Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains; the
impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from
among the trees, formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented
and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining
pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the
habitations of another race of beings. We passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river
forms, opened before us, and we began to ascend the mountain that
overhangs it. Soon after we entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley
is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as
that of Servox, through which we had just passed. The high and snowy
mountains were its immediate boundaries; but we saw no more ruined
castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road; we
heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche, and marked the
smoke of its passage. Mont Blânc, the supreme and magnificent Mont
Blânc, raised itself from the surrounding _aiguilles_, and its
tremendous _dome_ overlooked the valley. During this journey, I sometimes joined Elizabeth, and exerted myself to
point out to her the various beauties of the scene. I often suffered my
mule to lag behind, and indulged in the misery of reflection. At other
times I spurred on the animal before my companions, that I might forget
them, the world, and, more than all, myself. When at a distance, I
alighted, and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and
despair. At eight in the evening I arrived at Chamounix. My father and
Elizabeth were very much fatigued; Ernest, who accompanied us, was
delighted, and in high spirits: the only circumstance that detracted
from his pleasure was the south wind, and the rain it seemed to promise
for the next day. We retired early to our apartments, but not to sleep; at least I did
not. I remained many hours at the window, watching the pallid lightning
that played above Mont Blânc, and listening to the rushing of the Arve,
which ran below my window. CHAPTER II. The next day, contrary to the prognostications of our guides, was fine,
although clouded. We visited the source of the Arveiron, and rode about
the valley until evening. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded
me the greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They
elevated me from all littleness of feeling; and although they did not
remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillized it. In some degree,
also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded
for the last month. I returned in the evening, fatigued, but less
unhappy, and conversed with my family with more cheerfulness than had
been my custom for some time. My father was pleased, and Elizabeth
overjoyed. “My dear cousin,” said she, “you see what happiness you
diffuse when you are happy; do not relapse again!”

The following morning the rain poured down in torrents, and thick mists
hid the summits of the mountains. I rose early, but felt unusually
melancholy. The rain depressed me; my old feelings recurred, and I was
miserable. I knew how disappointed my father would be at this sudden
change, and I wished to avoid him until I had recovered myself so far as
to be enabled to conceal those feelings that overpowered me. I knew
that they would remain that day at the inn; and as I had ever inured
myself to rain, moisture, and cold, I resolved to go alone to the summit
of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous
and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It had then filled me with a sublime ecstacy that gave wings to the
soul, and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the
effect of solemnizing my mind, and causing me to forget the passing
cares of life. I determined to go alone, for I was well acquainted with
the path, and the presence of another would destroy the solitary
grandeur of the scene. The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short
windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the
mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots the
traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie broken
and strewed on the ground; some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning
upon the jutting rocks of the mountain, or transversely upon other
trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected by ravines of
snow, down which stones continually roll from above; one of them is
particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even speaking in
a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw
destruction upon the head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or
luxuriant, but they are sombre, and add an air of severity to the scene. I looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers
which ran through it, and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite
mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain
poured from the dark sky, and added to the melancholy impression I
received from the objects around me. Alas! why does man boast of
sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders
them more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger,
thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by
every wind that blows, and a chance word or scene that that word may
convey to us. We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep. We rise; one wand’ring thought pollutes the day. We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh, or weep,
      Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
    It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,
      The path of its departure still is free. Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
      Nought may endure but mutability! It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent. For some
time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered
both that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated
the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The surface is very uneven,
rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and
interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a
league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The
opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where I
now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league;
and above it rose Mont Blânc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess
of the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or
rather the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains, whose
aërial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering peaks
shone in the sunlight over the clouds.