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 Tête 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 follow the windings of the narrow, steep path, you have a choice between addressing the back of the one who precedes you, and throwing a remark over your shoulder to those who come after. Involuntarily you fall to studying the curves of the former, and are utterly indifferent to the fact that the latter are probably meditating upon the intricacies of your back hair. Mule-riding is conducive to grace of neither soul nor body; still you know you are not making such a spectacle of yourself as did the woman just passed--who twisted about in the saddle as though worked along by rotary motion. Perhaps not. As you leave the villages to plunge into the woods, the flies swarm like beggars; and it is only when the guides have cut boughs from the trees, which you wave before you, wickedly suggesting palm branches, that you can proceed with tolerable comfort, and without the fear of an unexpected toss in the air, as one kick after another runs down the line. Each horse or mule has his own slight peculiarities of habit and disposition. I recall one whose inordinate curiosity led him to walk always upon the verge of the precipices, so that the rider's feet overhung the frightful depths. Murray says it is best to allow these animals to choose their own paths. But to hang suspended between heaven and earth at the mercy of a strap and a mule, will shake one's faith, even in Murray.