Its frantic billows chained at their explosion,

And fixed in sculpture! here to caverns riven-
There, petrified to crystal-at His nod

Who raised the Alps an altar to their God."

When you reflect that this sea is eighteen miles long, and that the waves rise in abrupt ridges ten, twenty, and even forty feet, frozen to extreme solidity, with chasms between, some of which have been found to be three hundred and fifty feet deep, you will believe the poet has not exaggerated its appearance. It is surrounded by high mountains of dark-colored rock, which taper off in fantastic and beautiful cones; and, altogether, it is a scene of striking and awful magnificence, which must leave an abiding impression on every visiter. The ice in the chasms is very clear, and of a beautiful vitriol tint. It is remark. able that this great natural curiosity was first made known to the world in 1741, by two adventurous English travellers, Windham and Pocoke. Its origin, of course, remains a fearful mystery.

At the little hut on Mont Anvert, I obtained of the guides some specimens of minerals, fine stones, and a chamois cane. By the way, you will excuse me, perhaps, for copying these Lines on liberating a Chamois :'*

"Free-born and beautiful! The mountain
Has nought like thee!

Fleet as the rush of Alpine fountain-
Fearless and free!

Thy dazzling eye outshines in brightness
The beam of Hope;

Thine airy bound outstrips the lightness
Of antelope.

* Quoted in Dr. BEATTIE'S beautiful work on Switzerland.

Chamois-Glaciers-Mt. Blanc.

"On cliffs, where scarce the eagle's pinion
Can find repose,

Thou keep'st thy desolate dominion
Of trackless snows!

Thy pride to roam where man's ambition
Could never climb,

And make thy world a dazzling vision
Of Alps sublime!

"How glorious are the dawns that wake thee
To thy repast!

And where their fading lights forsake thee,
They shine the last.

Thy clime is pure-thy heaven clearer,
Brighter than ours;

To thee, the desert snows are dearer
Than summer flowers."

215

Our excursion had given us a capital relish for dinner, and that despatched, and our mules refreshed,' we set off again and climbed to the Glacier de Bossons, an immense mass of ice, congealed in beautiful pyramids, on the side of Mont Blanc :

"Mount Blanc is the monarch of mountains!

They crown'd him long ago,

On a throne of rocks in a robe of clouds,

With a diadem of snow.

Around his waist are forests braced,

The avalanche in his hand."

That mighty Alp' itself, we did not care to ascend; it is an achievement which has never been accomplished but thirteen times, as we were told by our guide, who was one of the six that escorted an Englishman to the summit this The ascent is of course one of great fatigue and danger. It takes from two to three days, and costs nine

summer.

hundred francs. It is impossible to remain on the top more than thirty minutes. The last adventurer was sick several weeks at the inn, after his return.

You may imagine something of the situation of this valley among the mountains, from the fact that, although it is two thousand feet above the Mediterranean, it receives the rays of the sun direct, only about four hours in the longest days of the year; and the moon, to-night, was not to be seen in her whole course, though the opposite mountains were bright with her 'mellow light.'

The people of these valleys seem to be honest and industrious, as well as a little superstitious, if one may judge from the number of crosses, and little chapels, with images of the virgin, etc., which are placed by the wayside. On one of them, near Chamouni, is a proclamation in French, to this effect:

6

Monseigneur Rey grants an indulgence of forty days to all the faithful who humbly and devoutly strike this cross three times, saying, 'God have mercy upon me!'

August 24.-At six A. M., we mounted our mules for Martigny, by the pass of the Tête Noir. Like Dr. Beattie, on leaving Chamouni, I beg to refer you to the beautiful hymn which Coleridge wrote here before sunrise, painting its features a little more vividly than I can do it:

"Ye ice-falls! Ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown ravines enormous slope amain;

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once amidst their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents, silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven,
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun

Coleridge's Hymn at Chamouni-Tête Noire. 217

Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
GOD! Let the torrents like a shout of nations,
Answer, and let the ice-plains echo, GOD!

GOD! Sing, ye meadow streams with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in the perilous fall shall thunder, GOD!
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest !
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the elements!

Utter forth GOD! and fill the hills with praise!"

There are two passes from Chamouni to the Valley of the Rhone, viz: the Col de Balme, and the Tête Noire. The latter is distinguished for its awful wildness and grandeur. The narrow path barely affords room for mules, between steep rocky heights and frightful precipices, each of some thousand feet. Rushing streams of snow-water from the glaciers, cascades from the rocks, remains of avalanches, and overhanging cliffs abound on every side. Our cavalcade consisted of twenty-one mules, and six guides on foot. A great many travel here entirely on foot, equipped in a frock of brown linen, with belt, knapsack, a flask of kirschwasser, and a six-foot pike-staff; and this is much the best way to explore the country leisurely.

Our speed on mules was not great; for we were all this day going twenty miles. At six P. M., we came to the last descent, from whence was spread out before us the large and magnificent valley of the Rhone, dotted with villages, of which Martigny and Sion are the principal; and traversed by the river Rhone, and by Napoleon's great

Simplon road, which may be seen for twelve miles, its course being as straight as an arrow, through highly cultivated fields and vineyards.

Martigny is the stopping place for tourists to Italy by the Simplon; and here I was to decide whether I would venture. There was the brilliant vision of Italy! -a name which called up my most ambitious, youthful dreams; and I was now separated from it but by a day's journey. But alas! there were the cholera, and the fifteen days quaran. tine at almost every town; and I was alone, unknown to any mortal there, and to the language itself. Then a thousand dangers and vexations rose up before me; and yet, when the last ten minutes for decision came,' I screw. ed my courage to the sticking place,' and resolved-to go. My luggage was sent over, my seat taken in the diligence for Milan; but my cane, which I had left at the inn, prevented my seeing Italy! In returning for it, I met a person who had come here for the same object, learned that it was impracticable, and soon persuaded me to give it up; so, with the consoling reflection that I might still go to Naples in November, I changed my course, hired a mule, and soon overtook the party who had set off for the convent on the Great St. Bernard.

Hospice de Saint Bernard, August 25, 1836.-I am now writing before a blazing fire, in the dining-room of the convent, eleven thousand feet above the Mediterranean; and a company of about thirty fellow-pilgrims, English, Scotch, French, German, Austrian, Russian, and American, are exercising their native tongues around me.