has just been uncovered, and, relieved from
prison, is enjoying the first fresh burst of spring in July or August.
For our own part we think this region of fresh moss is quite worthy of
comparison with the far-famed _Jardin of the Talefre_, which we find
described in Murray's hand-book as "an oasis in the desert, an island in
the ice--a rock which is covered with a beautiful herbage, and enamelled
in August with flowers. This is the Jardin of this palace of nature, and
nothing can exceed the beauty of such a spot, amidst the overwhelming
sublimity of the surrounding objects, the Aiguilles of Charmoz,
Bletiere, and the Geant," &c. "Herbage," "flowers"!! Why, the jardin is
merely a rock protruding out of the glacier, and covered with lichens;
but, after all, was it reasonable to expect a better flower-show ten
thousand feet above the level of the sea, and some nine thousand or so
above all horticultural societies and prize exhibitions?

As we follow the course of the little stream, it becomes gradually
enlarged by contributions from subsidiary snow streams; and winds along
for some distance not inconsiderable in the volume of its waters,
passing through a beautiful channel of fine sand, probably formed of the
_detritus_ of the granite rocks, swept along by the floods, caused by
the melting of the snow in spring. The water is exquisitely clear--a
feature which at once deprives it of all right to be considered
glacier-born; for filth is the peculiarity of the streams claiming this
high origin, and none can have seen without regretting it, the Rhone,
after having washed itself clean in the Lake Leman, and come forth a
sapphire blue, becoming afterwards as dirty as ever, because it happens
to fall in company with an old companion, the Arve, which, having never
seen good society, or had an opportunity of making itself respectable,
by the mere force of its native character, brings its reformed brother
back to his original mire, and accompanies him in that plight through
the respectable city of Lyons, till both plunge together into the great
ocean, where all the rivers of the earth, be they blue or yellow, clear
or boggy, classical or obscure, become alike indistinguishable.

Perhaps our traveller is becoming tired of this small pleasant stream
running along a mere declivity of the table-land of Ben Muich Dhui. But
he will not be long distressed by its peaceful monotony. Presently, as
he comes in sight of the valley below, and