Leaving the Pavilion, a narrow foot-path, cut out of the side of the mountain, leads to a long flight of steps, at the bottom of which we reach the ice. There a long scramble over its slippery surface, to the entrance of the cavern. Imagine a solid wall of clear, transparent ice. Into this by means of picks and spades a cave eighty-five yards long, eight feet wide and seven feet high has been dug. As you go in, the little lights flickering along the side seem to say, "Who enters here leaves hope behind." But we push on through the dripping water at the entrance, and finally find ourselves walking on ice that is hard and dry, while the atmosphere is cold enough to make an overcoat comfortable. From the end of the cavern the view is like a glimpse of fairyland. Away down the dimly lighted tunnel, the tiny lights reflected against the crystalline blue, can be seen the smooth surface of the ice, gradually growing bluer and bluer until, at the very entrance, where the sunlight pours down upon it, it becomes nearly transparent, forming a dazzling frame to the bright picture of the glacier, the forest-covered mountain and brilliant sky beyond. [Sidenote: MARKING SHEETS AND THINGS.] As we are about to emerge from the cavern the guide shows us a hole in the side, where we can see, some distance off, a subterranean stream, that has forced a channel through the ice. Here we can hear most distinctly the glacier mills in full operation. There is one, very large, near this spot, said to be sixteen hundred feet deep. It was formed by the action of huge stones moved by the water against the ice, making, during the ages the glacier has been in existence, a deep round well in the ice. This low, rumbling noise we hear is the water rushing into that well with terrific force, and working the stones against its sides. But we are aweary of mountain climbing and glacier exploring, and it is with a sigh of relief that we retrace our steps, take another glass of wine at the Pavilion, and, after a short rest, descend the mountain by an easy path. A short drive, and we are in Chamonix, some of the party telling marvelous stories of our hair-breadth escapes during our perilous ascent of Mt. Blanc. Of course they didn't go up Mt. Blanc, but the glacier gave them all the experience in mountain climbing they wanted. It satisfied them just as well as though they had scaled the great peak. As a matter of course all these people purchased Alpenstocks, which they had marked "Mt. Blanc, July 22, 1861," and were all photographed in Alpine climbing costume, which the enterprising photographer leases you for a consideration. And these photographs went home with the Alpenstocks, and are to-day being displayed upon center-tables and in albums, while the fraudulent Alpenstock has the post of honor in libraries.