into notice, or boldly challenge the admiration which is certainly their due.

Nor are the mountains in this western part of Switzerland without their proper amount of cold and ice. There are natural ice caverns, where the warmth of the sun never penetrates, and where the rich tracery of nature's crystalline architecture may be studied on a grand scale. There are, too, other and more permanent stalactitic beauties; for the limestone, of which the Jura is chiefly composed, is often broken into caverns of various sizes, some of them presenting very beautiful appearances, from the infiltration of water charged with carbonate of lime. Of these, I regret to be obliged to acknowledge that I did not see any; a neglect which arose partly from ignorance, but chiefly from necessity, not having so much time to spare as the subject demanded.

The first expedition that I made towards the Jura mountains was with a friend, who, to my great loss, could not accompany me on subsequent occasions. Perhaps, on this account as much as any other, there is a freshness and agreeableness about my reminiscences of this trip, which hardly attaches to other and more extensive explorings. I shall give the narrative pretty much as I find it in my journal, and trust to its truth and close adherence to fact to excite interest, rather than to any colouring that I might be tempted to indulge in.

On a beautiful afternoon in the beginning of August, I embarked with my companion at Lausanne, on board the steam boat which touches there on its way to Geneva; and in about two hours we landed at the pretty village of Rolle, whence we slowly ascended to an elevation at some few miles distance to the north, on the highest point of which, about eighteen hundred feet above the level of the lake, there is a little summer-house kind of building, marking a spot well known to picturesque hunters in the neighbourhood of Geneva as the "Signal of Bougy." It was our intention to remain here till sunset, and then, having feasted our eyes with the magnificence and beauty of the extensive prospect, we were to make the best of our way to Aubonne, a pretty village, situated at no very great distance. We arrived at the signal about half an hour before sunset, and had leisure to look around and admire the noble landscape that presented itself to our view. Owing to the situation of this elevated ridge near the bend of the lake, the whole of the vast sheet of water, extending from Geneva to Villeneuve-a distance of not less than fifty miles

is exposed to view with the most perfect distinctness. Every little bay and inlet, every spire of a village church on either side of its banks, every one of the numerous villages and towns modestly retiring under the rich woodland scenery, which at once overshadows and discloses the works of man-every object, in fact, that the eye can rest on with pleasure, is here seen clearly and sharply defined, in harmonious contrast with the blue sky and bluer water. Just opposite the signal the lake attains its greatest breadth, nearly ten miles; and the mountains on the opposite or Savoy side are seen to recede, leaving a narrow opening, which discovers not only the lofty summit of the giant monarch of mountains, but also a considerable portion of the eternal mantle of snow which envelopes his shoulders, and which the comparatively insignificant but much nearer elevations effectually hide from view in almost every other spot in the vicinity of the Lake of Geneva.

And if, leaving these glories, we turn to contemplate the scene to the east and north, there is a new set of beauties, a new species of loveliness, not so striking, but scarcely less interesting than the other. The frowning mass of Mont Tendre, already in deep shade-for, the sun setting behind this mountain, the intervening valley is the first darkened-the rich but sombre forests which clothe the sides of that as of most of the Jura mountains, the contrast of bright green cornfields, which nothing can make to look gloomy, the multitude of patches of vineyard, and the occasional appearance of a naked sandy waste, all these, in their way, add to the effect, which is completed by distant glimpses of pretty villages, here and there peeping out from their green hiding-places.

Amid all these elements of beauty, and commanding a prospect of much that is most lovely in Switzerland, did we stand to watch the gradual but too rapid disappearance of the sun, as he approached the western horizon. At first the rich golden tint was predominant, and there was a degree of pain in the very intensity of the effulgence; but this soon mellowed down into a softer brilliancy, and tinted all distant objects with a lovely rose colour, which in its turn became paler and paler, as it died away upon the mountain tops, and left the snowy summits in their clear cold reality. There is something deeply impressive in thus watching the gradual departure of brilliancy, richness, and loveliness, first, from the nearest objects, where we seem as if able to grasp and detain the beauty, and then successively from those farther and farther from us, just touching the distant prospect, and giving it the vividness of reality, only to pass away the more

quickly, and leave all in darkness and obscurity. Such scenes ought to be impressive lessons to the young and thoughtless: for so pass away the glories of this world; and the distant objects of ambition, love, or happiness, shine to them with a colouring as brilliant, and one which will prove as evanescent, even as the last tint communicated by a summer's sun.

Certainly a fine sunset in Switzerland is a thing not easily to be forgotten when it has been enjoyed in silence and under favourable circumstances. The lengthening shadows of the mountains, the changeful tints of the calm waters, the distant snow on one side and the gloomy forests on the other, are well calculated to produce a train of thinking and ideas of rest and peace, reminding one of childhood and of home, and promoting a sadness and melancholy which are quite in consonance with the best feelings of our nature. There comes over one, on such occasions, a desire and longing after another and a nobler state of existence, where the spirit will not be bound down by the close cords of mortality, but will be free to range at pleasure from world to world, and know clearly those hidden things which the utmost stretch of imagination cannot now guess at.

I shall not often be led into these digressions, but there are few evenings of my life which recur so often with pleasure to my memory as the one I am now describing; and I have yet more to say concerning it. Not long after the sun had quite set to us, but while it still communicated a rosy hue to Mont Blanc, whose lofty and distant summit did not become tinted till the snow of all the other and nearer mountains had recovered its former whiteness, we strolled along the ridge, and soon had occasion to descend a little on coming to a narrow ravine. In the course of two or three minutes we again had the same prospect before us: the same, but how changed! Mont Blanc had now become of the colour of chased silver, a rich creamy appearance, which the distant snow will sometimes take on evenings like this. The other mountains frowned in their dark outlines yet more clearly than before; for behind them had just arisen the queen of night in all her simplicity and majesty, her full orb resting, as it were, and skimming lightly upon the summit of one of them, as if pausing to look upon the earth before commencing her nightly course. It was her pale blue mingling with the last faint touches of the rose, that had produced the rich but momentary colour we so much admired.

After a pleasant stroll through cultivated fields, catching at intervals a momentary glance of the white summits of the distant moun

tains, we arrived at our destination, and after a supply of unexceptionable coffee, bread and butter, and honey, took a moonlight walk round the village, and sat down in the public walks, admiring once more the beautiful lake and mountain scenery which had so often before delighted us. We returned to our inn, enjoyed very tolerable beds, and next morning found us journeying westward; and about eleven we reached the town, or rather village, of Gimel, where we obtained directions as to our further progress towards "St. Georges," in the immediate vicinity of the mountains.

Before arriving at this last named village (which is three thousand feet above the level of the sea), we had quite entered on the district of the Jura, and already had wandered through extensive forests of pine, and mounted and descended some considerable elevations. But the appearance of St. Georges, from the last of the undulations which form the flank of the Jura, is pretty picturesque, and even romantic in the extreme. The road, passing along a natural cut in the rock, and showing on each side the naked limestone in a variety of fantastic forms, conceals, for the most part, the view of the mountains, until, becoming suddenly more rocky, and turning rather to the right, we left its formal course, and trusting to our map and compass, struck off to the left, and, mounting by a narrow path in that direction, were soon rewarded by the rich and wild scenery which disclosed itself to our view as soon as we had reached the summit of a moderate ascent. Immediately before us stretched the noble mountains, clothed to their summit with the dark, sombre, but truly magnificent, vegetation of the lofty pine forests, which extended in one unbroken mass as far as the eye could reach. Between the spot on which we stood and this steep face of the mountains, there lay a lovely and quiet valley, cultivated, but not tortured into too great regularity: waving with corn, smiling in fruit trees, and completed by the pretty peeping tower of a church rising above the houses of the little village to which we were journeying. The perfect calm that reigned around contributed to the effect of this scene; and we descended and arrived at the village almost without speaking a word to interrupt the flow of feeling which such a scene was well calculated to produce. The narrow and irregular street we found almost choaked up by a large flock of goats loitering about, and apparently driven down from their mountain pasture to be milked. Threading our way through them, though not without a little difficulty, we were soon directed to the abode of the "maitre du glacier," who was to provide us with a guide to take us across the mountain and show us the glacier of the Jura,

to see which, indeed, was one principal object of our expedition. We found the house-the lower part serving for the goats, and, we presume, the upper being appropriated to bipeds-but the master himself we did not find, and were obliged to wait some time before any one could be hunted up to conduct us. It would have been quite useless to attempt to explore upon speculation, as the glacier is in a cavern, whose mouth would not be easily seen, even at a short distance. Meanwhile we examined the primitive wooden houses of which the village was composed, and amused ourselves with watching the few inhabitants in the place, who, in their turn, were most energetically employed in scrutinising us. After waiting some time, a half-silly half-drunk individual presented himself, and in the fewest possible words intimated his readiness to be our escort. As there was no choice we accepted his services, and immediately commenced a clambering ascent through the thick forest, which, as I have said, clothes the face of the mountain, and seems to rise like a green wall behind the village. Although we had been walking for some hours, and our guide had apparently very recently emerged from a cabaret, we did not find this specimen of a Swiss mountaineer peculiarly active or difficult to keep up with. At every fallen tree that we came to he paused, and intimated his desire to rest; and although at first we indulged him, and plucked the strawberries and other fruits which abounded, yet we soon discovered that it would be long before we arrived at the top if we did not set an example of activity. After a good deal of difficulty, we got the poor wretch to understand that we would not pause so often, and at length, in about an hour, reached the summit, crossed the ridge, and, descending for a short distance, came upon the verge of the cavern, into which we immediately descended by the help of three ladders, and then found ourselves in a large natural ice-house.

It was a hot August day, and about noon, when we arrived here; and the sudden transition from the burning sun to the cold chilly cavern was very delightful, and lent, perhaps, a favourable colouring to the scene before us. We had descended about forty feet, and entered, by a vertical and rather chimney-shaped aperture, a regular and extensive cavern, of which the walls and flooring were of clear, solid, and excellent ice, forming beautiful stalactites and stalagmites, grouped in all kinds of fanciful and grotesque positions. The thickness of ice was extremely great, greater, indeed, in most parts, than could be calculated; but the roof was of bare rock, and exposed the geological structure of the cavern. It was formed along the line of