Maloya.

Lake Fontana, In The Engadine.

Pontresina.

The Roseg Glacier.

The Valley Of The Roseg Glacier.

So wonderfully clear was the vast concave of the sky, that the refulgent orbs, serenely moving there upon their distant paths, seemed really to have approached the earth, as if impatient of the countless ages, during which their radiance had been falling on our planet, yet without response. Can it be possible that separation, silence, and seclusion must eternally prevail among these millions of celestial bodies, formed of the same component elements, subjects of one sidereal-kingdom, bound by the same unchanging laws, and traveling thus in sight of one another through the same illimitable realm of mystery? May we not rather dream that, as the waves of light, coming from systems inconceivably remote, trace on our spectrum's disk their wraithlike but intelligible lines, so there may one day pulsate through the awful voids of interstellar space a thrill of conscious fellowship and sympathy, - a solemn interchange of signals between passing worlds?

The morrow's drive from Pontre-sina over the Bernina Pass was an appropriate sequel to that memorable night. The clustered peaks of the Bernina group hold in the deep interstices between their glittering prongs the largest chain of glaciers in the eastern Alps. For some miles, face to face with one of these vast ice fields, called the Morteratsch glacier, the smooth Bernina road ascends like an uncoiling python. Our horses drew us slowly up its monster serpentines; but far from being discontented with our rate of progress, we often paused to sate ourselves with some inspiring view; for moments "lost" among such scenes are really gained for priceless memories. Does it seem credible, we asked ourselves, that somewhere at this moment there are noisy cities, blanketed with smoke, beneath whose stifling pall are heard the wild vociferations of the Grain Pit and the Stock Exchange, where frenzied financiers struggle frantically to increase a row of figures in their check books?

Road From Pontresina To The Roseg Glacier.

Old Castle Near Tarasp.

The Purity Of Untrodden Snow.

One feels, as he remembers all the feverish fury of that lower world, that sane, inspiring life can be found only on the heights. For though we know, materially speaking, that mountains are but masses of uplifted strata of the earth's crust, white with aqueous vapor transformed into snow and ice, still on the mind and soul of every sensitive beholder their influence is ennobling. The purity of their untrodden crests, their adamantine strength, their steadfastness and solemn beauty, - all these remove us from the pettiness and vanities of sordid life, and waken thoughts connected with the Infinite. Nor does their influence lessen upon long acquaintance. I have lived now for years among majestic mountains, yet every day I gaze upon them with increased delight. Absurd as it may seem, one even comes to feel a certain sadness in the thought that they are irresponsive to our love. We fancy them at times as being friendly and companionable, but in reality they not alone ignore our sentiment, but cruelly resent undue familiarity. We do not realize this when we behold them rising cloudless and serene against the empyrean, nor can we comprehend the perils of their glaciers, when distance minimizes their seracs to glittering cones, and dwarfs their deep crevasses into wrinkles; yet hardly a day goes by in summer that the Alps do not exact the tribute of at least one human life. People less fortunate than we have even told me of the perils of autumnal storms encountered on this sheltered route. But our midsummer day was one of peace and beauty, and not a cloud was visible, when finally we reached the summit of the pass, seven thousand six hundred feet above the sea.