of difference in impressiveness which I am endeavouring to analyze, but find considerable embarrassment in doing so.  There seems no sufficient reason why an isolated obelisk, one-fourth higher than any of them, should not be at least as sublime as they in their dependent grouping; but it assuredly is not.  For this reason, as well as because I have not found here the near studies of primitive rock I expected,—­for to my great surprise, I find the whole group of mountains, mighty as they are, except the inaccessible Monte Rosa, of secondary limestones or slates,—­I should like, if it were possible, to spend a couple of days more on the Montanvert, and at the bases of the Chamouni aiguilles, sleeping at the Montanvert.”

And so on, apologetically begging (as other sons beg money) for time, to gather the material of “Modern Painters,” volume iv.

“I hope you will think whether the objects you are after are worth risks of sore throats or lungs,” replied his father, for he had “personified a perpetual influenza” until they got him to Switzerland, and they were very anxious; indeed, Pfister’s news from Martigny had scared his mother—­not very well herself—­into wild plans for recapturing him.  However, Osborne Gordon was going to Chamouni with Mr. Pritchard, and so they gave him a little longer; and he made the best use of his time: 

     “Monday evening (August 20, 1849).

     “MY DEAREST FATHER,

“I have to-night a packet of back letters from Viege ... but I have really hardly time to read them to-night, I had so many notes to secure when I came from the hills.  I walk up every day to the base of the aiguilles without the slightest sense of fatigue; work there all day hammering and sketching; and down in the evening.  As far as days by myself can be happy they are so, for I love the place with all my heart.  I have no over-fatigue or labour, and plenty of time.  By-the-by, though in most respects they are incapable of improvement, I recollect that I thought to-day, as I was breaking last night’s ice away from the rocks of which I wanted a specimen, with a sharpish wind and small pepper and salt-like sleet beating in my face, that a hot chop and a glass of sherry, if they were to be had round the corner, would make the thing more perfect.  There was however nothing to be had round the corner but some Iceland moss, which belonged to the chamois, and an extra allowance of north wind.”

This next is scribbled on a tiny scrap of paper: 

     “GLACIER or GREPPOND, August 21.

     “MY DEAREST FATHER,

“I am sitting on a gray stone in the middle of the glacier, waiting till the fog goes away.  I believe I may wait.  I write this line in my pocket-book to thank my mother for hers which I did not acknowledge last night.  I am glad and sorry that she depends so much on my letters for her comfort.  I am sending them now every day by the people who