altogether hidden from sight, by the loftiest summit of the Riffelberg,—Gornergratt.
The height of Gornergratt is 2,000 feet above the herberge of Riffel, and Ignace Biner dissuades us from undertaking the ascent to-day, because “it is already late,” and we might now, at all events, see Monte Rosa from the plateau of Gugli. It is best to defer the ascent of Gornergratt till the morrow. Good,—so said and so done.
In the afternoon, when we had dined, we all turn out, as merry as can be, to botanize on the heights of the Riffelberg, because the weather is enchanting, and a breath of ill-humor on the part of Matterhorn, with cloud and cold wind, has vanished again. The sun shines, and the air has the amenity of summer.
We climb, without difficulty, up some of the little hills, where a flock of sheep still find pasturage. We leave the mass of the Riffelberg on the right, we make a circuit round the Gornergratt, to the left, and now, almost all at once, a spectacle presents itself, so grand, so extraordinary, and at the same time so beautiful, that it is overpowering.
It is a world of snow and ice,—towers, mountains, valleys, streams, fields, waves,—but not harsh, not terrible,—a fantastic world, in which the large in mass unites itself to softness and beauty in form; and there,—there to the left, southward, towards Italy,—lies, upon shining white hills, the immense snow rose,—Monte Rosa,—round and soft in all its outlines, like a Provence rose, although its projecting petals are blocks of granite. Clouds sink caressingly into its soft, half opened, chalice, and throw its southern edge some-
