rious grandeur. The depth and
remoteness of the solitude, the huge mural precipices, the deep chasms
between the rocks, the waterfalls of unknown height, the hoary remains
of the primeval forest, the fields of snow, and the deep black lakes at
the foot of the precipices, are full of such associations of awe, and
grandeur, and mystery, as no other scenery in Britain is capable of
arousing. The recollections of these things inclined us still to favour
Ben Muich Dhui; and before separating from these hermits of her
Majesty's ordnance, we earnestly requested, if they had any influence in
the matter, that they would "find" for our favourite, to which we shall
now introduce our readers.

Our public are certainly not amenable to the charge of neglecting what
is worth seeing, because it is distant and inaccessible. On the top of
the Righi, where people go to behold the sun rise over the Alps, we have
seen the English congregated in crowds on the wooden bench erected for
that purpose, making it look like a race-course stand, and carrying on a
bang-up sort of conversation--

Right against the eastern gate
Where the great sun begins his state,--

as if it were a starting-post, and they were laying bets on the events
of the day. The Schwartzwald, the Saxon Schweitz, nay, even the wild
Norrska Fiellen, swarm with British tourists; and we are credibly
informed that loud cries of "boots" and "waiter," with expostulations
against the quality of the bottled porter and the airing of the beds,
may be heard not far from Mount Sinai. Yet, in the centre of our own
island there is a group of scenery, as unlike the rest of the country as
if we had travelled to another hemisphere to see it--as grand and
beautiful as the objects which our tourists cross half the globe to
behold--which is scarcely known to those who profess to say that they
have visited every thing that is worth seeing in their own country. The
answer to this will probably be, that railway travelling has brought the
extremities of Europe together--that Switzerland is but four days from
London--that it is as easy to get to Chamouni as to Braemar--and that
the scenery of the Alps _must_ be finer than any thing to be seen in
Scotland. Even this broad proposition may be questioned. It was with no
small pride that one night, after a hard walk from Martigny to Chamouni,
we heard a distinguished Englishman, who has been able to compare with
each other the finest things both