Modern Alpine Climbing.

In startling contrast to my first ascent to the place, now many years ago, it was by this luxurious mode of travel that I recently approached the little village known as Mur-ren. It is the loftiest hamlet in all Switzerland, consisting of a cluster of Swiss cottages, whose roofs, heavily freighted with protecting stones, project beyond the walls like broad-brimmed hats. So singular is the appearance of a village at this dizzy height, that one is tempted to believe that the houses had been blown up from the valley by some reckless blast, and dropped at random on the lonely tableland.

Yet here, to our astonishment, we find hotels, which somehow year by year outlive the horrors of the Alpine winter, and in the summer season welcome their hundreds of adventurous guests. But, after all, where in Switzerland is there not a hotel? Fast as the arteries of travel are extended, on every prominent point commanding a fine view is planted a hotel, a forerunner of the world of travel. This is, in fact, one of the charms of Switzerland. The Andes and Himalayas may possess higher peaks and grander glaciers; but there one cannot (as among the Alps) ride all day long on perfect roads, and in the evening sit down to a well-cooked dinner, hear music on a broad veranda, consult the latest newspapers, and sleep in a comfortable bed.

Murren.

Even before the advent of the railroad, I was a thousandfold repaid for climbing up to Murren; for here so closely do the Alpine Titans press on every side, that if Mohammed had ever found his way hither, he might well have believed that the mountains were coming to him, and not he to the mountains.

The surrounding summits reveal to the astonished sight heights, lengths, and depths which overwhelm one with sublimity. What seemed an hour ago mere glistening mounds are now transformed by the grandeur of this Olympian elevation into vast snowfields, miles in length, or into seas of ice, which pour down through the valleys in slow-moving floods. In early summer, too, one hears at frequent intervals the roar of some tremendous avalanche on the great mountains opposite, from which the tourist is separated only by a yawning gulf.

Never shall I forget the morning when I stood here waiting for the sunrise view. There was none of that crowd of jabbering tourists who often profane the summit of the Rigi, and seem to measure the extent of their pleasure by the noise they make. I was well-nigh alone. When I emerged from the hotel, a purple line was visible in the east, but clouds and mists half veiled the mountains from my sight. At length, however, noiselessly but steadily, a hidden hand seemed to draw back the misty curtain of the night. Slowly the giant forms molded themselves from darkness into light, until their foreheads first, and then each fold and outline of their dazzling shapes, stood forth in bold relief against the sky. The glaciers sparkled with the first bright beams like jeweled highways of the gods, - till, finally, as the sun's disk came fairly into view, the whole vast range glowed like a Avail of tinted porcelain. It seemed as if a thousand sacred fires had been kindled on these mountain altars, in glad response to the triumphant greeting of the god of day.

A Hotel At Murren.

On descending from Murren, the tourist is attracted to another famous object, only a few miles from Interlaken, - the glacier of Grindelwald.

A View From Murren.

Murren - Hotel Des Alpes.

It was while visiting this sea of ice that my guide suddenly turned and asked me with a smile, "Are you a clergyman?"

I answered that I could not claim that flattering distinction, but begged to know the reason of his question. "Because," he said, "clergymen seem to be unlucky in Grindelwald; all the accidents that take place here somehow happen to them".

As we were at that moment just about to venture on the ice, I naturally recalled Charles Lamb's reply when he was requested to say grace at dinner. "What," he exclaimed, "are there no clergymen present? Then I will say, the Lord be thanked!"