, where they could not come to rest, were carried farther on by falling back on the shallowing ice.

The general view from the summit consists of a sublime assemblage of ice-born rocks and mountains, lakes and meadows, and moraines covered with forests and groves-hundreds of square miles of them-builded together into one of the brightest and most openly harmonious landscapes to be found in all the range. The alps rise grandly along the sky to the east, the gray pillared slopes of the Hoffmann Range toward the west, and a billowy sea of shining montoned rocks seem, from their peculiar sculpture, to roll on westward in the middle ground. Immediately beneath you are the Big Tuolumne Meadows, eight miles long, with an ample swath of dark, pine woods on either side, stretching east and west, enlivened by the young glistening river that is seen coming fresh from its fountain snow, tracing the lowest portion of the ancient Tuolumne mer de glace, which, during the snow period, was lavishly flooded by many a noble affluent from the ice-laden flanks of Mounts Dana, Lyell, Maclure, Ord, Gibbs, Conness, and others that are yet nameless. The mer de glace thus formed was over four miles wide, and poured its majestic outflowing current full against the end of the Hoffmann Range, which divided and deflected it to right and left, just as a river of water is divided against an island that stands in the middle of its current. Two distinct glaciers were thus formed, one of which flowed through the great Tuolumne Cañon and Hetch Hetchy Valley, while the other swept upward for five hundred feet in a broad current across the divide between the basins of the Tuolumne and Merced, into the Tenaya Basin, and thence down the Tenaya Cañon into Yosemite Valley.

The map-like distinctness and freshness of this glacial landscape cannot fail to excite the

its scientific significance may be recognized. These bald, westward-leaning rocks, with their rounded backs and shoulders toward the glacier fountains, and their split, angular fronts looking in the opposite direction, explained the tremendous grinding force with which the glaciers passed over them, and also the direction whence the glaciers flowed; and the mountain peaks around the sides of the upper general Tuolumne Basin, with their sharp, unglaciated summits and polished, rounded sides, indicate the hight to which the glaciers rose; while the numerous moraines, curving and swaying in beautiful lines, mark the boundaries of the main trunk and its subordinate tributaries as they existed toward the close of the glacial winter just before they vanished. None of the great commercial highways of the land or sea, marked with buoys and lamps, fences and guide-boards, is so unmistakably indicated as are these abandoned pathways of the vanished Tuolumne glaciers.

I would like now to offer some nearer views of a few characteristic specimens of these old dead ice-streams, which have exerted so profound an influence on the scenery of the mountains, and concerning which so little is generally known, though it is not easy to make a selection from so vast a system so intimately interblended. The main affluents of the great Merced glacier are perhaps best suited to our purpose, because their basins, upon which their histories are vividly portrayed, are more approachable to the general traveler, and are comparatively well defined. They number five, and may well be called Yosemite glaciers, since they were the agents by which beauty-loving nature created the grand valley, grinding and fashioning it out of the solid flank of the range, block by block, particle by particle, with sublime deliberation and repose.

The names I have given them are, beginning with the northmost, Yosemite Creek, Hoffmann, Tenaya, South Lyell, and Illillouette Glaciers. These all converged in admirable poise around from north-east to south-east, welding themselves together into one huge trunk which swept down through the valley, filling it brimful from end to end, receiving small tributaries on its way from the Indian, Sentinel, and Pohono Cañons; and at length flowed out of the valley, and on down the range in a general westerly direction. At the time that the tributaries mentioned above were well defined as to their boundaries, the upper portion of the valley walls, and the highest rocks about them, such as the Domes, the uppermost of the Three Broth| ers, and the Sentinel, rose above the surface of the ice. But during the valley's earlier history,