which swept by without check, and seemed wholly unconscious that I had clothing on; and crouched meekly in the sunbeams. But as I looked up, about and beneath me, what a wild, ruinous world of peaks and crags, and riven mountains, rose on my wondering vision!

Farther on, and lo, the sweet vale of Chamouni burst on the sight, lying in an irregular waving line along the Arve, that glittered like a silver chain in the light of the sun. Right out of its quiet bosom towered away in awful majesty the form of Mont Blanc. Oh, what a chaos of mountain peaks seemed to tear up the very sky around him. The lofty "needles," inaccessible to any thing but the wing of the eagle, shot up their piercing tops over glaciers that, rolled into confusion, went streaming, an iceflood, into the plains below. How can I describe this scene. It seemed as if the Deity had once taken the chain from his wildest laws, to see what awful strength they could put forth, and what a chaos of mountains they could tumble together. High over all, with its smooth round top, stood Mont Blanc, like a monarch with his mountain guard around him. Yet how silent and motionless were they all, as if in their holy Sabbath rest. No wonder Coleridge lifted his hymn in the Vale of Chamouni. Yet he should have looked on it from this spot. From no other point do you get the relative height of Mont Blanc. From the valley you look up, and all the peaks seem nearly of a height: but here you look across and see how he stands like Šaul among the Israelites— head and shoulders above all his brethren. The great difficulty in standing here is, the soul cannot expand to the magnitude of the scene. It is crushed and overwhelmed, and almost stupified.

I plucked some flowers that lifted their modest heads from the margin of the snow, and began to descend towards Chamouni But as I went leaping down the white slope with a shout, I suddenly found myself hanging by the arms, while the dull sound of a torrent that swept my feet made any but pleasant music in my ear. I had broken through the snow crust, and catching by my arms, was left dangling over a stream, the depth and breadth of which I had no desire to measure. The sudden change from my headlong speed and boisterous shouts, to the meek, demure look

SUNSET ON MONT BLANC.

11

and manner with which I insinuated myself away from that unpleasant neighbourhood, set my companions into convulsions of laughter.

A cloud that came drifting along the sky caught on Mont Blanc, and wrapped it from my sight. Ah, thought I, good night to Mont Blanc! But the sweet valley was left basking in the light of the setting sun.

Hark! a low rumbling sound rises on the air, swelling to the full-voiced thunder. I turned, and lo! a precipice of ice had loosened itself from the mountain, and falling over, plunged, with a crash that shook the hills, into the plain below. I stood awestruck and silent. It was the first avalanche I had heard, and its deep voice echoing amid those mountain solitudes awoke strange feelings within me. The mass from which it had split was of a pale blue, contrasting beautifully with the dull white of the surrounding glacier.

At Argentiere I found the guide and mules. Mounting, I rode slowly on, thinking of that Being who planned the globe, and heaved on high all its strong mountains, when a sudden cry from the guide attracted my attention. He stood pointing to Mont Blanc. I looked up, and to my surprise, the cloud had rained itself away, and the top of the mountain was drawn with its bold outline against the clear heavens. The sun had set to me, but Mont Blanc was still looking down on his retiring light. And now over all its white form spread a pale rose colour, deepening gradually into a pink-the peaks around taking the same ruddy glow, while the giant shadows stretched their misshapen, black proportions over the vast snow-fields between. There they stood, a mass of rose-coloured snow mountains, towering away in the heavens: they had suddenly lost their massive strength and weight, and light as frost work, and apparently transparent as a rose-tinted shell, they seemed the fit home of spiritual beings. And then what serenity and silence over them all. There was none of the life and motion of flashing sunbeams; none of the glitter of light itself on mountain summits, but a deep quiet that seemed almost holy, resting there, as if that rose-tinted top was bathed in the mellow radiance that one might dream of as belonging to a sunset in heaven. My eye wandered down the now ethereal form

of Mont Blanc till it rested on a wreath of fir-trees, whose deep green contrasted strangely with that pure rose-colour. I stood bewildered-it seemed a magic land. But the glorious vision, like all beauty, was as transient as the hour that gave it birth. Fainter and fainter again grew the tints till all passed away, and Mont Blanc stood white and cold and ghost-like against the evening sky. This was more than I expected to see, and what few travellers do see. Mont Blanc is chary of such exhibitions of

himself.

I lay down at night with my fancy too full of wild images to let me sleep soundly. Feverish and restless; at midnight I arose and pushed open my window. All was silent as the great shadows around, save the sound of the torrent that rolled its turbid stream through the valley. The moon was hanging her crescent over the top of Mont Blanc, that stood like a model in the clear heavens, a fit throne for the stars that seemed flashing from its top.

MONTANVERTE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.

13

III.

ASCENT OF THE MONTANVERTE, VALE OF

CHAMOUNI.

THE day after I made the pass of the Col de Balme I ascended the Montanverte to the Mer de Glace. I will not weary you with a description of this frequently described yet ever strangely wild scene. I mention it only to show the simple process by which an Alpine guide sometimes descends a mountain. In climbing up our zigzag path in our previous ascent, I noticed an inclined plane of snow going straight up the mountain-the relics of the track of avalanches which had fallen during the winter and spring. In returning, the path came close to the top of this inclined plane, which went in a direct line to the path far below. A slide down this I saw would save nearly half a mile, so I sprang on to it, expecting a long, rapid, though perfectly safe descent down the mountain. But the surface was harder than I supposed, and I no sooner struck it than I shot away, like an arrow from a bow. I kept my feet for some time as I tacked and steered, or rather "was tacked and steered," straining every muscle to keep my balance, and striking my Alpine stock now on the right hand and now on the left; till exhausted, I fell headlong down the declivity, and went rolling, over and over, till I finally landed, with dizzy head and bruised limbs, amid broken rocks at the bottom. When I had gathered up my senses, I looked round for my companions, and lo, there was my friend, an English gentleman who had started at the same time; about midway of the slope. As he found himself shooting off so rapidly, he wheeled his back down the hill and fell on his hands. This was

not sufficient, however, to arrest his progress, and he came on bear fashion, though at a slower rate. Despite my bruises, I lay amid the rocks and laughed. Our guide stood at the top, convulsed with laughter, till he saw us all safely landed, and then leaped on the inclined plane himself. Throwing one end of his Alpine stock behind him, he leaned almost his entire weight on it. The iron spike sinking in the ice and snow, checked the rapidity of his descent, and steered him at the same time, and he came to the bottom in a slow and gentle slide. So it is in this world: there is no man who cannot find those who will teach him on some points.

When I reached the English hotel again I found I had overtasked myself: I began to suspect as much before I had half reached the top of Montanverte. After my exhausting tramp in the soft snow over the Col de Balme I should have lain by a day, but, my toilsome day's work and wet feet both, had not left me any worse, but on the contrary better-so I concluded to take it on foot up the Montanverte. I believe I should have refused to ride, well or sick, when I came to know how matters stood about a guide and mules. We had hired a guide and mules at Martigny by the day; supposing, of course, we could use them at Chamouni. Acting on this belief, my companions, who had resolved to ride, ordered out their mules; when, to their astonishment, they were told that neither our guide nor our mules could be permitted to ascend the mountain. A Chamouni man and Chamouni mules

must go up the Montanverte or none. This is one of the many niggardly, petty contrivances one meets at every turn in Switzerland to wring money from the pockets of travellers.

I should have done better to have rode even on those conditions, for I was completely fagged out at night, and with more bones aching than I before supposed I carried in me. But after tossing awhile on my feverish couch, I at length fell asleep. How long I was in the land of oblivion I know not, but I awoke to recollection with the most vivid consciousness of possessing ten toes. Such exquisite pain I never before experienced. I turned and twisted on my couch-gathered up my legs like a patriarch to die-held them in my hands-but all in vain: I could think of nothing but torture by slow fire. Every toe I possessed seemed