rendre avec netteté; par suite j'ai donné en Juillet, 1809, ce registre pour que les voyageurs y consignassent leurs réflexions. Je m'en répens. Ce que j'y ai lu,-ce que je lis ici, me désespère. On a du bon sens quand on se détermine à voir la vallée de Chamouni, mais je vois qu'on le perd en y arrivant.' It is vexatious to witness the cacoethes scribendi of our countrymen disfiguring many fair places at home and abroad, and casting ridicule upon us. I remember when at the Superga, near Turin, a few years ago, seeing a villanous couplet scribbled on a handsome marble tablet in that splendid building. The author of the monstrosity had, in the fulness of his pride, subscribed his name and address, by which it appeared that he was an Englishman, and dwelt in London. My travelling companion, at that period,—always on the watch for a joke, addressed a heavy double postage sheet to the gentleman, in which he assured him that his verses were in excellent preservation; that their perusal had afforded him great satisfaction, and that he had given instructions to the cicerone of the Superga to request all future English visitors to transmit an account of the condition of the lines to their author. WE CHAPTER XVII. E were up with the sun. Not that we saw him rise, or that we Made a breakfast of the morning dew, but as he lifted his resplendent face from his soft pillow of fleecy clouds above the mountain tops, we were ready to start. It was a glorious morning; our usual good fortune respecting the weather had not deserted us at this our especial time of most requiring cloudless skies. Our guide, Jacques Trag, whom I beg to introduce and cordially recommend to the reader, should he ever be at Lanslebourg under similar circumstances to ourselves, was in waiting. We charged him with the heaviest knapsack, under the flap of which we stowed a bottle of rare cognac which the landlord drew from the choicest bin in his cellar, and some bread. The other knapsack my friend and myself agreed to carry, turn about, relieving each other every hour. At seven o'clock we started. Our course lay up the valley by a mule path, parallel to the Arc. As we had a long day's march before us, we walked slowly, on the good principle that— 314 LANS LE VILLARD. Chi va piano, va sano, As we advanced, the valley contracted to a ravine lined with large rocks, between which our path was carried. Patches of snow lay on the slopes of the mountains many thousand feet above, from whence thin, silvery ribbons of water fell, waving to and fro in their descent. About an hour's walk from Lanslebourg, we came to the small village of Lans le Villard, standing in a narrow plain, every available inch of which is cultivated. It was harvest time, and the scanty population of the sterile valley were all a-field, loading their mules with bundles of thin oats and rye. It was difficult to conceive how the people derive a subsistence from the small patches of stony soil; yet, according to the guide, they thrive well, and there are no paupers among them. Our path now ascended considerably; magnificently formed mountains rose at the head of the valley, their glaciers glistening beneath the sun. In three hours we reached Bessans, another rude hamlet, the inhabitants of which are proprietors of enormous herds of cattle. These pass the summer in a rich valley, at right angles to that of the Arc, up which we were journeying. The valley is of great extent, and is surrounded on all sides, excepting that of its entrance, by lofty and precipitous mountains. The entry lies through a narrow ravine, the sides of which are so contiguous, that the gap can be closed by a gate. Through the ravine from two to three thousand cattle are driven in the spring, after the avalanches have ceased to fall. Each beast has a bell suspended to his neck, bearing the initials of the owner. When all the cattle have entered this huge natural fold, the ravine is closed, and they remain imprisoned during the summer months. As we passed the mouth of the valley, we heard the tinkling of the bells, the tones of which came musically and tremulously through the air. We had now proceeded beyond the limits of cultivation. Large masses of rock nearly covered the valley; among them to our left, and close to the torrent, rose, to the height of fifty feet, a high block of white marble, which had been worked for building purposes. The expense of transporting the fragments to Lanslebourg was found, however, to be too great to be remunerative. We strained our eyes to catch sight of Bonval, a hamlet where we purposed halting. A short distance beyond, the valley of the Arc is terminated by enormous ice-ribbed mountains. The outline of one, which our guide called Mont Ribon, formed a noble feature to the right. I may state here that the names given to the wild mountains of Savoy, are as numerous as they are unpronounceable. The peasants of every commune seem to have christened each peak with a name which jumps with their own fancy, wholly regardless of the titles lawfully belonging to them by right of government surveys. So that, when naming any peak which struck us as fine or characteristic, I must beg the reader to understand that I am by no means certain that I have given the proper appellation. As we approached Bonval, we gazed inquiringly at the steep slope of the mountain immediately over it, which rose to a prodigious elevation. This was the Iseran, up and over which we had to climb. Crossing the Arc by a fragile plank, we entered the village, and followed our guide into a small cottage, from which, however, we made a precipitate retreat, as we were well nigh suffocated by the smoke from the fire of dried manure. The owner of the cabin enjoyed the monopoly of keeping the only house of entertainment in the village. But he had better things in store. Crossing the road, he led us to a newly-built house, containing a half-finished apartment, with rough walls and unplaned floor. It was provided with a table and benches, and at the upper end was a heap of hay and straw, on which the storm-stayed traveller might repose for a night. Numerous pig-skins, distended and ruddy with wine, hung from the rafters; and black discs of great size, which looked like granite, but were rye-bread, were piled up in one corner. Our arrival had created some excitement in the village. A girl, in descending Mont Iseran the previous evening, had been struck on the forehead by a sharp-pointed fragment of rock, which had penetrated the bone to a considerable depth; and in the |