“O yes.  Mont Blanc is more grand, when you behold it from the hills opposite.  It was there that I was most moved by the magnificence of Swiss scenery.  It was a morning like this; and the clouds, that were hovering about on their huge, shadowy wings, made the scene only the more magnificent.  Before me lay the whole panorama of the Alps; pine forests standing dark and solemn at the base of the mountains; and half-way up a veil of mist; above which rose the snowy summits, and sharp needles of rock, which seemed to float in the air, like a fairy world.  Then the glaciersstood on either side, winding down through the mountain ravines; and, high above all, rose the white, dome-like summit of Mont Blanc.  And ever and anon from the shroud of mist came the awful sound of an avalanche, and a continual roar, as of the wind through a forest of pines, filled the air.  It was the roar of the Arve and Aveiron, breaking from their icy fountains.  Then the mists began to pass away; and it seemed as if the whole firmament were rolling together.  It recalled to my mind that sublime passage in the Apocalypse; ’I saw a great white throne; and him that sat thereon; before whose face the heavens and the earth fled away, and found no place!’ O, I cannot believe that upon this earth there is a more magnificent scene.”

“It must be grand, indeed,” replied Flemming.  “And those mighty glaciers,—­huge monsters with bristling crests, creeping down into the valley! for it is said they really move.”

“Yes; it filled me with a strange sensation of awe to think of this.  They seemed to me like the dragons of Northern Romance, which come down from the mountains and devour whole villages.  A little hamlet in Chamouni was once abandoned by its inhabitants, terrified at the approach of the icy dragon.  But is it possible you have never been at Chamouni?

“Never.  The great marvel still remains unseen by me.”

“Then how can you linger here so long?  Were I in your place I would not lose an hour.”

These words passed over the opening blossoms of hope in the soul of Flemming, like a cold wind over the flowers in spring-time.  He bore it as best he could, and changed the subject.

I do not mean to describe the Valley of Lauterbrunnen, nor the bright day passed there.  I know that my gentle reader is blessed with the divine gift of a poetic fancy; and can see already how the mountains rise, and the torrents fall, and the sweet valley lies between; and how, along the dusty road, the herdsman blows his horn, and travellers come and go in charabans, like Punch and Judy in a show-box.  He knows already how romantic ladies sketch romantic scenes; while sweet gentlemen gather sweet flowers; and how cold meat tastes under the shadow of trees, and how time flies when we are in love, and the beloved one near.  One little incident I must, however, mention, lest his fancy should not suggest it.