most stifled us at times, as we plodded on drearily and laboriously. In some places it was safe to make a glissade down the more easy inclines, and seating ourselves one behind the other, and steering with our alpenstocks, we glided on at a rapid pace. It needed some dexterity, however, to avoid being overturned and drawn down head foremost. Though I succeeded in keeping my seat, the result was disastrous to my apparel, of which it would require a pretty stout suit to make more than a dozen such transits. Never were people more delighted than were we at the sight of the Grand Hôtel Impérial des Grands-Mulets, though we were too anxious to reach Chamonix to remain long. In half an hour, that is at one and a half, we left the house, and after a long and treacherous way across the glacier, which the soft snow rendered exceedingly perilous, reached La Pierre Pointue, and from thence descended to the village at five o'clock. We were received with the usual welcome of cannon, champagne, enthusiastic volleys of questions from our fair countrywomen, shaking of hands, and general congratulations, on our safe arrival. We were deeply thankful at the result of our expedition, but were unanimously of opinion that nothing whatever would tempt us to repeat it; though the next day my companion and myself were as well as usual, and suffered no ill effects from the climb except losing the skin from our faces.

CHAPTER X.

HOTEL BOOKS AND THEIR DROLLERIES.

I PRESUME most people have heard of the anecdote which Sir Walter Scott used to tell with so much zest of one of his tenants, to whom he had loaned a copy of Johnson's Dictionary. It was returned in a few days with the grave remark that "they were braw stories, but unco short." This observation, by the way, contains much more truth than most people think, as would doubtless be readily acknowledged by any one, even at the present day, who should devote an hour to that ponderous tome. It is full of the most admirable quotations, selected with wonderful tact and skill, and well repays perusal, from the impression it conveys of the resources of the English language. There is really very little "Johnsonese," compared with our own tongue, and the "words of learned length and thundering sound" with which the author used to smite the world, only appear now and then, like the sea-serpent or the phoenix. The farmer's remark applies with equal truth to another kind of literature, different in its style and origin, yet unique in its way, and that is the contents of the

books in which travellers enter their names and other scraps of information at the various hotels in Switzerland. These form quite an entertaining record of personal peculiarities and odd conceits, mixed with many bits of useful knowledge, though relating, for the most part, to mountain trips and the condition of the different inns.

I have sometimes devoted a leisure half hour to reading the entries for years back, and have invariably been amused. It is interesting to notice in what characteristic ways the national temperament of tourists is displayed. The Germans and Italians often break forth into song, and one sees whole rivers, or more properly canals, of poetry, "hateful to gods and men," spread over the pages. This is generally of poor quality, and only serves to show how vainly the enthusiasm of the writers has striven to give the essence of a fine view, or other natural attraction, in fitting language. It was an effusion of this kind that the late Albert Smith inscribed years ago in the travellers' book at Montanvert. This is a little mountain, or rather hill, of easy ascent, near Chamonix, and is famous for its imposing prospect of the Mer de Glace. Having mounted to the top, which is about two hours from the village, panting and puffing, "eying his watch and now his forehead mopping," Mr. Smith was suddenly struck with the grandeur of the scene, and sat down with the intention of letting the world know it in metrical heroics. What he actually

wrote no one can tell, for the book has disappeared, and I found on inquiry not the slightest trace of it; but the verse could hardly have been of the sort that posterity does not willingly let die, for the bard, having signed it merely with his initials, discovered on a subsequent visit that the next comer had added as a commentary on the text, "Only two-thirds of the truth," and with malicious raillery placed it directly under his signature.

Albert Smith was one of the most cheerful-tempered men ever known, and used to tell this story with great satisfaction, though it was against himself. He appears to have subsequently changed his ideas as to the style of poesy suited to that locality, for in his "Christopher Tadpole "— which clever book, by the way, he dedicated to Judge Talfourd

he makes "Mrs. Hamper," on her visit to the same spot, attach the following lines to her autograph:

"Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains;
They crowned him long ago;

But who they got to put it on
We don't exactly know."

The "A. S." story suggests to me another example of Albert Smith's ineffable good humor, which, while it rendered him an admirable, long-suffering, and inexhaustible butt for Douglass Jerrold, also made him a most entertaining and genial companion. I will venture to relate it, though it is a little beyond the range of my subject. When Mr. Smith

was giving his famous Alpine experiences and "Ascent of Mont Blanc" to crowded audiences in London, Buckstone, the lively comedian, travestied them on the stage of his theatre, and nightly gave the most laughable burlesque of the hero of Chamonix and his exploits. The latter was at the climax of his fame, and so was the former, and people enjoyed each entertainment. They flocked in multitudes from Egyptian Hall to the Haymarket, and were really in doubt which to admire most, the original or the imitation. One evening the latter was of more than the usual merit, and all the world came to the conclusion that there was no limit to the peculiar talents of the actor. The air, the expression, the features, the dress, the very voice of the unhappy model, were caricatured to perfection. In a few days, however, the bottom of this new well was reached and truth came out. It seemed that Mr. Smith, who had all along known what was taking place at the opposition house, had made an arrangement with his imitator for hoaxing the public.

"Let me perform one night at your place, Buckstone, and you may do the same for me at mine. Will you agree to it?"

"Done," said the latter, and this was the way it happened that the people were "done" too. It was Albert Smith's way of taking a little quiet revenge upon them for making fun of him, or at least for helping those who did so. It was entirely