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had moved upwards, leaving space between him and the horizon for the morning star. All the east was belted by that "daffodil sky' which in some states of the atmosphere announces the approach of day in the Alps. We spun towards the east. It brightened and deepened, but deeper than the orange of the spectrum it did not fall. Against this rose the mountains. Silently and solemnly their dark and dented outlines rested against the dawn.

The mass of light thus thrown over the shaded earth long before the sun appeared above the horizon, came not from illuminated. clouds, but from matter far more attenuated than clouds-matter which maintains comparative permanence in the atmosphere, while clouds are formed and dissipated. It is not light reflected from concentric shells of air of varying density, of which our atmosphere may be rightly assumed to be made up; for the light reflected from these convex layers is thrown, not upon the earth at all, but into space. The "rose of dawn" is usually ascribed, and with sufficient correctness, to transmitted light, the blue light of the sky being reflected; but in each case there is both transmission and reflection. No doubt the daffodil and orange of the cast this morning must have been transmitted through long reaches of atmospheric air, and no doubt it was during this passage of the rays that the selective winnowing of the light occurred which gave the sky its tint and splendour. But if the distance of the sun below the horizon when the dawn first appeared be taken into account, it will become evident that the solar rays must have been caused to swerve from their rectilineal course by reflection. The refraction of the atmosphere would be wholly incompetent to bend the rays round the convex earth to the extent now under contemplation.

Thus, the reflected light must be transmitted to reach the reflecting particles, while the transmitted light must be reflected to reach the eyes. I imagine that what mainly holds the light of the sun in our atmosphere after the sun himself has retired behind the earth, is the suspended matter to whose presence we owe both the blue of the sky and the morning and the evening red. Through the reverberation of the rays from particle to particle of this matter, there must be at the very noon of night a certain amount of illumination. Twilight must continue with varying degrees of intensity all night long, and the visibility of the nocturnal firmament itself is I believe due, not as my excellent friend Dove seems to assume, to the light of the stars, but in great part to the light of the sun, scattered in all directions through the atmosphere by the almost infinitely attenuated matter held there in suspension.

We had every prospect of a glorious day. To our left was the almost full moon, now close to the ridge behind which it was to set The firmament was as blue as ever I have seen it—deep and dark and to all appearance pure—that is to say, unmixed with any colou

of a lower grade of refrangibility than the blue. The lunar shadows had already become weak, and were finally washed away by the light of the east. But while the shadows were at their greatest depth, and therefore least invaded by the dawn, I examined the firmament with a Nicol's prism. The moonlight, as I have said, came from the left, and right in front of me was a mountain of dark brown rock, behind which spread a heaven of the most impressive depth and purity. I looked over the mountain crest through the prism. In one position of the instrument the blue was not sensibly affected; in the rectangular position it was so far quenched as to reduce the sky and the dark mountain beneath it to the same uniform hue. The outline of the mountain was scarcely traceable; it could hardly be detached from the sky above it. This was the direction in which the prism showed its maximum power; in no other direction was the quenching of the light of the sky so perfect. And it was at right angles to the lunar rays; so that, as regards the polarisation of the sky, the beams of the moon behave exactly like those of the sun.

The glacier along which we first marched was a trunk of many tributaries, and consequently of many "medial moraines," such moraines being always one less in number than the tributaries. But two principal branches absorbed all the others as constituents. One of these descended from the Great and Little Nesthorn and their spurs; the other from the Aletschhorn. Up this latter branch we steered from the junction. Hitherto the surface of the glacier, disintegrated by the previous day's sun, and again hardened by the night's frost, crackled under our feet; but on the Aletschhorn branch the ice was coated by a kind of fur, resembling the nap of velvet: it was as soft as a carpet, but at the same time perfectly firm to the grip of the boot. The sun was hidden behind the mountain; and thus steeped in shade, we could enjoy, with spirits unblunted by the heat, the loveliness and grandeur of the scene. Before us was the pyramid of the Aletschhorn, bearing its load of glaciers, and thrusting above them its pinnacle of rock; while right and left towered and fell to snowy cols such other peaks as usually hang about a mountain of nearly 14,000 feet elevation. And amid them all, with a calmness corresponding to the deep seclusion of the place, wound the beautiful system of glaciers along which we had been marching for nearly three hours. I know nothing which can compare in point of glory with these winter palaces of the mountaineer, under the opening illumination of the morning. And the best of it is, that no right of property in the scene could enhance its value. To Switzerland belongs the rock-to us the sublimity and beauty of mass, form, colour, and grouping. They had been letting off fireworks in France; I thought of them, but envied not the emperor.

(1) See FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW, February, 1869, p. 239.
(2) "Glaciers of the Alps," p. 264.

"In

the midst of a puddly moor I am afraid to say how glad I am:" which is a strong way of affirming the influence of the inner man as regards the enjoyment of external nature. And surely the inner man is a high factor in the effect. Thus, to-day, not only is the world outside magnificent, but I am well and without a care; and, like light falling upon the polished plate of the photographer, the glory of the Alps descends upon a soul prepared to receive its image and superscription.

Thus, the oxygen of the hills1 wisely breathed; the food of the hills wisely caten; the waters of the hills wisely, that is sparingly, drunk, but freely used as plunge and douche in lake and cataract; the light and warmth of the sun; the muscle's action and the brain's repose can lift a man from the very sediment of life to this moral and esthetic height, and even tap the closed springs of religious emotion. Blessed are the uses of Materialism! Wise men know this, and act upon their knowledge. During the last session of Parliament, for example, a statesman, whose bared head, Phidias, in passing, would have turned twice to look upon, practised daily upon the bicycle. There was a mystic value in this morning rite-it was a fresh illustration of the connection of Physics with Intellect, Will, and Emotion. We begin here with mere mechanics, and from the rhythmic motion of a pair of legs and treadles pass on to the expanded chest, the quickened circulation, the freshened brain; and thence in unbroken sequence to those finer essences which descend as sweetness and light on the House of Commons, or fall like the honey from Chrysostom's lips in the presence of a deputation. Thrice blessed, surely, in this case, for us and him, are the uses of Materialism!

Mind, like force, is known to us only through matter. Take, then, what hypothesis you will—consider matter as an instrument through which the insulated mind exercises its powers, or consider both as so inextricably mixed that they stand or fall together; from both points of view the care of the body 2 is equally important. The morality of clean blood ought to be one of the first lessons taught us by our pastors and masters. The physical is the substratum of the spiritual, and this fact gives to the food we eat and to the air we breathe a transcendental significance. Boldly and truly writes Mr. Ruskin, "Whenever you throw your window wide open in the morning, you let in Athena, as wisdom and fresh air at the same instant; and whenever you draw a pure, long, full breath of right heaven, you take Athena into your heart, through your blood; and with the blood into thoughts of the brain." No higher value than this could be assigned to atmospheric oxygen.

(1) Strictly speaking, the oxygen of the Bel Alp, the air of which is pure and the fare wholesome and plentiful.

(2) It will not be supposed that I here mean the pampering of the body, or the stuffing of the body. The shortening of the supplies, or a good monkish fast at intervals, is often the best care that could be bestowed upon the body.

ooze away.

Precisely three hours after we had quitted our hotel the uniform gradient of the Aletschhorn glacier came to an end. It now suddenly steepened to run up the mountain. At the base we halted to have some food, a huge slab of granite serving us for a table. It is not good to go altogether without food in these climbing expeditions; nor is it good to eat copiously. Here a little and there a little, as the need makes itself apparent, is the prudent course. For, left to itself, the stomach infallibly sickens, and the forces of the system Should the sickness have set in so as to produce a recoil from nutriment, the stomach must be forced to yield. A small modicum of food usually suffices to set it right. The strongest guides and the sturdiest porters have sometimes to use this compulsion. "Sie müssen sich zwingen." The guides refer the capriciousness of the stomach at great elevations to the air. This may be a cause, but I am inclined to think that something is also due to the motion-the long-continued action of the same muscles upon the diaphragm. The condition of things antecedent to the journey must also be taken into account. There is little, if any, sleep; the starting meal is taken at an unusual hour; and if the start be made from a mountain cave, or cabin, instead of from the bed of an hotel, the deviation from normal conditions is aggravated. It could not be the mere difference of height between Mont Blanc and Monte Rosa, which formerly rendered their effects upon the human system so different. It is that, in the one case, you had the melted snow of the Grands Mulets for your coffee, and a bare plank for your bed; while in the other you were fortified by the comparative comforts of the Riffel. On the present occasion I had a bottle of milk, which suits me better than either wine or brandy. That and a crust are all I need to keep my vigour up and to ward off le mal des montagnes.

After half an hour's halt we made ready for the slopes, meeting first a quantity of moraine matter mingled with patches of snow, and afterwards the rifted glacier. We threaded our way among the crevasses, and here I paid particular attention to the deportment of my guide. The want of confidence, or rather the absence of that experience of a guide's powers, on which alone perfect reliance can be based, is a serious drawback to the climber. This source of weakness has often come home to me since the death of my brave friend, Bennen. His loss to me was like that of an arm to a fighter. But I was glad to notice that my present guide was not likely to err on the score of rashness. He left a wider margin between us and accident than I should have deemed necessary; he sounded with his staff where I should have trod without hesitation; and, knowing my own caution, I had good reason to be satisfied with his. Still, notwithstanding all his vigilance, he once went into a concealed fissure-only waist deep, however, and he could certainly have rescued himself without the

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Malah, w ory for a moment Tuning sullenly to the left, we wapendate has ruky tag to a sheltered ank with supposted a mah gut, sila uqi meril of that nutriment which, as stated, is Meiering of the dimber.

Vroom time to me during the avont I examined the polarisation Yum al hom way, I mond not have balted had not the fear of haze or banda vya. Ma wmni vimonialed me. Indeed, as we ascended, one Ato mung Cind such like a comet's tail through the air above us, ring, sixty or seventy degrees of the heavens. Never, however, hara Iovered the sky to be of a deeper, darker, and purer blue. It was to examine this colour that I ascended the Aletschhorn, and I wished to observe it where the hue was deepest and the

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