spoken of as the appointed work for the afternoon, yet we discovered, as the psalm book says, that

"The force of nature could no farther go."

What is Glacier de Boisson, or glacier any thing else, to a! person used up entirely, with no sense or capability left for

any thing but a general aching? No; the Glacier de Boisson was given up, and I am sorry for it now, because it is the commencement of the road up Mont Blanc; and, though I could not go to the top thereof, I should like to have gone as

far as I could. In fact, I should have been glad to sleep one night at the Grands Mulets: however, that was impossible.

To look at the apparently smooth surface of the mountain side, one would never think that the ascent could be a work of such difficulty and danger. Yet, look at the picture of crossing a crevasse, and compare the size of the figures with the dimensions of the blocks of ice. Madame d'Angeville told me that she was drawn across a crevasse like this, by ropes tied under her arms, by the guides. The depth of some of the crevasses may be conjectured from the fact stated by Agassiz, that the thickest parts of the glaciers are over one thousand feet in depth.

JOURNAL (CONTINUED.)

FRIDAY, July 8.- Chamouni to Martigny, by Tête Noir. Mules en avant. We set off in a calèche. After a two hours' ride we came to "those mules." On, to the pass of Tête Noir, by paths the most awful. As my mule trod within six inches of the verge, I looked down into an abyss, so deep that tallest pines looked like twigs; yet, on the opposite side of the pass, I looked up the steep precipice to an equal height, where giant trees seemed white fluttering fringe. A dizzy sight. We swept round an angle, entered a dark tunnel blasted out through the solid rock, emerged, and saw before us, on our right, the far-famed Tête Noir, a black ledge, on whose face, so high is the opposite cliff, the sun never shines. A few steps brought us to a hotel. William and I rolled down some avalanches, by way of getting an appetite, while dinner,was preparing.

After dinner we commenced descending towards Martigny, alternately riding and walking. Here, while I was on foot, my mule took it into his head to run away. I was never more surprised in my life than to see that staid, solemn, meditative, melancholy beast suddenly perk up both his long ears, thus, and hop about over the steep paths like a goat. Not more surprised

should I be to see some venerable D. D. of Princeton leading

off a dance in the Jardin Mabille. We chased him here, and chased him there. We headed him, and he headed us. We said, "Now I have you," and he said, "No, you don't!" until the affair began to grow comically serious. "Il se moque de vous!" said the guide. But, at that moment, I sprang and caught him by the bridle, when, presto! down went his ears, shut went the eyes, and over the entire gay brute spread a visible veil of stolidity. And down he plodded, slunging, shambling, pivotting round zigzag corners, as before, in a style which any one that ever navigated such a craft down hill knows without further telling.

After that, I was sure that the old fellow kept up a "terrible thinking," in spite of his stupid looks, and knew a vast deal more than he chose to tell.

At length we opened on the Rhone valley; and at seven we reached Hotel de la Tour, at Martigny. managed to get up two flights of stone

Here H. and S. stairs, and sank I must say they

speechless and motionless upon their beds. have exhibited spirit to-day, or, as Mr. C. used to say, "pluck." After settling with our guides, fine fellows, whom we hated to lose,-I ordered supper, and sought new guides for our route to the convent. Our only difficulty in reaching there, they say, is the snow. The guides were un

certain whether mules could get through so early in the season. Only to think! To-day, riding broilingly through hayfields-to-morrow, stuck in snow drifts!

LETTER XXXV.

DEAR HENRY:

You cannot think how beautiful are these Alpine valleys. Our course, all the first morning after we left Chamouni, lay beside a broad, hearty, joyous mountain torrent, called, perhaps from the darkness of its waters, Eau Noire. Charming meadows skirted its banks. All the way along I could think of nothing but Bunyan's meadows beside the river of life, "curiously adorned with lilies." These were curiously adorned, broidered, and inwrought with flowers, many and brilliant as those in a western prairie. Were I to undertake to describe them, I might make an inventory as long as Homer's list of the ships. There was the Canterbury bell of our garden; the white meadow sweet; the blue and white campanula; the tall, slender harebell, and a little, shorttufted variety of the same, which our guide tells me is called "Les Clochettes," or the "little bells"- fairies might ring them, I thought. Then there are whole beds of the little blue forget-me-not, and a white flower which much resembles it in form. I also noticed, hanging in the clefts of the rocks around Tête Noir, the long golden tresses of the laburnum. It has seemed to me, when I have been travelling here, as if every flower I ever saw in a garden met me some where in rocks or meadows.

There is a strange, unsatisfying pleasure about flowers, which, like all earthly pleasure, is akin to pain. What can