Before we take our leave of Mont Blanc and of the Alps, the peculiarly
brilliant view from the summit of the Buet ought to be noticed. Never,
says M. Bourrit, did prospect appear so vast. Toward the west, the Rhone
is seen, winding for the space of thirty-six leagues through the rich
plains of the Valais; the parts of the river which the mountains cover
with their shade seeming like threads of silver, and those which the sun
illumines like threads of gold. Beyond the river and its rich plains,
the view extends to the highest mountains of Switzerland, St. Gothard,
and the Grisons, all covered with ice; while on the east, the hights
sink suddenly, from some of the loftiest elevations on the globe, to
level plains washed by the sea. Geneva seems like a spot at one end of
the lake, and the lake itself like a sinuous band, dividing the fields
which it waters. Beyond it are discovered the vast plains of Franche
Comte and Burgundy, the mountains of which diminish by almost
imperceptible gradations. Here the eye has neither power nor extent of
sight to embrace the whole of the objects presented to its view. Amid
the fearful aspect of the precipices which descend on every side, what a
contrast between the country decorated with all that is smiling and gay,
and the sublime spectacle of the Alps, their gloomy and aspiring
summits, and, above all, the prodigious hight of Mont Blanc, that
enormous colossus of snow and ice, which parts the clouds, and pierces
to the very heavens! Below this mountain, which bids defiance to time,
and whose eternal ice disregards the dissolving power of the sun, a band
of pyramidical rocks appear, the intervals between them being so many
valleys of ice, the immensity of which appalls the imagination. Their
deep chasms may be distinguished, and the noise of the frequent
avalanches (falls of immense masses of snow) presents to the mind the
gloomy ideas of horror, devastation and ruin. Farther on, other summits
of ice prolong this majestic picture. Among these are the high mountains
of the St. Bernard, and those which border on the Boromean islands.
Perhaps there is not in the old world a theater more instructive, or
more adapted for reflection, than the summit of this mountain. Where,
beside, can be seen such variety and contrast of forms; such results of
the efforts of time; such effects of all the climates, and of all the
seasons? At one glance may be embraced frosts equally intense with those
of Lapland, and the rich and delightful frontiers of Italy; eternal ice,
and waving harvests; all the chilling horrors of winter, and the
luxuriant vegetation of summer; eighty leagues of fertile plains,
covered with towns, with vineyards, with fields and herds, and adjoining
to these, a depth of twenty thousand feet of everlasting ice.