e
height, because it turns into the valley of the Rhone, through which the
southern winds blow constantly.

Under ordinary conditions, vegetation fades in these mountains at the
height of six thousand feet, but, in consequence of prevailing winds,
and the sheltering influence of the mountain-walls, there is no
uniformity in the limit of perpetual snow and ice. Where currents of
warm air are very constant, glaciers do not occur at all, even where
other circumstances are favorable to their formation. There are valleys
in the Alps far above six thousand feet which have no glaciers, and
where perpetual snow is seen only on their northern sides. These
contrasts in temperature lead to the most wonderful contrasts in the
aspect of the soil; summer and winter lie side by side, and bright
flowers look out from the edge of snows that never melt. Where the warm
winds prevail, there may be sheltered spots at a height of ten or eleven
thousand feet, isolated nooks opening southward where the most exquisite
flowers bloom in the midst of perpetual snow and ice; and occasionally I
have seen a bright little flower with a cap of snow over it that seemed
to be its shelter. The flowers give, indeed, a peculiar charm to these
high Alpine regions. Occurring often in beds of the same kind, forming
green, blue or yellow patches, they seem nestled close together in
sheltered spots, or even in fissures and chasms of the rock, where they
gather in dense quantities. Even in the sternest scenery of the Alps
some sign of vegetation lingers; and I remember to have found a tuft of
lichen growing on the only rock which pierced through the ice on the
summit of the Jungfrau. The absolute solitude, the intense stillness of
the upper Alps is most impressive; no cattle, no pasturage, no bird, nor
any sound of life,--and, indeed, even if there were, the rarity of the
air in these high regions is such that sound is hardly transmissible.
The deep repose, the purity of aspect of every object, the snow, broken
only by ridges of angular rocks, produce an effect no less beautiful
than solemn. Sometimes, in the midst of the wide expanse, one comes upon
a patch of the so-called red snow of the Alps. At a distance, one would
say that such a spot marked some terrible scene of blood, but, as you
come nearer, the hues are so tender and delicate, as they fade from deep
red to rose, and so die into the pure colorless snow around, that the
first impression is completely di