which I had, in common with the rest of my countrymen, complacently
denied to all the rest of the world. Yet here, before my very eyes, the
same beautiful miracle was wrought. Day after day the trees on the
mountain-sides changed, and kindled and softly smouldered in a thousand
delicate hues, till all their mighty flanks seemed draped in the
mingling dyes of Indian shawls. Shall I own that while this effect was
not the fiery gorgeousness of our autumn leaves, it was something
tenderer, richer, more tastefully lovely? Never!

[Illustration: _Flirtation at the Fountains_]

The clouds lowering, and as it were loafing along, among the tops and
crags, were a perpetual amusement, and when the first cold came it was
odd to see a cloud in a sky otherwise clear stoop upon some crest, and
after lingering there awhile drift off about its business, and leave the
mountain all white with snow. This grew more and more frequent, and at
last, after a long rain, we looked out on the mountains whitened all
round us far down their sides, while it was still summer green and
summer bloom in the valley. The moon rose and blackened the mountains
below the crags of snow, which shone out above like one of her own dead
landscapes. Slowly the winter descended, snow after snow, keeping a line
beautifully straight along the mountain-sides, till it reached the
valley and put out our garden roses at last. The hard-wood trees lost
their leaves, and stretched dim and brown along the lower ranges; the
pines straggled high up into the snows. The Jura, far across the lake;
was vaguely roseate, with an effect of perpetual sunset; the
Dent-du-Midi lost the distinction of its eternal drifts; and the cold
not only descended upon us, but from the frozen hills all round us
hemmed us in with a lateral pressure that pierced and chilled to the
marrow. The mud froze, and we walked to church dry-shod. It was quite