the crude peaches, and dried up mendiants; from the loud talker who monopolises the conversation, to the presentable widow, who is the subject of universal scandal. I ate my dinner—as a gourmet should eat, we are told—in solemn silence. The young ladies tittered on all sides; eyes played like forked lightning about me, and about other gentlemen who happened to be under forty; but I kept my eye upon my favourite waiter, and did homage to my appetite.
Almost at my elbow, a quiet little body had sate, silent. There had not been any forked lightning darted from that quarter. It was only when the general stir, and silken rustling of the ladies rising, drew my attention directly to them, that I noticed this quiet little body, with her simple silk dress, plain collar, and closely braided hair. When Wicked-eyes and Tender-eyes rose, they threw their rumpled serviettes anywhere: but when the quiet little body rose, she paused, and carefully folded the cloth she had used, and laid it, in an orderly manner, upon the table.
“That,” I cried, to myself, “that is the wife for me!”
My eyes met hers: and she blushed a little, I thought, that she had been noticed. Presently, I found her, playing with the children, in the court-yard of the hotel.
She has played with children of her own since then. Whether she married me, or my chum, or my enemy, why should I tell?
GUIDES AND GLACIERS.
Nine and thirty years ago, that is to say in the year 1821, guides in Switzerland were by no means so numerous as they are now. Those who follow that occupation are necessarily men of intelligence and thorough respectability, and, whilst in many families the calling is hereditary, no man offers himself to fill the responsible duties of such a post, unless he be assured that he is considered equal to the undertaking.
Henri Rochat, of the valley of Grindelwald, had been tacitly allowed for several years to be the guide selected when any man of science visited that locality, as he who could give the best information on the subjects of botany and geology. Henri could tell where the mountain gentian, or anemone, or the brightest and rarest mosses grew most luxuriantly, or where the formation of such and such a glacier had receded or advanced. His moral character also stood very high, notwithstanding that in a Roman Catholic canton he had been educated by his parents in the Protestant faith. This circumstance had, it is true, often cost him a jeer and reproach among his comrades, and the sobriquet of M. le Protestant, was certainly not intended to convey either compliment or good will.
Henri lost his father when he was about fifteen years of age; and before he had reached his twenty-second year, the usual age when men are admitted amongst the limited number of guides, he had already escorted more than one traveller to the neighbouring glaciers and heights. .png)
He attached, perhaps, too much importance to the good name which he enjoyed, and an event occurred which, as is often the case, affected him in the most vulnerable part of his character.
Several summers had succeeded to that in which he had first assumed his rank amongst the “guides,” and it was in the year 1821 that a visitor arrived at the priest’s house, whose reputation as a savant had reached the ears of even the simple inhabitants of the valley, and Henri was immediately summoned to attend him in his pedestrian expedition.
This gentleman was M. Meuron, a Protestant clergyman from a neighbouring canton,—a young man much beloved and esteemed by his friends and every member of his flock; and in addition to his amiable disposition, were joined an ardent thirst for knowledge, and an enthusiastic love of enterprise,—qualities which received hourly gratification and encouragement in mountain excursions. The first day was devoted to visiting the glacier of Rosenlaüy, so exquisite in intensity of colour, and so grand in extent, that M. Meuron was excited to an increased ardour for exploring the wonders of the neighbourhood.
It was on the 31st of August that he set out, accompanied by his chosen guide, Henri Rochat, to visit a Mer de glace, situated above the inferior glacier of Grindelwald. They started immediately after dawn, on one of those days when the air itself appears to awaken inexpressible delights in the traveller’s heart, and when each fresh gleam of light adds an unexpected and increasing beauty to the enchanting scene which greets the eye. They followed, at first, the path at the foot of the valley, which, passing through meadows and small pine forests, continues rising for about three-quarters of a league, the bright and sparkling glaciers frequently appearing between the branches and foliage of the dark firs. At nine o’clock they