mo:n't blaxc and the mer de glace. 27 



the Grand Quai, ply every stranger who ventures through 

 their precincts. The fare to Chamonix and back, if you 

 are quartered in a hotel, is thirty-six francs, of which six 

 go to your landlord. There is little difference in the ac- 

 commodations of the different lines. In front, under- 

 neath the banquette where the driver sits, with room 

 for two others, is a closed coupe with a seat for three. 

 The body of the vehicle is occupied by three other seats, 

 each with room for three. Underneath the rear is a 

 capacious repository for baggage. 



At seven o' clock in the morning we repair to our dili- 

 gence and take possession of the seats previously engaged. 

 Six horses whirl us out of town at the top of their speed. 

 The route lies up the valley of the Arve. The scenery 

 at first is lacking in features of striking interest. At 

 Bonneville, 15 miles, we pass, to the left, the pyramidal 

 mountain of the Mole, over 6,000 feet high (6,128 feet). 

 At Balme two cannon are planted by the road-side, which 

 for a fee of one franc will undertake to wake the echoes 

 in the high cliffs opposite. 



The mountains now rise in loftier grandeur upon the 

 right and left, and flocculent clouds hang on the red crags 

 or drip down their precipitous slopes. One cannot help 

 remarking how these wisps of vapor love to cling to the 

 solid earth. The open atmosphere above the valleys may 

 be free from clouds, but they seldom cease to hover about 

 the high-lifted forms of the mountains. I am inclined to 

 think they are drawn to these masses by what we call 

 gravitation, as light particles, floating on the surface of 

 a vessel of water, are drawn from all directions toward a 

 larger floating body. 



Approaching Magland, a striking phenomenon bursts 



