a guide;
but they couldn't understand a word he said, and he couldn't understand
them. The day before, they had nearly perished of thirst, because they
could n't make their guide comprehend that they wanted water. One
of them had slung over his shoulder an Alpine horn, which he blew
occasionally, and seemed much to enjoy. All this while we sit on a rock
at the foot of the Mauvais Pas, looking out upon the green glacier,
which here piles itself up finely, and above to the Aiguilles de Charmoz
and the innumerable ice-pinnacles that run up to the clouds, while our
muleteer is getting his breakfast. This is his third breakfast this
morning.

The day after we reached Chamouny, Monseigneur the bishop arrived there
on one of his rare pilgrimages into these wild valleys. Nearly all the
way down from Geneva, we had seen signs of his coming, in preparations
as for the celebration of a great victory. I did not know at first but
the Atlantic cable had been laid; or rather that the decorations were on
account of the news of it reaching this region. It was a holiday for
all classes; and everybody lent a hand to the preparations. First, the
little church where the confirmations were to take place was trimmed
within and without; and an arch of green spanned the gateway. At Les
Pres, the women were sweeping the road, and the men were setting small
evergreen-trees on each side. The peasants were in their best clothes;
and in front of their wretched hovels were tables set out with flowers.
So cheerful and eager were they about the bishop, that they forgot to
beg as we passed: the whole valley was in a fever of expectation. At one
hamlet on the mulepath over the Tete Noire, where the bishop was that
day expected, and the women were sweeping away all dust and litter
from the road, I removed my hat, and gravely thanked them for their
thoughtful preparation for our coming. But they only stared a little, as
if we were not worthy to be even forerunners of Monseigneur.

I do not care to write here how serious a drawback to the pleasures of
this region are its inhabitants. You get the impression that half of
them are beggars. The other half are watching for a chance to prey upon
you in other ways. I heard of a woman in the Zermatt Valley who refused
pay for a glass of milk; but I did not have time to verify the report.
Besides the beggars, who may or may not be horrid-looking creatures,
there are the grinning Cretins, the old women with skins o