times he takes that opportunity of giving a little gentle reproof; for he is so considerate of our small feelings, that he seldom exposes any one publicly in the family circle, knowing that half the good is destroyed by the mortification.

I was up remarkably early this morning, and went to the library before breakfast, expecting to be commended a little for my improvement in early rising. After our morning greetings, my uncle did commend me very kindly, and said that the pleasure of seeing me in the library was doubled by the satisfaction it gave him to find that I had such power over myself. I was beginning to exult a little inwardly at this, when he added, "But now, Bertha, as there are few pleasures without alloy, I must cloud this praise a little by doing what I dislike-by finding fault."

You may suppose, dear Mamma, what a damp this cast on me for a moment; but I knew that he never chides without reason, he is so mild; and he never mistakes one's conduct, he is so just so I brightened up again, and anxiously listened.

"The fault, my dear Bertha, which I have to mention, is one that I have observed ever since you have been here-and it is, in my opinion, so important, that I can no longer wait for your own good sense to perceive it; for habit strengthens at a rapid pace. A general want of neatness is the fault to which I allude.

I do not mean a want of actual cleanliness, but an untidy, careless way of arranging your clothes. I observe that they are not always put on straight-up at one side, down at the other your petticoat, or something, forcing its way above or below the edge of your gown—a button off—a string broken-part of a flower torn or unsewed-frills looking flattened and wrinkled, and not having the fresh look that every thing about a young lady should have. Your hair in general looks shining and nice, but I don't perceive why it should not always be arranged more carefully, and so as to prevent it from straggling at the sides, as I sometimes see.

"Ladies are always very anxious to be fashionable, but I assure you, Bertha, though your dresses may be of the newest patterns, you will not look well dressed without something more. Fashion changes continually; the furbelows of to-day give place to-morrow to some other whim-and the vulgar and the empty-minded have the never-ending delight of altering their dresses, but fail after all in acquiring the air of gentlewomen.

"A good carriage, a smooth walk, a feeling of being at ease in company, ready attention to all that is going on, and withdrawing one's thoughts from self, give the stamp of good society more effectually, than all the finery that can be purchased. That valuable feeling of being at ease,

and the self-possession it produces, can be obtained but one way. Never allow yourself when alone, to sit or move, in a manner that you would think inconsistent with propriety in company. But to return to our dress,-pray, accustom yourself to have your clothes in neat order, whatever they are; and well put on, at all times. The French expression d'être bien mise,' conveys everything that can be said on this subject; for besides the reasonable attention to fashion, which good sense requires, and the suitable correspondence of colours which implies good taste, it includes all the proper pinning, tying, and arrangement, which in my opinion is the most important point of all."

I thanked my uncle very sincerely; and he then added, "Yes, Bertha, I consider it as a very unwise tenderness, not to make known their lesser faults to young people. Your aunt is of a somewhat different opinion, and was unwilling to annoy you, so I took it on myself to advise you on the subject of your toilette. It was from this mistaken delicacy of your dear aunt's, that one of your cousins was acquiring the unfortunate habits of want of neatness and an ungraceful walk. Your aunt depended on her own good sense to overcome them; but at last, perceiving the injury we should do the child, by allowing those habits to become fixed, I spoke to her myself-she not only outlived my interference,

but immediately and vigorously set about correcting them. She found some difficulty, I believe, but she has succeeded so well, that I think you cannot discover which of my daughters I mean, except that she is now, perhaps, the most remarkable for her neatness, and is always bien mise."

14th. My uncle read to us to-day, an account given by a traveller in Savoy, of the fall of a part of Mont Grenier-a very astonishing instance, he says, of the local changes that occur on the face of the earth. I must give you a short account of it, dear Mamma.

Mont Grenier is five miles south of Chamberry; and rises about four thousand feet above the broad plain, on which it stands almost alone. A part of this mountain fell down in the year 1248, and entirely buried five parishes, and the town and church of St. André. The ruins spread over nine square miles, which are called les Abîmes de Myans; and though many centuries have passed away, they still present a singular scene of desolation.

The Abîmes de Myans now appear like little hills of a conical shape, and varying in height from twenty to thirty feet. They consist of detached heaps of fragments, but the largest masses have evidently fallen from the upper bed of limestone, by which Mont Grenier is capped;

and some of them have been projected to the distance of four miles from the mountain. This limestone rests on beds of softer materials, by the gradual crumbling away of which, it is supposed the mass above them was undermined and precipitated into the valley. In the course of years, the rains or torrents, produced by dissolving snows, have washed away the loose earth, and thus the little conical mounts have been separated and detached as they are seen at present.

So deep is the mass that has covered the town of St. André, that nothing belonging to it has been discovered, except a small bronze statue. The ancient chronicles do not inform us, whether the catastrophe was preceded by any warning that allowed the inhabitants time to escape. The quantity of matter sufficient to cover the plain to such a depth and extent, rushing from the height of three quarters of a mile into the plain, must have produced a shock inconceivably awful. A great part of the district has been gradually planted with vines, but it still presents a most impressive scene of ruin.

My uncle said that this is one of the most remarkable eboulements of which he has ever seen a description—he read it to us from travels very lately made in Switzerland and Savoy *.

* Bakewell's Travels.