He sent for the baker, and told him that it was not enough to have taken care of his soul, he ought also to set his worldly affairs in order, and wished to make his will while he was yet sound in mind. A scrivener was therefore immediately summoned, and the will drawn up and signed in due form before several witnesses. Wickham by this disposed of all his estate, real and personal, jewels, coaches, teams, racehorses of such-and-such colours, packs of hounds, ready money, &c., and a house with all appurtenances and dependencies, to the baker; almost all his linen to his wife; five hundred guineas to their eldest son; eight hundred guineas to the four daughters; two hundred to the parson that had comforted him in his sickness; two hundred to each of the doctors, and one hundred to the apothecary; fifty guineas and mourning to each of his footmen; fifty to embalm him; fifty for his coffin; two hundred to hang the house with mourning, and to defray the rest of the charges of his interment; a hundred guineas for gloves, hat-bands, scarfs, and gold rings; such a diamond to such a friend, and such an emerald to another. Nothing was ever more noble or more generous.

This done, Wickham called the baker to him, loaded him and all his family with benedictions, and told him that after his decease he had nothing to do but to go to the lawyer mentioned in his will, who was acquainted with all his affairs, and would give him full instructions how to proceed.

The end came soon after. It came with a series of strong convulsions that left him just able to rise upon his elbow. He feebly wrung the hand of the baker, and, looking round with a slow smile upon the mourners around his bed, sank back gently on the pillows. The baker bent over him. He was dead. But the smile yet lingered on his face.

Well, at first the baker can think of nothing but interring his benefactor with all pomp and ceremonial, according to the will. He hangs all the staircases, all the rooms, the shop, the entry, with mourning sables; he gives orders to jewellers, tailors, undertakers; he sends for an embalmer. In a word, he omits nothing that the deceased has ordered, or would have wished.

Wickham was not to be interred till the fourth day after his death, and by the second evening all was ready. The baker, having got this hurry off his hands, had now time to look for the lawyer before he laid him in the ground. After having put the body into a rich coffin, covered with velvet and plates of silver, and settled everything else, he began to consider that it would not be improper to reimburse himself as soon as possible, and to take possession of his new estate. He therefore went to the lawyer's rooms, gained admittance, and announced Mr. Wickham's decease.

"Bless my heart and soul!" cried the lawyer; "why, 'twas only yesterday I had a letter from him, from Banbury!"

We will draw the curtain over the rest of this interview. Poor, confiding baker! He staggered out into the street and home in a kind of mentai fog.

The sight of the coffin, silver-plated, pompous, elaborate, aroused him. seized a hammer.

He

Twenty minutes after, the signs of mourning were a dismal wreck, and the poor knave lay on the boards, naked.

66

THE SIGNS OF MOURNING WERE A DISMAL WRECK."

But why continue? The coffin was sold for a third of its value. The tradesmen employed for the burial took compassion and had their goods back again, though not without some loss to the baker. A hole was dug in a corner of St. Clement's Church-yard, and the body tumbled into it with the scantiest ceremony. As for the baker, he was recompensed to some extent by the generosity of the true Mr. Wickham, for whose sake he had been so openhearted and open-handed. But he ceased to take lodgers without references.

258

THE TALE OF AN AVALANCHE.

BEING THE NARRATIVE OF AN ACCIDENT ON THE HAUT-DE-CRY. 1864. BY PHILIP C. GOSSET.

:

FEBRUARY 28TH.

HAS often occurred to me, when walking on hard snow in
winter, that a mountain ascent at that period of the year
might be made with much less difficulty and trouble than
in summer. My friend B. was familiar with mountains in
winter; he had been up the Eggischhorn and Riederhorn in
December, 1863. Easy as these points may be to reach in
summer, in winter, if the snow is not hard, the question is
very different.
On February 28, 1864, we left Sion with

Bennen to mount the Haut-de-Cry. We started at 2.15 a.m. in a light carriage. that brought us to the village of Ardon, distant six miles. We there met threemen that were to accompany us as local guides or porters, Jean Joseph Nance, Frederic Rebot, who acted as my personal guide, and Auguste Bevarde. We at once began to ascend on the right bank of the Lyzerne.

The night was splendid, the sky cloudless, and the moon shining so as to make walking easy without the use of a lantern. For about half an hour we went up through the vineyards by a rather steep path, and then entered the valley of the Lyzerne, about 700 feet above the torrent. We here found a remarkably good path, gradually rising and leading towards the Col de Chéville. Having followed this path for about three hours, we struck off to the left, and began zigzagging up the mountain-side through a pine-forest. We had passed what may be called the snow-line, in winter, a little above 2,000 feet.

We had not ascended for more than a quarter of an hour in this pineforest before the snow got very deep and very soft. We had to change leader every five or six minutes, and even thus our progress was remarkably slow. We saw clearly that, should the snow be as soft above the fir region, we should have to give up the ascent. At 7 a.m. we reached a châlet, and stopped for about twenty minutes to rest and look at the sunrise on the Diablerets. On observing an aneroid, which we had brought with us, we found that we were at the height of about 7,000 feet; the temperature was 1° C.

The Haut-de-Cry has four arêtes: the first running towards the west, the second south-east, the third east, and the fourth north-east. We were between the two last-named arêtes. Our plan was to go up between them to the foot of the peak, and mount it by the arête running north-east. As we had expected, the snow was in much better state when once we were above the woods. For some time we advanced pretty rapidly. The peak was glistening before us, and the idea of success put us in high spirits.

Our good fortune did not last long. We soon came to snow frozen on the surface, and capable of bearing for a few steps and then giving way. But this was nothing compared to the trouble of pulling up through the pine-wood, so instead of making us grumble it only excited our hilarity. Bennen was in a particularly good humour, and laughed loudly at our combined efforts to get out of the holes we every now and then made in the snow. Judging from appearances, the snow-field over which we were walking covered a gradually rising Alp. We made a second observation with our aneroid, and found, rather to our astonishment and dismay, that we had only risen 1,000 feet in the last three hours. It was 10 o'clock; we were at the height of about 8,000 feet. temperature, 1° 5' C.

During the last half-hour we had found a little hard snow, so we had all hope of success. Thinking we might advance better on the arête, we took to it, and rose along it for some time. It soon became cut up by rocks, so we took to the snow again. It turned out to be here hard-frozen, so that we reached the real foot of the peak without the slightest difficulty. It was decidedly steeper than I had expected it would be, judging from the valley of the Rhone. Bennen looked at it with decided pleasure; having completed his survey, he proposed to take the eastern arête, as in doing so we should gain at least two hours.

Rebot had been over this last-named arête in summer, and was of Bennen's opinion. Two or three of the party did not like the idea much, so there was a discussion on the probable advantages and disadvantages of the northeast and east arêtes. We were losing time; so Bennen cut matters short by saying, "Ich will der Erste über die arête!" Thus saying he made for the east arête; it looked very narrow, and, what was worse, it was considerably cut up by high rocks, the intervals between the teeth of the arête being filled up with snow. To gain this arête, we had to go up a steep snow-field, about 800 feet high, as well as I remember. It was about 150 feet broad at the top, and 400 or 500 at the bottom. It was a sort of couloir on a large scale. During the ascent we sank about one foot deep at every step. Bennen did not seem to like the look of the snow very much. He asked the local guides whether avalanches ever came down this couloir, to which they answered that our position was perfectly safe. We had mounted on the northern side of the couloir, and having arrived at 150 feet from the top, we began crossing it on a horizontal curve, so as to gain the east arête. The inflexion or dip of the couloir was slight, not above 25 feet, the inclination near 35°.

We were walking in the following order: Bevard, Nance, Bennen, myseif, B. and Rebot. Having crossed over about three-quarters of the breadth of the couloir, the two leading men suddenly sank considerably above their waists. Bennen tightened the rope. The snow was too deep to think of getting out of the hole they had made, so they advanced one or two steps, dividing the snow with their bodies. Bennen turned round and told us that he was afraid

of starting an avalanche; we asked whether it would not be better to return and cross the couloir higher up. To this the three Ardon men opposed themselves; they mistook the proposed precaution for fear, and the two leading men continued their work.

After three or four steps gained in the aforesaid manner, the snow became hard again. Bennen had not moved he was evidently undecided what he should do; as soon, however, as he saw hard snow again, he advanced and

crossed parallel to, but above, the furrow the Ardon men had made. Strange to say, the snow supported him.

While he was passing I observed that the leader, Bevard, had ten or twelve feet of rope coiled round his shoulder. I, of course, at once told him to uncoil it and get on the arête, from which he was not more than fifteen feet distant. Bennen then told me to follow. I tried his steps, but sank up to my waist in the very first. So I went through the furrows, holding my elbows close to my body, so as not to touch the sides. This furrow was about twelve feet long, and as the snow was good on the other side, we had all come to the false conclusion that the snow was accidentally softer there than elsewhere.

Bennen advanced; he had made but a few steps when we heard a deep,