The higher we ascended the more precipitous became the path. We found huge bowlders obstructing our way, and soon had to begin climbing in real earnest, oftentimes using both hands and feet. At length we reached a narrow ledge that led directly to the little house at the foot of the glacier, whither we were going. This ledge was like a backbone, with only a tiny path two or three feet wide. On the right, was a sharp descent of several hundred feet to the woods through which we passed. Beyond these woods could be seen bright spots of green and yellow, where harvesting was in progress. Further down was the Chamonix valley, its broad acres divided by the silvery Arve, that starts from the Mer de Glace, and empties into the Rhone, just below Geneva.
THE TRIALS OF THE FAT MAN.
On the left there is a descent of some five or six hundred feet to the ice crags of the glacier. It requires steady nerves and a sure foot to walk along this dizzy path, for a stumble or fall would be attended with fatal results.
And right here was where the infernal persistency of the courier got in its worst work. One of the party was a gentleman of full habit, who weighs, perhaps, two hundred and twenty-five pounds, one of that kind whose head becomes dizzy when at any elevation, who hardly dares to look out of a third-story window, one of those who have an almost uncontrollable desire to spring off any elevation they may be so unfortunate as to be placed upon. He came panting like a second Falstaff to this narrow ledge, the edge of which was not more than three feet wide, and the descent on either side was hundreds of feet. It was a place that nothing but a goat or a born Alpine climber should ever think of essaying, and here was a fleshy party, with a dizzy head, never sure-footed in anything but his morals, with an impulse to jump down a chasm, either to the right or to the left!
THE MORAINE.