the Forchaz, dined at Savoy, a village in the midst of a small plain, shut in by the wildest mountains, the Aiguilles Noires, and the huge Mont-de-fer; from hence, ascending through the savage pass called Les Montées, where the Arve roared at an immense depth beneath us, and the châlets, perched upon little platforms of grass on the rocks above us, afford a precarious residence to the mountaineer, we came upon the vale of Chamounix. Here again I was disappointed; the glaciers seen in the distance appeared diminutive, but upon approaching them, these vast pyramids of ice jutting out into the valley, excited my astonishment and surpassed my expectation. It was late, and two guides, who had joined us, opposed our passing the Glaciers des Boissons: our guide offered to take us; and after about an hour's ascent through the wood, we arrived at a sort of platform in the glacier, where it descends from the mountains, and from whence, tossed into pyramids and masses of transparent ice, it projects into the valley. A troop of women and children, emerging from the wood, cut steps for us with their axes, and with the assistance of the staffs, with which we had been previously armed, we crossed the glacier in about ten minutes. It suddenly began to rain violently, and having vainly sought shelter under the huge blocks of granite which encumber this side of the glacier, we regained the road, jumping and fording the torrents, which already descended in all directions from the mountains. The rain fell as I have never seen it fall; the thunder, bursting like ten thousand fireworks, continued in one tremendous roll, reverberated from rock to rock completely round the valley; the lightning reddening the road before us, dazzled our eyes, and a thunderbolt falling, as our guide protested, into the forest, within

a hundred yards of us, so startled one of the mules which we drove before us, that he set off at full speed; at length, thoroughly drenched, but delighted with the magnificence of the scene, we arrived at the Prieure of Chamounix, the principal village of the valley. The next morning proved rainy, but in the afternoon we ascended to the Croix de la Flessière, and on our return enjoyed a noble view of the Mont Blanc, the Dôme du Gouté, and the chain of the Aiguilles: it is impossible to conceive anything to equal the dazzling whiteness, the unsullied purity of this enormous mass. The following morning was fortunately fine, and leaving our inn before 4 o'clock, we began to ascend. Having passed the Ravine du Caillet, where our guide desired us not to speak lest the sound of our voices should occasion an avalanche (I believe a very unnecessary precaution), we gained, after three hours' march, the stone hut of the Montauvert, where the shepherd leads each summer his solitary life, tending the cows and goats entrusted to him. Descending into the valley at the approach of winter, the Berger du Montauvert (by which name he is known) is supported by his countrymen, living, as he told us, with each peasant as many days as he has had cows of his under his charge. It is to this hut that all travellers ascend, in order to get a good view of the Mer de Glace; we were determined to proceed to the spot known to the Savoyards by the name of Courtil or Jardin. Bearing in mind the frozen basin of the St. Lawrence, I was disappointed by the comparative smallness of the Mer de Glace; but the Aiguilles, which border it, the points of rock peeping from amongst eternal snow, give a grandeur to the scene that is perhaps unequalled.

"Our shoes being armed with sharp nails, provided by the berger, and our hands with long spiked staffs, and our guides laden with provisions and a rope (in case of accidents, which, however, seldom or never occur), we crossed the Mer de Glace in its greatest length, and arrived, after a couple of hours' march, at the foot of the Glacier du Talefré, having found our poles of essential service in jumping the crevices; from hence we were to cross the Rocher du Couvercle, but my shoes not affording sufficient resistance to the sharp stones, I proposed going up the glacier, and leading the way, came in a few minutes to an enormous chasm, which obliged me to take a circuit. Angerstein now got first, and, determined not to be outdone, led up places which called for the utmost exertion of our hands and feet. Our guides assured us that they never had heard of any persons having gone up the glacier-more, probably, because there is a better path up its side than on account of its difficulty. In another hour we arrived at the Jardin: this is a point of land situated in the midst of a waste of snow and ice, and shut in on all sides by rocks, whose bleak peaks contrast with the universal whiteness, where the traveller might suppose himself dropt from the clouds into some uninhabited and desolate planet; and so called because, being the only spot in this enceinte where the sun can rest in the middle of the day, it alone is bare of snow and covered with brownish grass. In a hole in the earth we found a bottle where the travellers, who come here, leave their names. We were only preceded this year by a Dutchman, who had written his name there the day before: this was the only sign of living thing that we had seen for hours. We dined at the Jardin on cold provisions, and falling asleep, awoke in a couple of hours in a state of such com

plete exhaustion that we could scarcely crawl; the heat of the sun, reflected by the ice, probably was the cause of this; the mountain air soon revived us, and returning to the Montauvert, where we found the berger provided with milk, and a host of children with strawberries, we descended the mountain to the spacious blue ice vault at the foot of the Glacier du Bois, where the river Arenon rises, and reached the Prieure soon after sunset, after a march of fifteen hours.

"The next morning I started, my companion not feeling inclined to move, with a party of French people, for the Col de Balm, intending to return by the Tête Noire. These are two passages which lead from the Vale of Chamounix to the Valais; the former is preferred in fine weather only, on account of the view which it commands of the Mont Blanc. Our party consisted of Monsieur G- a tall lean Frenchman of the old school, with a long queue, with a bandage tied round his head under his cap, in consequence of a fall he had had the day before, and mounted on a raw-boned mule, he might have personated Don Quixote to perfection; madame his épouse, ronde comme une boule; Mademoiselle Zélie, an exceedingly pretty, interesting girl; and an Englishman, one of those who serve as a model for the French caricaturists-his whole stock of French consisted in oui, oui, and pong-du-tout. The night before, at supper, Monsieur G, who is a lively, pleasant, well-bred man, asked him if he would sit down and join us, 'pongdu-tout.' Mademoiselle Zélie, with one of her sweetest smiles, asked if they should have the pleasure of his company the rest of the way to Geneva; 'pong-du-tout,' -the ruffian! And last and least the fair Zélie's humble squire and plant gatherer, a mountaineer. Proceeding

up the valley, along the border of the boisterous Arve, we arrived, after a rapid ascent of two hours and a half, at the cross on the top of the Col (between 6000 and 7000 feet above the level of the Mediterranean), which from its height and proximity is certainly one of the best situations for viewing the Mont Blanc and the glacier. After descending a short time, we came to a châlet, where we ate our cold dinner; from hence I had the honour of giving the fair Zélie my arm down the mountain, upon which Don Quixote congratulated her upon finding des cavaliers Français partout, -a dubious compliment, I thought, although well meant. Pong-dutout took care of mamma, but was so inexpert in scrambling, that he was obliged to resign this office to one of the guides, the famous Jacques Balma, dit des Dames, in consequence of his steadiness in conducting ladies. Arrived at the village of Trient, I took leave of my new friends, and returning by the Tête Noire, recrossed the boundary of Switzerland, which we had entered in passing the Col de Balm. The passage of the Tête Noire, probably so called from its forests of dark lupin, is interesting and remarkable; the road, cut in several places staircase-wise in the rocks, is conducted along the mountain at a great height above the torrent, which descends from the glacier of Trient. The peeps through the wood of the rocks opposite, and of a mountain a little beyond cultivated and covered with châlets nearly to its summit, are of extreme beauty. On returning to Chamounix I enquired for my friend, and heard to my surprise that he had set off late in the day, without a guide, to overtake us. This I thought so imprudent, that I determined to go after him, and ordering a fresh mule for myself, and giving one to the guide, who was