

KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 151 
still it drove the lovely glory of the sun-light 
before it, until at last the vast Dome de Gouté 
and the summit itself stood out, icelike and grim, 
in the cold evening air, although the horizon still 
gleamed with a belt of rosy light. Although this 
superb spectacle had faded away, the scene was 
still even more than striking. The fire which the 
guides had made, and which was now burning 
and crackling on a ledge of rock a little below us, 
threw its flickering light, with admirable effect, 
upon our band. The men had collected round 
the blaze, and were making some chocolate, as 
they sang patois ballads and choruses ; they were 
all evidently as completely at home as they would 
have been in their chélets. 
We had arranged ourselves as conveniently as 
we could, so as not to inconvenience one another, 
and had still nothing more than an ordinary wrap- 
per over us; there had been no attempt to build 
the tent with batons and canvass, as I had read in 
some of the Mont Blanc narratives—the starry 
Heaven was our only roofing. Mr. Floyd and Mr. 
Philips were already fast asleep. Mr. West was 
still awake, and I was too excited even to close 
my eyes in the attempt to get a little repose. We 
talked for awhile, and then he also was silent. 
The stars had come out, and, looking over the 
plateau, I soon saw the moonlight lying cold and 
silvery on the summit, stealing slowly down the 
very track by which the sunset glories had passed 
upward and away. But it came so tardily, that 
I knew it would be hours before we derived any 
actual benefit from the light. 
One after another the guides fell asleep, until 
only three or four remained round the embers of 
the fire, thoughtfully smoking their pipes. And 
then silence, impressive beyond expression, reigned 
over our isolated world. Often and often, from 
Chamouni, I had looked up at evening towards 
the darkening position of the Grand Mulets, and 
thought, almost with shuddering, how awful it 
must be for men to pass the night in such a 
remote, eternal, and frozen wilderness. And now 
I was lying there—in the very heart of its ice- 
bound and appalling solitude. In such close com- 
munion with nature in her grandest aspect, with 
no trace of the actual living world beyond the 
mere speck that our little party formed, the mind 
was carried far away from its ordinary train of 
thought—a solemn emotion of mingled awe and 
delight, and yet self-perception of abject nothing- 
ness, alone rose above every other feeling. A 
vast untrodden region of cold, and silence, and 
death, stretched out far and away from us on every 
side ; but above, Heaven, with its countless watch- 
ful eyes, was over all ! 
Having got thus far, it would be sad 
indeed to leave our travellers in the lurch. 
Let us drag on, then, with them, till they 
reach the summit :— 
For upwards of half an hour we kept on 
slowly mounting this iceberg, until we reached 
the foot of the last ascent—the calotte, as it is 
called—the “cap” of Mont Blanc. The danger 
was now over, but not the labor, for this dome of 
ice was difficult to mount. The axe was again in 
requisition; and everybody was so “blown” (in 



bravely on, like fine fellows as they were, getting 
ahead even of some of the guides; but I was per- 
fectly done up. Honest Tiarraz had no sinecure 
to pull me after him; for I was stumbling about, 
as though completely intoxicated. TF could not 
keep my eyes open, and planted my feet anywhere 
but in the right place. I know I was exceedingly 
cross. Ihave even a recollection of having scolded 
my “team,” because they did not go quicker; and 
I was excessively indignant when one of them 
dared to call my attention to Monte Rosa. 
At last, one or two went in front, and thus some- 
what quickened our progress. Gradually our speed 
increased, until I was scrambling almost on my 
hands and knees; and then, as I found myself on 
a level, it suddenly stopped. I looked round, and 
saw there was nothing higher. The batons were 
stuck in the snow, and the guides were grouped 
about; some lying down, and others standing in 
little parties. Iwas on the top of Mont Blanc! 
The ardent wish of years was gratified ; but I was 
so completely exhausted, that, without looking 
round me, I fell down upon the snow, and was 
asleep in an instant. I never knew the charm 
before of that mysterious and brief repose which 
ancient people term “forty winks.” Six or seven 
minutes of dead slumber, was enough to restore 
the balance of my ideas; and when Tiarraz awoke 
me, I was once more perfectly myself. 
And now I entered into the full delight that 
the consciousness of our success brought with it. 
It was a little time before I could look at anything 
steadily. I wanted the whole panorama condensed 
into one point; for, gazing at Geneva and the 
Jura, I thought of the plains of Lombardy behind 
me; and turning round towards them, my eye 
immediately wandered away tothe Oberland, with 
its hundred peaks, glittering in the bright morning 
sun. 
Who, after reading all that we have here 
set before them, will rest satisfied without 
seeing it realised? Not one person, we 
hope, who is possessed of a spare shilling. 
Success to Albert Smith! say we. He 
has made loads of money, and he deserves it. 
He once “ cut us up” in print, and made fun 
of us for being such a devoted “ lover of 
nature,” or what he called “nonsense.” We 
glory in taking our revenge in a different 
strain. 
All “lovers of nature”’ can afford to be 
good-tempered. No ill-feeling can ever 
linger in their breast. Let us therefore 
“ery quits,” good Mr. Albert Smith. A long 
and merry reign to you and your clever Book! 
M‘IntTosH’s Book OF THE GARDEN. fart 
XITT.— Blackwood and Sons. 
IN OUR EARLIER NUMBERS we have 
directed special attention to this excellent 
work, so rich in horticultural information, 
and so ably illustrated. It proceeds well. 
In the number before us, are some remark- 
ably interesting observations connected with 
common parlance) that we had to stop every three | the hybridising of plants. They are from 
or four minutes. My young companions kept | the well-known pen of Mr. Isaac Anderson, 
