Than all Switzerland,

and any one of the fifteen subdivisions of the glacial stream is as large as the Great Rhone glacier.

Underlying this great ice field is that glacial river which bears these mountains of ice on its bosom to the ocean.  With a roar like distant artillery, or an approaching thunder-storm, the advancing walls of this great monster split and fall into the watery deep, which has been sounded to a depth of some 800 feet without finding anchor.

The glacial wall is a rugged, uneven mass, with clefts and crevices, towering pinnacles and domes, higher than Bunker Hill monument, cutting the air at all angles, and with a stupendous crash sections break off from any portion without warning and sink far out of sight.  Scarcely two minutes elapse without a portion falling from some quarter.  The marble whiteness of the face is relieved by lines of intense blue, a characteristic peculiar to the small portions as well as the great.

Going ashore in little rowboats, the vast area along the sandy beach was first explored, and it was, indeed, like a fairy land.  There were acres of grottoes, whose honey-combed walls were most delicately carved by the soft winds and the sunlight reflections around and in the arches of ice, such as are never seen except in water, ice, and sky.

Mountains of ice,

remnants of glaciers, along the beach, stood poised on one point, or perchance on two points, and arched between.  These icebergs were dotted with stones imbedded; great bowls were melted out and filled with water, and little cups made of ice would afford you a drink of fresh water on the shore of this salt sea.

At five o’clock in the morning, with the sun kissing the cold majestic glacier into a glad awakening from its icy sleep, the ascent was begun.  Too eager to be among the first to see the top, many started without breakfast, while others chose the wiser part, and waited to be physically fortified.

The ascent is not so difficult as it is dangerous.  There is no trail and no guide, and many a step had to be retraced to get across or around some bottomless fissure.  For some distance the ground seemed quite solid.  Soon it was discovered that there was but a thin covering of dirt on the solid ice below; but anon in striking the ground with the end of an alpine stick it would prove to be but an inch of ice and dirt mixed, and a dark abyss below which we could not fathom.  It is to be hoped, for the good of future tourists, that there are not many such places, or that they may soon be exposed so they can be avoided.  Reaching the top after a tedious and slippery climb, there was a long view of icy billows, as if the sea had suddenly congealed amid a wild tempestuous storm.  Deep chasms obstructed the way on all sides, and a misstep or slip would send one down the blue steps where no friendly rope could rescue, and only the rushing water could be heard.  To view the solid phalanxes of icy floes, as they fill the mountain fastnesses and imperceptibly march through the ravines and force their way to the sea, fills one with awe indescribable.  The knowledge that the ice is moving from beneath one’s feet thrills one with a curious sensation hard to portray.