Note 2 — A Retreat to the Valley.

About a hundred yards from us rises the central mountain of consolidated old snow; while the monarchs of the place, whose hospitality we have been enjoying, overtopped our diminutive little worn canvas dwelling with proud and gloomy magnificence, or hid themselves from us in their ermine mantles, with aristocratic frigidity.2 Before us, the path continues towards the clouds, hemmed in, to all appearance, by a mighty glacier, which it would seem impossible to avoid in our to-morrow’s route. To-day we again find the society of the little shrieking marmots, who seemed more than over astonished at what could bring so strange and motley a group of creatures to disturb the universal quiet of their solitude. Of all our party the cook, perhaps, here fares the worst. The only things growing about us are a few plants of rhubarb and the miserable scrub, which he is obliged to use with all faith as firewood! this being thoroughly wet requires much coaxing to ignite, and what with the difficulties of his profession, the cold, the falling snow, and the increased appetites of the Sahibs, the unfortunate head of the cooking department becomes for the time the most intensely miserable being, black or white, upon the whole face of the globe.