tain-chains verge toward each other, to the point where Bonneville lies, half-way between the Mole, a considerable mountain, and the Arve. There we took our dinner. Behind the town the valley closes right in. Although not very broad, it has the Arve flowing gently through it, and is on the southern side well cultivated; and everywhere the soil is put to some profit. From the early morning, we had been in fear of its raining, some time at least before night; but the clouds gradually quitted the mountains, and dispersed into fleeces,—a sign which has more than once in our experience proved a favourable omen. The air was as warm as it usually is in the beginning of September, and the country we travelled through beautiful; many of the trees being still green. Most of them had assumed a brownish-yellow tint, but only a few were quite bare. The crops were rich and verdant. The mountains caught from the red sunset a rosy hue, blended with violet; and all these rich tints were combined with grand, beautiful, and agreeable forms of the landscape. We talked over much that was good. Toward five we came toward Cluse, where the valley closes, and has only one outlet, through which the Arve issues from the mountains, and by which, also, we propose to enter them to-morrow. We ascended a lofty eminence, and saw beneath us the city, partly built on the slightly inclined side of a rock, but partly on the flat portion of the valley. Our eyes ranged with pleasure over the valley; and, sitting on the granite rocks, we awaited the coming of night in calm and varied discourse. Toward seven, as we descended, it was not at all colder than it is usually in summer about nine. At a miserable inn (where, however, the people were ready and willing, and by their patois afforded us much amusement) we are now going, about ten o'clock, to bed, intending to set out early to-morrow, before the morning shall dawn.
