A TRAMP ON THE MER DE GLACE. BY H. N. D. The thriving village of Chamouni, in a valley of the same name, lies at the base of Mt. Blanc, nestled in the very shadow of that hoary monarch of mountains." By the side of the village rushes the river Arve, a stream fresh from the icy bosom of the mountains; while on every side rise the grand old Alps in solemn majesty, down whose rocky sides the glaciers stretch like frozen rivers, into the green fields of the valley below. One of these masses of ice has received, on account of its great size, the name of the Mer de Glace, or the Sea of Ice, although, I think, it might much more appropriately be called the River of Ice. Our party of pedestrians had arrived at this place in the evening, and we determined to make a journey the next day over the ice, to that famous little spot, high up among the glaciers, called the Jardin," or the Garden," where nature, weary of those grand scenes of desolation which appear on every side, has warmed this little nook, and covered it with green and flowers. Accordingly about four o'clock the next morning we were summoned by our guide to prepare for our expedition. Our party consisted of seven persons, three of us on mules, one a-foot, two guides and a muleteer; and after we had partaken of an early breakfast provided for us, we started at daybreak, for the Hospice de Montauvert, some six miles distant, on the borders of the glacier, and several thousand feet above the valley. On leaving the village our way lay over a plain until we came to the foot of the mountain wall, which lies along the side of the valley; we now began to ascend a zig-zag path of the worst description, which was very steep, and covered with rocks and loose stones. After going on in this way for some distance, the path took a more direct course along the side of the mountain, which was very steep. On our right the rocky ground rose abruptly to the summit, and on our left it slanted down so steep that a large stone would roll over a thousand feet, down to the valley below. The path was but three or four feet wide, and the mules seemed to take great delight in going on the outer edge of it. This part of the path lay across the bed of a torrent, where in spring the water from the melting snow rushes down like an avalanche, so that in this place there is no vegetation from summit to base. Excepting where these torrent beds occur, the lower part of the mountain is covered with pine and yew trees, which become more scarce, short and yellow, as the snow line is approached. We continued our interesting ride until we began to near the glacier, when, after a journey of two hours, we reached the Hospice and alighted. This is a little building affording limited accommodation to those who wish to spend the night, or find shelter from the mountaiu storm; it is something more than six thousand feet above the sea level, and is kept by an old guide. After warming ourselves at a blazing fire, and looking at a fine lot of stones and crystals which the old man had for sale, we started out at about eight o'clock for the Jardin.' We were now on the edge of the Mer De Glace and some hundred feet above it. Beneath us lay this frozen river covered with its icy waves or hummocks, and broken up with immense crevices, while on either side rose innumerable sharp, rocky peaks called "needles," from their peculiar shape. As we looked down, we could see the glacier to the left descending into the valley of Chamouni, and to the right it stretched away for miles, until lost among the snowy fastnesses of Mt. Blanc. To form an idea of a glacier, one may imagine a large river like our Hudson, coming down the mountains, through a large valley several miles wide, and, while tossed into high waves, frozen solid in that state. It has been ascertained that as the ice is melted at the foot of the glacier, which, as before remarked, is often among green fields and villages, the whole mass moves slowly along, at the rate of about one foot a day. New ice is continually supplied from above, so that there is n apparent motion, but there are a ple proofs of it on every hand. On each side of the glacier is a high hill, or "morai,” composed of rocks, stones and sand, heaped up sometimes as high as a hundred feet. This is caused by the silent ploughing of the glacier, as it moves along with tremendous force, grinding the solid granite to fragments, and piling up the rocks and sand as a ploughshare turns a furrow. There are several such "moraines" in the middle of the Mer De Glace, which have been thrown upon the ice at the juncture of two branches of the glacier. The manner of crossing was not altogether without danger, and was quite novel; one of the guides first made the surface of the ice-bridge, which was but a few feet wide, as nearly even as he could with the iron point of his pole, and then after crossing himself, reached back his pole to help one of us across. Grasping this with one hand and the pole of the guide who remained behind, with the other hand, we were thus safely conducted over the yawning chasm. The color of the icy sides of these crevices is a beautiful deep blue. As I crossed one of these bridges, I struck my Alpinstock into the ice, and as the chamoise horn flew from the end of it down the crevice, we could hear it strike against the sides until it reached the bottom far below. Of course there is no path upon the ice, since the glacier is continually changing in form as it advances, so the guide piled up stones at intervals as we went along, to mark our way. There are inuumerable little streams of water flowing over the surface of the glacier; they usually pour down the sides of the crevices or other holes, making cascades, in some places over a hundred feet in height, which send While at Montauvert we had provided up a hollow rushing sound that may be ourselves with little steel points which heard at a distance. These streams flow were screwed into the soles of our boots to on under the ice to the foot of the glacier, prevent our slipping on the ice, but when where they unite to form a stream of the pure ice was reached, after crossing the chalky wh'teness, which is always found moraine," we found that it was not near-issuing from a large glacier, and is often ly as slippery as we had anticipated, but of considerable size. the surface was more like frozen snow. When once upon the glacier, our course was very indirect, and we had to change our direction continually, to avoid the numerous crevices in the ice. These crevices or splits in the glacier are caused by the downward motion of the mass over the uneven surface of the valley through which it glides. They are from one to twenty feet wide, and vary in depth with the thickness of the ice, sometimes being as much as two hundred feet deep. The ice is so tough that when a rent occurs there are often splinters extending diagonally across from one side to the other. We avoided these crevices as much as possible, but were sometimes compelled to cross them on these airy ice-bridges, or, as we have before called them, ice-splinters. But to return to our path: our way first lay along the edge of the ice over rocks and stones, and gradually descending, neared the level of the glacier. Af ter proceeding for some time we arrived at a place called Les Ponts," or The Bridges." Here the only passage is by way of a very narrow ledge cut in the face of a slanting precipice of slaty rock; there were foot-steps cut the size of a foot, and we had to lean against the face of the rock on one side and steady ourselves on the other side with our iron-pointed poles. We crossed two such "bridges," each of which was of considerable length, and when we had gone on a mile or two further, turned aside on to the ice. 66 As we continued our course, we occa sionally found crystals which had been brought down with the ice, and saw rocks covered with them. The sun was quite warm, and we were frequently tempted to quench our thirst with the ice-water which was so abundant, but our lips were sore from the effects of it for days after. At length we came to where three large glaciers unite to form the Mer de Glace. It was a glorious sight, and one which I shall never forget. In front of us this sea of ice stretched miles away, until lost in a wilderness of snow-clad peaks and icy summits; on our right, at a distance, rose the rounded summit of old Mt. Blanc, crowned with the hoary snow of ages, the highest point in Europe! Down his rug ged sides, the old giant sends his icy le gions; huge avalanches, mighty, though unheard by reason of their distance, rush down to join this frozen sea, as it moves on with resistless force, to overwhelm the valleys in ruin and desolation, but even as the Assyrian host vanished at the blast of the Angel of Death, so does this mighty mass melt away beneath the sunbeams, and bring fertility and blessing to the valleys far away. On our left a shapeless mass of ice-hills and hummocks seems to tumble down from above like a frozen waterfall. This is the outlet of the glacier Talefre, which, from our stand-point, is invisible. Up above us, on the bosom of this icy lake, lies the "Jardin," the object of our search. All around were signs of tremendous power; heaps of rock ground into stone and sand, ice piled heap on heap, and on every hand cold desolation and grandeur; not a tree, or the slightest sign of any living creature, except our party, was visible. Amidst such marks of the strength and power of the Almighty, how could one fear? The ice on our left was so broken up by its descent that it was impossible to find a way upon it, so we took our path up the rocky base of the Aiguille du Talefre, one of those pointed "needles" which distinguish the scenery of this region. The path is very steep indeed, and we had to use our hands as well as feet, and even then the youngest of our party was obliged to receive assistance from the guides. Huge boulders seemed ready to slide down upon us and crush us, as we crept beneath their overhanging crests; now and then we were obliged to crawl along a rocky ledge, carefully steadying ourselves with our poles, and, after stopping very frequently to rest, reached a place more level, about half way up, and here halted to recover our strength; after taking a bite of bread and meat, and a sip of brandy, the sweetest morsels I ever tasted, strengthened and refreshed, we resumed the slight trace of a path which, if possible, became more and more difficult, until at last, after the hardest climb I had ever had, we came in sight of the "Jardin.” We descended a little over a mass of rocks, to a glacier covered with fresh snow ; it was an inclined plane, and it seemed as if we might easily slip, and roll to the bottom, where it meets the Mer de Glace. During the walk across the side hill, which was nearly a mile, the youngest of the party nearly fainted from fatigue, but we had fortunately brought along some brandy and that restored him. At length we climbed a high "moraine," descended the other side, and were at our journey's end. The "Jardin " is a triangular piece of rock-bound soil of about seven acres extent, slanting with the glacier, and surrounded by the high walls of earth and rocks, formed by the moving ice. The lower end is over nine thousand feet above the sea level, and the upper end or restex of the triangle is considerably higher. The view is shut in on three sides, by huge snow-covered peaks and sharp rocky, needles," which form a sort of amphitheatre, with the arena paved with ice many a fathom thick, fit scene for the struggle of the ancient Titans! Here in the midst of all this lonely waste, where man but seldom comes, and no tree or shrub finds sustenance, lies, like an oasis in a desert, this garden of the Alps. Although October had already come, and the fairer flowers had faded, still the little slopes of earth were carpeted with grass, and daisies opened their great eyes as if in wonder at the strange sights about them. A little brook, too, of clear, sweet water, bounded merrily down from the rocks above, halting in a hollow basin now and then, as if regretting to leave so soon this verdart little spot, and then with a leap rushed on to the icy channels beneath the glacier. Having spread our shawls upon the grass, we reclined like ancient Romans, to our feast of cold provisions, which the guides had brought in their knapsacks from Montauvert. The sun was rather too warm for comfort while we were in motion, but the temperature here was very pleasant, and we sat for a while, enjoying a panorama of mountain peaks draped in snow, vast fields of ice glittering in the sun, and far above all, surpassing all in silent grandeur, the rounded summit of Mt. Blanc,-a spectacle worthy of the gods. We met a young Englishman and guide prayer, I worshipped the Invisible alone." We followed the same path, and after resting many times, reached the Mer de Glace, in safety. The youngest of our party was so much fatigued that the two guides took hold of the ends of their poles, and he walked between, holding the middie of the poles in his hands; he was thus enabled to proceed with less difficulty. We retraced our steps by means of the little piles of stones which our guides had uade in the morning, and, without adventure or accident, reached the Hospice de Montauvert, at a quarter past six in the evering. We gladly availed ourselves of the opportunity here offered to warm ourselves and recruit our strength a little, before commencing the descent, in the dark. to Chamouni. In half an hour we mounted our mules, and, as it was now dark, one man took each animal by the bridle, and down we started on our rugged way. This ride was "the most unkindest cut of all," for the mules would sometimes jump down the rocks that lay in the road, forcing us to drop the reins and hold fast to the saddle before and behind. It was exceedingly dark and gloomy in the pine woods, and at a difficult part of the road a girl ran out of a hut with a lantern, and led the way. It is truly wonderful how sure-footed these mules are, for during the whole descent, the one I rode did not stumble once, while the man who led him caught his foot, and rolled over among the pine We arrived at our hotel in Chamouni, at half-past eight o'clock, after spending a most interesting as well as trees. fa tiguing day, and soon retired, with hearts grateful for the kind protection extended to us during the day. LOTTIE LEE. BY MRS. HELEN RICH. Sweet Lottie Lee, I am dreaming, dear, Of the lost by-gone and thee; Of the tiny foot as white and soft Ah, Lottie Lee, no mantle bright, No snowy plumes or jewels deck My Lottie Lee, the meadow lark That sang to us that day, And e'en the clover in its bed, That never seemed to rest, Thy precious image slyly took, And hugged it to its breast; Ah, Lottie, we'l thy logic proved That angels leave their heaven, All days that come and go- Lost Lottie Lee, thy sun of life 66 Sank with earth's sun from sight,Dear love, I cannot be thy wifeOne kiss, and then good night; And when the angels come and lay Their lilies on my breast, White lilies oped to view, Their bells that tolled to see How still, and cold, and heavenly fair Lay my own Lottie Lee, A LEAF FROM MEMORY. BY N. T. MUNROE. Beautiful is the sleep of death! How seldom does the face which we have watched during its time of suffering and of agony, reveal, after the spirit has fled, and the body lays silent before us, any traces of i's past suffering. It is as if the soul, ere it had left its tenement had stamped its own future peace upon the features before us. Very calm and still lies that form with the hands folded upon the pulseless breast; very quiet rests the blue-veined lids upon the eyes closed for ever, and placid the brow no longer distressed by pain. Death is sometimes very beautiful and always intensely solemn and awful. - But the living, the ever present sorrow which we every day see around us the hearts which drag on a weary life with this sorrow ever before them! The sun which should dispel the gloom is cast behind them, and nought but the ever present, gigantic shadow is before them. Very hard is it sometimes to bow down resignedly to these living sorrows. her. And O, it showed the deep love of the mother to wish to retain the image of that poor child, after she should be laid in the silent tomb. But love hallows all things, and as the mother took her child by the hand, her poor unfortunate one, upon whom already the stamp of idiocy seemed placed. I thanked God for the deep, the never swerving love of the I sat within the room of an artist one day and learned a lesson never to be forgotten. A mother came with a child, beautiful almost as an angel. Locks of paly gold fell in ringlets down her round, white shoulders; soft, brown eyes with long lashes, looked from beneath a full forehead, her mouth was like a rosebud, and her complexion of faultless purity. She was the picture of health and lovli- and O, how proud and happy was the mother when the artist praised the child's beauty and grace. This was the first visit, the first sitting for a picture, of the fair creature, and another day was appointed ere it would be finished. ness: There came another mother with a child of the same age, but pale and sickly. Her eyes were heavy and lacking intelligence She was not interesting to the stranger, but the mother loved her poor, sickly child, for not long did she think she would be spared to her, for a dreadful disease was upon her, and death would indeed be a mercy. mother. This was her last sitting, the picture was finished and was indeed very like A few days passed, and the artist was The time appointed for the second visit, at work upon the picture of the first child. had arrived, the hour passed by, she came not! Ah she never came again; she lay within the home of her bereaved parents, silent in death! The angel had done his work, the fair being was dead. The mother laid her beautiful curls about her face to make her look like life; she held her little hands within her own, and put her ear to the still, quiet mouth, for the hundredth time and felt there was no breath. She never met the eye of the artist again; the picture was finished from memory, and the fair child was laid in the grave, and the snows of winter fell on her early resting place. But she lived in the hearts of those who had loved her like a holy, blessed memory. They felt they were better even for her short life, and thanks were given to God, for this favor, that she had been spared to them so long. But ah, the other picture, there was grief hard indeed to be borne. Year after year passed and the pale, sickly child grew in stature, grew to girlhood, even to womanhood, but there was no intelligence in her face, no soul looking from her vacant eyes, she was a hopeless idiot! Was it not sad for that mother to watch her poor, helpless daughter. True in a measure we get used to such things or appear to, but there was ever that vacant face, that living hopeless sorrow. How strange, how mysterious are the the ways of Providence. The bright, the intelligent and healthy child, was taken away suddenly, when she seemed to promise to be such a blessing; and the poor, sickly creature, with no light of intellect |