MONT BLANC AND THE HER DE GLACE. 35 



you find yourself in Switzerland, surrounded by those 

 Swiss peasant women, thick-set and nut-brown as the 

 cows with which they consort, with form like a bag of 

 meal, and gait like that of a Muscovy duck. 



Outstripped so easily by our travelers on mule-back, 

 we almost regret our resolve to walk; but should we 

 pause a few minutes in the shade of the firs which bor- 

 der our path, many a pedestrian would also come up 

 to report as a companion. 



At length the stone-built house of refreshment, at the 

 end of the path, shines through the trees. We stand 

 upon the brink of a deep, rocky valley, and look down 

 upon the surface of the world-famed Mer de Glace. We 

 survey it for a moment, and our throats choke with dis- 

 appointment and chagrin. How painfully beneath our 

 anticipations! A pocket affair, indeed! And it seems 

 incredible that anyone could need a guide to cross this 

 piece of ice. We, at least, will assert our independence. 



But the general perspective is grandiose and satisfac- 

 tory. The steeple-like pinnacles of the mountains on 

 either hand are overpowering in magnificence. On the 

 right, as we look up the Mer de Glace, is the Aiguille 

 de Charmoz (11,293 feet), eleven thousand three hundred 

 feet high; on the left, the Aiguille du Dru (11,527 feet), 

 eleven thousand five hundred feet high ; and directly before 

 us, but more remote, the enormous masses of the Grandes 

 Jorasses (13,786 feet), thirteen thousand eight hundred feet 

 in height. From this direction we gather a more adequate 

 idea of the magnitude of the glacier-field before us. Two 

 miles up the stream of ice it seems, indeed, but half a 

 mile the glacier widens and bifurcates. The tributary 

 from the right, visible only at its termination, is the Giant 



