favourable to it, being asserted to ripen six or eight crops in the year, nearly a perpetuity. In England, in the open air, the first crop only generally comes to maturity, although the second crop shows itself as abundantly as abroad—the green fig in greater or less numbers remaining on the branches most of the winter. They occasionally, but very rarely, come to perfection, as in Sussex, where they grow with almost Italian freedom and vigour. The first crop

also is generally half lost by dropping off from the abovementioned cause. If, however, by pinching the leaf-buds off before they expand, and as fast as they appear, no terminal shoots whatever are allowed to grow, beyond the young spring figs, they will all set, the growth of wood is encouraged lower down to cover the naked stems, and the fruit will swell, and come to a size and perfection otherwise unattainable.

Leaving the Château de Challant and its gardener, with whom we spent a very pleasant hour, we sauntered among the walks in the shade of the beautiful trees behind the château, the only cool spot we could find in the glaring afternoon heat. At a little bank, under the corner tower, under a group of chesnuts overlooking the rich valley and sloping gardens of Châtillon, we came suddenly on a party of young priests enjoying most heartily the quiet retreat and their pipes, but our appearance unfortunately put them to flight. On the rough ground on the hill side, while searching for plants, I nearly trod on a long slender snake, which struck so furiously at my feet and stick, that I at first had some difficulty in securing it, believing it to be poisonous. However it was shortly safe in the bottle, and proved to be a young specimen of the Coluber lævis, which is quite harmless. It was the only one of the species we saw in our travels, but the asp (Vipera aspis) is much more common.

In the evening we agreed to walk down to St. Vincent and dine, both for the sake of seeing the source of the

mineral waters, and also that the padrone might not profit by our detention at Châtillon. We called at the inn in passing, and informed him that we were going to St. Vincent to look out for a mule or quarters, unless on our return one could be found for us at Châtillon for the next day-but the hint proved quite effectual.

Half-an-hour's gentle walk took us there, and, ordering dinner at the Leone d'Oro, we walked up by a beautiful but rather steep road, under umbrageous chesnuts, to the "Fons Salutis," as it is styled. The source of the mineral waters lies in a little glen, called the Vallée de Bagnod: the season was, however, over, and the building enclosing the spring was shut, so we sauntered along the promenades under the trees, commanding beautiful views of the valley and its lateral mountains, the Doire, St. Vincent, and Châtillon. On our return the building was open, and we found an old woman dispensing the water to sundry applicants, all of the lower class. Many were carrying away bottles full of it, and a number of cases were lying about ready to be forwarded. I examined the source of the spring, which is in the lower story of the modest pump-room. The water springs from a little hollow in a very soft and fine rock of steatite, of a pale, shining, greenish grey, so soft and decomposing that it may be scraped away with the finger nail. It is fresh, sparkling, and saline, containing iron enough to tinge its course of a bright red. It was discovered in 1792 by the Abbé Perret, and was subsequently analysed and brought into repute by Dr. Giovanetti, the early Dr. Granville of St. Vincent, who deservedly or not brought it into such fashion that it has been frequently resorted to by royalty, and an increasing number of water-drinkers. It is with evident advantage much frequented as an intermediate stage, before returning to Turin-by persons coming from Courmayeur and the waters of La Saxe-which, after the exhilarating air of Mont

Blanc, is found too trying a change. Dr. Giovanetti's analysis, as given by De Saussure,* is in 12 ounces

The waters are similar to, but much more strongly impregnated than, those of Courmayeur, except in iron. In a little basin below the village is a casino, with baths, rooms for reading, cards, music, &c., very comfortable, but simple: but all these were now deserted, the season being at an end. A gaudily decorated little church, in the worst taste of stucco and highly daubed frescoes, had recently been erected; a miniature of one at Turin for funeral masses, and to it the Queen had given 1000 crowns.

Mules and guides we found much more easily procurable here than at Châtillon, but when we returned our plan had been so effectual that there was no necessity to have recourse to St. Vincent. A good mule and muleteer were forthcoming on our own terms for the next day-the last time we had any trouble on the subject.

CHAPTER XI.

VAL D'AYAS.-VAL DE Lys.

Start from Châtillon-Festival of St. Grat - Ascent of Col de Jon-Summit - View into Val d'Ayas - Glimpse of Monte Rosa "Les Allemands d'Ayas" - Torrent Blanche-Night-quarters "chez l'Enfant ". Châlets of Susselle - Furca di Betta- Descent into Val de LysGressoney St. Jean.

Noversch

A HARD-worked stout-built mule, and a very dull but wellmeaning guide, Berthon by name, and long past his prime, presented themselves at so late an hour that we were not able to start until nearly ten. The saddle and baggage had received the last finishing touches of adjustment during our stay at Châtillon, and their poise and compactness were now perfect. We were on the point of starting after a most complimentary farewell from the padrone and his wife, whose bill we had just cut down one third, when we were delayed by a long procession, which kept us for half an hour waiting until it filed past.

It was the festival of St. Grat, the great patron saint of the valley, and all business and labour were suspended, the shops closed, and the people dressed in their holiday clothes. The members of the procession were chiefly robed in white, and a number of sisters of charity wore white veils ; the Host borne under a canopy was attended by banners, crosses, and lanterns as at Aosta, the priests in gold embroidered vestments and crimson copes chanting the service-the little acolytes, in surplices and crimson tippets, had great difficulty in keeping their large tapers alight, constantly borrowing fire from each other. The bells were jangling in the Italian fashion, and guns firing incessantly. A number of men and women, two and two, carrying enormous rosaries,

closed the procession, and when the last had passed we were allowed to set out.

On the road down to St. Vincent the numbers of peasants in holiday dress flocking into Châtillon were greatly taken with E.'s mule equipments, herself doubtless included, and expressed undisguised astonishment. Passing the mineral spring, we ascended for an hour through a beautiful little glen, under the cool shade of chesnut and walnut trees, with a delicious breeze to temper the heat, and the cheerful bubbling of a bright little burn which we skirted. The forest, as usual at a certain altitude, was succeeded by larch thickly studding the rocky knolls, and through their feathered boughs we had exquisite views of the opposite peaks of Mont Emilius, the Mont Jovet, Champ de Praz, and the ranges of Mont Barbeston above us. Beyond the larches, on a slope of green pastures where was a little chapel dedicated to St. Grat, all the peasants were holding high holiday, grouped on the surrounding walls and banks. A small cannon was firing salutes which echoed far and wide among the mountains, and a number of young people were chanting in effective harmony when softened by the distance. Our appearing amongst them created great excitement, but all greeted us most civilly and kindly.

The view from above the church, of the valley for many miles beyond Aosta, is one of surpassing beauty and richness. The sinuous course of the Doire, with its innumerable bends, glanced in the midday sun like polished silver. Above its banks stood the castles of Usselle, Fenis, St. Denis, and Châtillon; St. Vincent lay at our feet, and Aosta glittered in the far blue distance. The Val to the east was shut out of sight by the intervening mountain of Amaye, but over the crest was visible the vast bed of débris which the torrent issuing from behind the ranges of the Mont Emilius brings down in devastating floods overwhelming the valley. On our left we had the richly-tinted rocks of Mont Zerbion, until we reached the summit of the Col de Jon at one.