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 celebrity. Why didn't he amuse himself reading these names? Then there are the couriers and tourists—swarms of them every day—what was to hinder him from having a good time with them? I think Bonivard's sufferings have been overrated.

Next, we took the train and went to Martigny, on the way to Mont Blanc. Next morning we started, about 8 o'clock, on foot. We had plenty of company, in the way of wagon-loads



and mule-loads of tourists—and dust. This scattering procession of travelers was perhaps a mile long. The road was up hill—interminably up hill,—and tolerably steep. The weather was blistering hot, and the man or woman who had to sit on a creeping mule, or in a crawling wagon, and broil