Everybody goes to Chamouny, and up the Flegere, and to Montanvert, and over the Mer de Glace; and nearly everybody down the Mauvais Pas to the Chapeau, and so back to the village.  It is all easy to do; and yet we saw some French people at the Chapeau who seemed to think they had accomplished the most hazardous thing in the world in coming down the rocks of the Mauvais Pas.  There is, as might be expected, a great deal of humbug about the difficulty of getting about in the Alps, and the necessity of guides.  Most of the dangers vanish on near approach.  The Mer de Glace is inferior to many other glaciers, and is not nearly so fine as the Glacier des Bossons:  but it has a reputation, and is easy of access; so people are content to walk over the dirty ice.  One sees it to better effect from below, or he must ascend it to the Jardin to know that it has deep crevasses, and is as treacherous as it is grand.  And yet no one will be disappointed at the view from Montanvert, of the upper glacier, and the needles of rock and snow which rise beyond.

We met at the Chapeau two jolly young fellows from Charleston, S. C. who had been in the war, on the wrong side.  They knew no language but American, and were unable to order a cutlet and an omelet for breakfast.  They said they believed they were going over the Tete Noire.  They supposed they had four mules waiting for them somewhere, and a guide; but they couldn’t understand a word he said, and he couldn’t understand them.  The day before, they had nearly perished of thirst, because they could n’t make their guide comprehend that they wanted water.  One of them had slung over his shoulder an Alpine horn, which he blew occasionally, and seemed much to enjoy.  All this while we sit on a rock at the foot of the Mauvais Pas, looking out upon the green glacier, which here piles itself up finely, and above to the Aiguilles de Charmoz and the innumerable ice-pinnacles that run up to the clouds, while our muleteer is getting his breakfast.  This is his third breakfast this morning.

The day after we reached Chamouny, Monseigneur the bishop arrived there on one of his rare pilgrimages into these wild valleys.  Nearly all the way down from Geneva, we had seen signs of his coming, in preparations as for the celebration of a great victory.  I did not know at first but the Atlantic cable had been laid; or rather that the decorations were on account of the news of it reaching this region.  It was a holiday for all classes; and everybody lent a hand to the preparations.  First, the little church where the confirmations were to take place was trimmed within and without; and an arch of green spanned the gateway.  At Les Pres, the women were sweeping the road, and the men were setting small evergreen-trees on each side.  The peasants were in their best clothes; and in front of their wretched hovels were tables set out with flowers.  So cheerful and eager were they about the bishop, that they forgot to beg as we passed:  the whole valley was in a fever of expectation.  At one hamlet on the mulepath over the Tete Noire, where the bishop was that day expected, and the women were sweeping away all dust and litter from the road, I removed my hat, and gravely thanked them for their thoughtful preparation for our coming.  But they only stared a little, as if we were not worthy to be even forerunners of Monseigneur.