away from the engaging scene, we are in a region all ruggedness and
sublimity, on either side rocky scarps and gloomy forests, with reminders
by the wayside that we are approaching an Alpine flora. Nothing can be
wilder or more solitary than the scene. For the greater part, the forests
through which our road is cut are unfrequented, except by the wild boar,
deer, and wild cat, and in winter time the fine mountain roads are
rendered impenetrable by the accumulation of snow.

This approach to the Col is by a tunnel cut in the granite, fit entrance
to one of the wildest regions in France. The road now makes a sudden bend
towards the chalet cresting the Col, and we are able in a moment to
realize its tremendous position.

From our little chalet we look upon what seems no mere cleft in a
mountain chain, but in the vast globe itself. This huge hollow, brought
about by some strange geological perturbation, is the valley of Muenster,
no longer a part of French territory, but of Prussian Elsass. The road we
have come by lies behind us, but another as formidable winds under the
upper mountain ridge towards Muenster, whilst the pedestrian may follow a
tiny green footpath that will lead him thither, right through the heart
of the pass. Looking deep down we discern here and there scattered
chalets amid green spaces far away. These are the homesteads or
_chaumes_ of the herdsmen, all smiling cheerfulness now, but
deserted in winter. Except for such little dwellings, barely
discernible, so distant are they, there is no break in the solitary
scene, no sign of life at all.

The chalet is a fair hostelry for unfastidious travellers, its chief
drawback being the propensity of tourists to get up at three o'clock in
the morning in order to behold the sunrise from the Hoheneck. Good beds,