Introduction

It is not improbable that some of those who read this book, may feel
a wish to know in what manner I became possessed of the manuscript.
Such a desire is too just and natural to be thwarted, and the tale
shall be told as briefly as possible.

During the summer of 1828, while travelling among those valleys of
Switzerland which lie between the two great ranges of the Alps, and
in which both the Rhone and the Rhine take their rise, I had passed
from the sources of the latter to those of the former river, and had
reached that basin in the mountains that is so celebrated for
containing the glacier of the Rhone, when chance gave me one of
those rare moments of sublimity and solitude, which are the more
precious in the other hemisphere from their infrequency. On every
side the view was bounded by high and ragged mountains, their peaks
glittering near the sun, while directly before me, and on a level
with the eye, lay that miraculous frozen sea, out of whose drippings
the Rhone starts a foaming river, to glance away to the distant
Mediterranean. For the first time, during a pilgrimage of years, I
felt alone with nature in Europe. Alas! the enjoyment, as all such
enjoyments necessarily are amid the throngs of the old world, was
short and treacherous. A party came round the angle of a rock, along
the narrow bridle-path, in single file; two ladies on horseback,
followed by as many gentlemen on foot, and preceded by the usual
guide. It was but small courtesy to rise and salute the dove-like
eyes and blooming cheeks of the former, as they passed. They were
English, and the gentlemen appeared to recognize me as a countryman.
One of the latter stopped, and politely inquired if the passage of

the Furca was obstructed by snow. He was told not, and in return for
the information said that I would find the Grimsel a little
ticklish; "but," he added, smiling, "the ladies succeeded in
crossing, and you will scarcely hesitate." I thought I might get
over a difficulty that his fair companions had conquered. He then
told me Sir Herbert Taylor was made adjutant-general, and wished me
good morning.

I sat reflecting on the character, hopes, pursuits, and interests of
man, for an hour, concluding that the stranger was a soldier, who
let some of the ordinary workings of his thoughts overflow in this
brief and casual interview. To resume my solitary journey, cross the
Rhone, and toil my way up the rugged side of the Grimsel, consumed
two more hours, and glad was I to come in view of the little chill-
looking sheet of water on its summit, which is called the Lake of
the Dead. The path was filled with snow, at a most critical point,
where, indeed, a misplaced footstep might betray the incautious to