ness, a necessity of "touching something real," and the incapability of enjoying fun, by itself fun. Hence it admires no description of pleasantry that has not a pointed moral or sting; and seems to have less sense of humour, which may be termed the raw material, than of wit, which may be likened to the manufactured article; a preference which sorts well with the mechanical temper of the times. I suppose, for instance, that there are few at present who would like the excellent fooling, which rejoiced the marrow of Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, when the clown spake of the Vapians passing the Equinoctial of Queubus. Hence it follows, that such works as those of Count Antoine Hamilton, which delighted people of the 18th century, appear to those of the 19th (as a friend of mine once observed to me) "such stuff as might be collected from the walls by the white-washer of Bedlam."

But this species of humour is not more thrown away on the present generation, than that natural and spontaneous vein, which amuses by a perpetual play of fancy, without forcing the images which it conjures up upon the sight, or showing the texture, colour, and direction, of every puppet, which it puts in motion. Hence, (to express myself like a Scotch lawyer) the writings of Addison and Steele are gone into desuetude, and the Spectator is almost a dead letter. To this sort of tacit sentence I cannot, for myself, subscribe: I prefer the ancient wits to the modern, and see nothing superior in the latter, except their precision and the emphatic mode in which they inculcate their ideas. Their pleasantry is certainly more pointed and more palpable than that of their predecessors; but why is this so? It is because their beat is narrower, and it is therefore more easy for them to run down their prey. For, observe the manœuvres of a modern wit, and you will find that his art lies in some single trick of pleasantry, upon which he works with as much earnestness as if he were labouring a point of law. His humour lies in the juxtaposition of incongruous images, in whimsical alliteration and association, or, in short, in some one trick which is, in my eyes, worthless as soon as it is discovered. The old school did not reject such means; but their motto was "Wit at several weapons ;" and their tricks of fence so various, that it was difficult to parry or detect them. They " gave point" as well as the moderns, but the readers of the present day seem to be too much dazzled by their feints and their flourishes to estimate the sharpness of their thrusts. To instance what I mean, I should cite Rabelais, who seems to have entirely fallen in public estimation, and is a writer now seldom quoted but for his extravagance; yet what a vein of moral epigram and satire runs under this, while half of those, who gaze upon his rapid and whirling current, are unable to discern the precious stones, which pave the channel. I remember once passing some days, during the time of the Continental

blockade, and consequent fall of Colonial produce, in the house of a West Indian gentleman, as distinguished for the variety of his accomplishments, as the brilliancy of his hospitality, who surprising me with Rabelais in my hand, and quarrelling with me for the perverseness of my taste, I defied him not to laugh at a passage which I was then reading, but which he pronounced to be absolute nonsense. This was the assignment made by Pantagruel to Panurge of the rents of the perriwinkles and cockleshells; upon which he observes, that in a good shell-year this revenue was considerable, but that Panurge was a fellow to live as if perriwinkles were always at par." And this you think humorous?" said my friend; "now to me it appears absolute stuff." "Nay," replied I, delighted to have him upon the hip, "you are the last man who has a right to say so; for substitute sugar-hogsheads for perriwinkles, and what have you done but play Panurge ever since you came to your estate?"

THE HUMOROUS MAN.

THERE is, I believe, no cause of offence so disproportionately punished as the trick of singularity. Let the Humorous Man, as he was termed in the old comedy, confine his caprices within the safest limits, he is generally considered dangerous, and is almost always unpopular. Yet, in opposition to this general antipathy, it may be maintained with truth, that no grave vices are necessarily incidental to such a character, that it guarantees the absence of some hateful qualities, and is a security even for some useful virtues.

For, first, the humorist is usually free from malignant qualities. He has a safety-valve for his worst passions; and, like Shakspeare's Menenius Agrippa," what he thinks, he utters, and spends his malice in his breath."

But I am, I confess, more disposed to prove the virtues than the innocence of the humorist. To the point: he is certainly, generally speaking, independent in his opinions, and thus may be, by no far-strained construction, considered as a useful subject and natural supporter of civil liberty. A very acute and distinguished French statesman at least proves the converse of the proposition where he observes, that no one is so cut out for a courtier as a man "sans honneur et sans humeur," observing that it is a mistake to translate the last word by ill-humour, the expression meaning, in older French, what is properly explained through synonyms in the Dictionnaire de l'Academie as fantaisie caprice. If the humorous man then is to be considered as of some utility in society, why is he in such bad odour with those among the serious, who do not come under the definition of solemn asses? Or why (and this seems the most inexplicable difficulty) if he be free from rancorous passions, does he so generally offend, while the interested or ma

licious man ordinarily makes few enemies in comparison? Why these different characters should produce such different and undeserved effects in society, may be illustrated more shortly than explained. The humorous man may be compared to one, who guards his grain with powder only; he kills none of the fowls who forage in his fields, but he flashes, and blazes, and scares, and irritates all. The worldly man, on the contrary, arms himself with an air-gun, which neither lightens nor thunders, and stings only the enemies whom it strikes. But the abstract unpopularity of the humorous man, who offends even those who need not or cannot fear him, must be found in a deeper source, and may be traced to a cause which seems to pervade all animal nature. Singularity is in itself an offence through all the orders and species into which this is distinguished. Put a paper neckcloth about a sparrow, turn him out, and he will become the victim of his irritated companions. Let but a dog bark in a town more loudly than ordinary, no matter whether in rage or in merriment, and every one makes common cause against the offender. The expediency, indeed, of avoiding this ground of offence has been chronicled by the proverbial wisdom of most nations; as in the Pappa Tace of the Italians, and the Eat your pudding and hold your tongue, of the English. Observe this maxim in all its latitude, and every thing will be permitted to you. A dignitary of the church, who had made hunting the amusement of his youth, asked an old and respected member of his order, whether he might pursue his favourite sport after being elevated to the prelacy? His counsellor answered in these memorable words, which may indeed serve as a rule of life,- My Lord, you may hunt, but you must not holla. I have been sometimes tempted, like the Eastern Prince in the story, to have this maxim of worldly wisdom engraved on every piece of plate, and burnt into every piece of porcelain in my possession; that at every hour of the day I may have presented to my eyes, the memento of, "you may hunt, but you must not holla."

MONT BLANC.

To the Editor of the New Monthly Magazine.

MY DEAR SIR-THE following account of a late attempt to read the summit of Mont Blanc may, perhaps, be interesting to some of your readers. It is the only original account published in this country, and contains the substance of a narrative drawn up, soon after my return to England, for the satisfaction of my friends.

Oriel College, Oxford.

I remain, &c.

J. D.

ABOUT the middle of last August I arrived at Geneva, accompanied by my friend H- of Brazenose, whom I had fallen in with at Bern, and who was, like myself, devoting a part of the long vacation to a Continental tour. I had, before leaving England, set my heart upon ascending Mont Blanc, and found no difficulty in prevailing on my companion, who had already made the tour of the greater part of Switzerland, to accompany me. Having called on a gentleman of Geneva, to whom I had an introduction, with a view of making the necessary inquiries, I learnt from him that a small party were then on the point of setting out with the same intention. I lost no time in finding them out, and proposing to share in their undertaking; and the following afternoon, August 16, we set off together, in a hired calêche, for the valley of Chamounix. Our party consisted of four persons. Our new acquaintances were Le Chevalier Hamel, a Russian, then employed by the Emperor in making some philosophical observations in the neighbourhood, and M. Sellique, an optician of Geneva, and native of Paris, a man of considerable attainments in various branches of natural philosophy. His grand object in accompanying us was to make trial of a new barometer, of his own construction, in measuring the height of Mont Blanc, the accuracy of some former observations for the same purpose having been recently called in question. Dr. Hamel had already made, ten days before, an unsuccessful attempt to reach the summit by a different route, being the same which Saussure attempted in 1785 with no better success.*

We reached St Martin, the place for which we had engaged our calêche, at one o'clock in the morning of the 17th, and having engaged two sharabandst for the journey through the valley, we arrived at Chamounix at two o'clock in the afternoon. From a balcony of the house where we slept, we had the first distinct view of Mont Blanc; and Dr. Hamel pointed out to us the formidable Aiguille de Gouté which he had lately succeeded in scaling H. and myself set off from St. Martin on foot through the valley, being desirous of preparing ourselves a little for the fatigues of the following day. We walked nearly seven miles before we were overtaken by our party with the sharabands, and took the opportunity of visiting a beautiful fall of water, at a short distance on our left, which amply repaid us for the fatigue

An account of this has already appeared in an article of the Bibliothee Universelle, a monthly publication edited at Geneva, in which Dr. Hamel given a minute account of his two attempts, and of the observations which intended to have made on the summit.

Sharaband is the name for a very low narrow car on four wheels, drawn by one or more mules, which is the only kind of vehicle in use in the valley. Indeed the road, if it may be called one, is frequently so rugged as to oblige the traveller to descend, which he may do with a single step, and support his carriage with

the hand.

which it occasioned. From this spot the road becomes the most romantic that can be conceived; and when our companions overtook us, they found us reposing on the green margin of a small transparent lake, surrounded by a group of beautiful peasantgirls and boys, who were pressing upon us beakers of a most delicious water, drawn from a fountain at some short distance.

On our arrival at Chamounix, at the excellent hotel de l'Union, we immediately sent for Matthieu Balmat, and Joseph Marie Couttet, guides of the valley, to whom we had been recommended to apply ourselves. After a good deal of bargaining, which we were glad to leave to Dr. Hamel, we finally agreed with twelve guides, who were to receive forty-eight francs apiece: the choice of the ten others was left to the two leaders, who appointed them all to muster in marching order at four o'clock the following morning. We found a large and genteel party at the table d'hôte, and spent a very pleasant afternoon. The rumour of our intended expedition was soon spread abroad, and we found ourselves treated with something of that kind of respect, which is paid to the leaders of the forlorn hope on the eve of the storming of a town. Many jokes were interchanged about making our wills, which we afterwards reflected upon with very different feelings.

At length, the long-expected morn arrived: at four o'clock we were summoned from our beds, where we had not enjoyed much sleep, and about five we all set off on foot, making with the guides a party of sixteen. These latter were each furnished with a knapsack pretty well loaded, in which were placed provisions for three days for the whole party, mathematical instruments, additional clothing for ourselves on the following day, four blankets, and a variety of other things, among which were a carrierpigeon from Bonneville, to convey to that place the earliest tidings of our arrival on the summit, and a live fowl destined to be cooked at the same height. We had also with us some rockets and Bengal-lights, which we had promised the ladies below to exhibit from our halting-place for the night. This was to be the summit of a rock called by the guides Le Grand Mulet, which is a very conspicuous object from the hotel. After returning on the road to St. Martin for nearly a league, we began the ascent in a wood, which skirts the mountain for some distance. But prous to this we stopped for a few minutes at the cottage of Joseph Marie Couttet, which is at the base of the mountain, to provide ourselves with spiked-poles; and at his suggestion I exchanged an ordinary hat for one of the kind usually worn by the peasants, and which, he informed me, had already been twice on the summit of Mont Blanc. Our caravan now assumed a most romantic appearance; the costume of the guides, each with a French knapsack, and one or two with old pelisses, being de