newe, and altogether surprising objects that I had ever beheld.”

In the following interesting account of the ascent of the Peak of Teneriffe by Captain Basil Hall, it will be seen that heavy rain clouds may skirt the mountain, while its summit is in a pure and dry air.

“On the 24th of August,” he says, “we left Oratava to ascend the Peak.  The day was the worst possible for our purpose, as it rained hard; and was so very foggy that we could not see the Peak, or indeed any object beyond one hundred yards distant.

“After riding slowly up a rugged path for four hours, it became extremely cold, and, as the rain never ceased for an instant, we were by this time drenched to the skin, and looked with no very agreeable feelings to the prospect of passing the night in wet clothes.  At length the night began to close in, and the guides talked of the improbability of reaching the English station before night.  It was still raining hard; but we dismounted, and took our dinner as cheerfully as possible, and hoping for clearer weather the next day.  On remounting, we soon discovered that the road was no longer so steep as it had been heretofore, and the surface was comparatively smooth: we discovered, in short, that we had reached a sort of table-land, along which we rode with ease.  Presently we thought the fog less dense, and the drops of rain not so large, and the air less chilling.  In about half an hour we got an occasional glimpse of the blue sky; and as we ascended, (for our road, though comparatively level, was still upon the rise,) these symptoms became more manifest.  The moon was at the full, and her light now became distinct, and we could see the stars in the zenith.  By this time we had reached the Llano

de los Remenos, or Retamos Plain, which is many thousand feet above the sea; and we could distinctly see that during the day we had merely been in a cloud, above which having now ascended, the upper surface lay beneath us like a country covered with snow.  It was evident, on looking round, that no rain had fallen on the pumice gravel over which we were travelling.  The mules were much fatigued, and we got off to walk.  In a few minutes our stockings and shoes were completely dried, and in less than half an hour all our clothes were thoroughly dried.  The air was sharp and clear, like that of a cold frosty morning in England; and though the extreme dryness, and the consequent rapid evaporation, caused considerable cold, we were enabled by quick exercise to keep ourselves comfortable.  I had various instruments with me, but no regular hygrometer: accident, however, furnished me with one sufficiently indicative of the dry state of the air.  My gloves, which I kept on while mounted, were completely soaked with the rain; and I took them off during this walk, and, without considering what was likely to happen, rolled them up, and carried them in my hand.  When, at the end of an hour, or somewhat

less, we came to remount our mules, I found the gloves as thoroughly dried and shrivelled up as if they had been placed in an oven.  During all the time we were at the Peak itself, on the 26th, the sky was clear, the air quite dry, and we could distinguish, several thousand feet below us, the upper and level surface of the stratum of clouds through which we had passed the day before, and into which we again entered on going down, and found precisely in the same state as when we started.”

It is not uncommon to observe an effect quite contrary to the one given in the last two examples, the high summits of mountains being frequently concealed by heavy clouds of mist, while at a very short distance below them the air is clear and pure.  In ascending to the Port of Venasque, one of the mountain passes of the Pyrenees, Mr. Murray found the mists so dense that he despaired of getting above them, or of their clearing away.  But fortunately the wind freshened, and the mist, broken by it, “came sweeping,” he says, “over our heads, sometimes enveloping us in darkness, sometimes exposing the blue sky, and a part of the mountains.  Section after section of the bald and towering masses which rose above the path

were displayed to us, one after another, as if the whole had been a sight too great for us to look upon.  Sometimes the clouds opened, and the snows, sparkling in the sun-beams, were before us; at others, an enormous peak of the mountain would shoot its dark head through the mist, and, without visible support, seem as if it were about to fall upon us.  Again, when we imagined ourselves hemmed in on all sides by the mountains, and within a few feet of their rugged sides, a passing breeze would disclose the dark waters of the lakes hundreds of feet beneath us.

“Thus the effect of light and darkness, of sunshine and of mist, working upon materials of such grandeur as those near the Port of Venasque, was a sight well worthy of admiration, and one which is rarely to be seen. * * * * Excepting the intervals of light which the gusts of wind, by dispersing the mists, had bestowed upon us, we had hitherto, comparatively speaking, been shrouded in darkness, particularly for the ten minutes preceding our arrival at the Port: my astonishment may therefore be imagined when, the instant that I stepped beyond the limits of the Port, I stood in the purest atmosphere—not a particle of mist,

not even a cloud, was perceptible.  The phenomenon was curious, and its interest greatly heightened from the situation in which it took place.  The mist rolling up the valley through which we had passed, was, the moment that it could be said to reach the Spanish frontier,—the moment it encircled the edges of the high ridges which separated the countries, thrown back, as it were, indignantly, by a counter current from the Spanish side.  The conflicting currents of air, seemingly of equal strength, and unable to overcome each other, carried the mist perpendicularly from the summits of the ridge, and filling up the crevices and fissures in its uneven surface, formed a wall many thousand feet above it, of dark and (from the appearance of solidity which its massive and perpendicular character bestowed upon it) apparently impenetrable matter.”

Undoubtedly the various phenomena of clouds may be seen to great advantage in mountain regions; and there is only one other method of seeing them to greater perfection, and that is from the car of a balloon.  The following description of an aërial voyage, by Mr. M. Mason, in October 1836, will convey a better idea of the magnificence

of a cloudy sky than any terrestrial prospect could do.  He says,—

“Scarcely had we quitted the earth before the clouds, which had previously overhung us, began to envelop us on all sides, and gradually to exclude the fading prospect from our sight.  It is scarcely possible to convey an adequate idea of the effect produced by this apparently trivial occurrence.  Unconscious of our own motion from any direct impression upon our own feelings, the whole world appeared to be in the act of receding from us in the dim vista of infinite space; while the vapoury curtain seemed to congregate on all sides and cover the retreating masses from our view.  The trees and buildings, the spectators and their crowded equipages, and finally, the earth itself, at first distinctly seen, gradually became obscured by the thickening mist, and growing whiter in their forms, and fainter in their outlines, soon faded away