d around the columns, and
light the whole dingy interior into a weird, strange beauty.
We rode out to the Falls of the Sallenches,--one of the mist veils left
hanging from many of these Swiss mountains by the water-sprites,--and
penetrated the Gorge de Trient upon the shaky gallery that follows its
windings; wandered about and beyond the town; stole into an old church,
and brought away the memory of a lovely virgin face; and haunted the
dingy shops in the vain hope of making a few necessary purchases. These
shops were not unlike our New England country stores in their combined
odors and confused incapabilities. Behind the counters, or more likely
sitting in the doorway with the inevitable blue knitting in hand, were
old women, of hard, baked-apple faces, whose ideas of the luxuries of a
woman's wardrobe were so far below what we considered its necessaries,
that we parted in mutual surprise, to say the least, and without gain on
either side.
Sabbath morning, English church service was held in the parlor of one of
the hotels; after which a clergyman in gown and bands discoursed from
the text, "And there shall be no more sea,"--a peculiarly comforting
hope to some of us.
Monday morning, we mounted the horses and mules waiting in dejected
impatience before the door, and started upon the long ride of twenty-two
miles to Chamouni by the Tete Noir Pass. A wide, pleasant avenue, shaded
by walnut trees, led out of the town; after which we began to ascend the
gently-sloping mountain-sides, passing occasional villages, and besieged
by beggars and venders of fruit, as usual. Indeed, these beggars are so
constant in their attendance and importunity that one forgets to mention
them, unless recalling flies and similar swarming annoyances.
The scenery, as we went on, was often grand, always interesting; the sky
overcast, but at times the clouds, drifting apart, disclosed peaks or
"needles" so far above the mountains about us as to seem a revelation of
heaven. The path was treacherous and rough--skirting precipices,
descending in rocky steps or slippery mire, and crossing mountain
streams by narrow, insecure bridges. Single file is the invariable rule
in all these mountain excursions, and after a time the isolations of
this mode of travelling adds to its wearisomeness. Solitude is
delightful; but as some one has said, "How pleasant it is to have a
friend near by to whom you may remark, 'How delightful is solitude!'"
As you fol
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