avalanches, do not remain fixed in the spot where they are first formed. Occupying, as they mostly do, the upper valleys and slopes of lofty mountains, they make a gradual, never-ceasing progress, not visible to the eye, yet always going on. The mighty glacier descends with slow but resistless motion into the lower valleys—a river of ice always wasting, and always being renewed; no human power can impede or direct its progress; onward it comes, numbering perhaps not more than three hundred paces in a year-until it overturns the huts of the peasantry, and exterminates, beneath its pondrous icy foot, orchards and fields of smiling corn.

But has the summer's sun no effect upon this gelid stream? Many glaciers at their termination in the lower valleys are a thousand feet high, and a mile across; so that it may well be supposed the longest summer, and the brightest sun of Switzerland, would make but a faint impression upon ice stored in a magazine of such dimensions, and extending often to a length of twenty miles. But the ice is being constantly wasted from a variety of causes. On approaching the foot of the glacier an icy cavern is seen, from which issues a rapid and

intensely cold stream of turbid water; this is derived chiefly from the melted snow and ice, which penetrates through the cracks and fissures of the glacier into a channel below, and wears for itself a cavern, whence it rolls into the light of day. Some of these glacier streams are of great force and intensity, varying, of course, with the season of the year, and the hour of the day; they have their greatest flood in July, when the sun has most power; and they swell visibly, and roar more loudly, as the hottest part of the day advances; they diminish towards evening, and are smallest in the night,

In standing before this crystal wall, and watching the torrent pouring from its bed, it seems as permanent a feature in the stupendous landscape, as the most solid rock or mountain; and yet there is scarcely any thing in nature more fleeting. The wall of ice which we gaze upon to-day cannot be said to be the same surface that we admired yesterday; the form is the same, but the substance is perhaps hundreds of miles away, hurrying towards the ocean on the bosom of the Rhine, or forming part of the dark blue waters of the Rhone, for these rivers are supplied from glacier streams.

The daily waste of ice is daily renewed; it is pressed onward with resistless force; advances to a certain point, where it appears to remain stationary, until we look around and contemplate the scene of wild confusion and desolation which the glacier has wrought out: blocks of stone, varying from the size of a house to that of a pebble, are scattered around to a distance of many yards, and often miles, obliterating the traces of man's industry, and converting his orchards and corn fields into a stony waste.

The difficulty of ascending a glacier is well repaidby the grandeur and interest of the scene. Many tourists, in common with the writer, have experienced the highest delight in the ascent of the Mer de Glace, one of the five principal glaciers of Mont Blanc. In approaching this glacier, we travel on mules from Chamouny, and pass through a magnificent forest of pines and larches, situated on the steep slope of the Montanvert. The road winds

up this in a series of zigzags; a great height is soon attained, and a glorious view is often seen as in a picture, with the noble forest trees for a framing. The road is bad, and the turns are frequent, but there is really no danger if the sure-footed mule is

allowed to take its own course. The road is, in fact, ploughed up and nearly destroyed by the descending avalanches of winter, and only a few loose stones, thrown hastily down, show that there is a road. The trees also bear fearful evidence of the power of falling masses of snow. Many of

the monarchs of the forest lie prostrate; others have been snapped asunder, as if they were reeds, their blackened stumps remaining to tell of the conflict.

On reaching the summit of the Montanvert, the traveller first begins truly to appreciate the wild grandeur of the glacier-here called the Mer de Glace, although properly a river, not a sea of ice. From a height of about 240 feet, we look down upon the icy stream, and see it, for about two leagues, following the windings of the valley, pent in between walls of rock, surmounted by a thousand pinnacles, which often rise beyond the clouds, the loftiest of which, the Aiguille Verte, is more than 13,000 feet above the level of the sea, and about 7,000 feet above the grassy platform from which we now behold it.

Wishing to see more of this magnificent glacier, we set out with our guides to pay a visit to le