Our excursion had given us a capital relish for dinner, and that despatched, and 'our mules refreshed,' we set off again and climbed to the _Glacier de Bossons_, an immense mass of ice, congealed in beautiful pyramids, on the side of Mont Blanc. That 'mighty Alp' itself, we did not care to ascend; it is an achievement which has never been accomplished but thirteen times, as we were told by our guide, who was one of the six that escorted an Englishman to the summit this summer. The ascent is of course one of great fatigue and danger. It takes from two to three days, and costs nine hundred francs. It is impossible to remain on the top more than thirty minutes. The last adventurer was sick several weeks at the inn, after his return. You may imagine something of the situation of this valley among the mountains, from the fact, that although it is itself two thousand feet above the Mediterranean, it receives the rays of the sun direct, only about four hours in the longest days of the year; and the moon, to-night, was not to be seen, in her whole course, though the opposite mountains were bright with her 'mellow light.' The people of these valleys seem to be honest and industrious, as well as a little superstitious, if one may judge from the number of crosses, and little chapels, with images of the virgin, etc., which are placed by the way-side. On one of them, near Chamouni, is a proclamation in French, to this effect: 'Monseigneur Rey grants an indulgence of forty days to all the faithful who humbly and devoutly strike this cross three times, saying, 'God have mercy upon me!' * * * * * AUGUST 24.--At six A. M., we mounted our mules for Martigny, by the pass of the Tête Noir. Like Dr. Beattie, on leaving Chamouni, I beg to refer you to the beautiful hymn which Coleridge wrote here before sunrise, painting its features a _little_ more vividly than I can do it: 'Ye ice-falls! Ye that from the mountain's brow Adown ravines enormous slope amain; Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amidst their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents, silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven, Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? GOD! Let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer, and let the ice-plains echo, GOD! GOD! Sing, ye meadow streams with gladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in the perilous fall shall thunder, GOD! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth GOD! and fill the hills with praise!