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Title: Scrambles Amongst the Alps in the Years 1860-69

Author: Edward Whymper

Release date: October 29, 2012 [eBook #41234]
                Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Martin Schub


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SCRAMBLES AMONGST THE ALPS IN THE YEARS 1860-69 ***




Scrambles Amongst the Alps
In the years 1860-69

By Edward Whymper

[Illustration]

London
J. Murray
1871

Toil and pleasure, in their natures opposite, are yet linked together
in a kind of necessary connection.—LIVY.


Contents

 PREFACE

 CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY
 CHAPTER II. THE ASCENT OF MONT PELVOUX.
 CHAPTER III. THE MONT CENIS—THE FELL RAILWAY
 CHAPTER IV. MY FIRST SCRAMBLE ON THE MATTERHORN
 CHAPTER V. RENEWED ATTEMPTS TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN
 CHAPTER VI. THE VAL TOURNANCHE—THE BREUILJOCH—ZERMATT—ASCENT OF THE
             GRAND TOURNALIN
 CHAPTER VII. OUR SIXTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN
 CHAPTER VIII. FROM ST. MICHEL TO LA BÉRARDE ON THE MONT CENIS ROAD, BY
               THE COL DES AIGUILLES, D’ARVE, COL DE MARTIGNARE AND THE
               BRÈCHE DE LA MEIJE
 CHAPTER IX. THE ASCENT OF THE POINTE DES ÉCRINS
 CHAPTER X. FROM VAL LOUISE TO LA BÉRARDE BY THE COL DE PILATTE
 CHAPTER XI. PASSAGE OF THE COL DE TRIOLET, AND ASCENTS OF MONT DOLENT,
             AIGUILLE DE TRÉLATÊTE AND AIGUILLE D’ARGENTIÈRE
 CHAPTER XII. THE MOMING PASS—ZERMATT
 CHAPTER XIII. THE ASCENT OF THE GRAND CORNIER
 CHAPTER XIV. THE ASCENT OF THE DENT BLANCHE
 CHAPTER XV. LOST ON THE COL D’HÉRENS—MY SEVENTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE
             MATTERHORN
 CHAPTER XVI. VALLEY OF AOSTA, AND ASCENT OF THE GRANDES JORASSES
 CHAPTER XVII. THE COL DOLENT
 CHAPTER XVIII. ASCENT OF THE AIGUILLE VERTE
 CHAPTER XIX. THE COL DE TALÈFRE
 CHAPTER XX. ASCENT OF THE RUINETTE—THE MATTERHORN
 CHAPTER XXI. THE ASCENT OF THE MATTERHORN
 CHAPTER XXII. DESCENT OF THE MATTERHORN

 APPENDIX

List of Illustrations

Full Page Illustrations

 1. FOG-BOW SEEN FROM THE MATTERHORN ON JULY 14, 1885
 2. MONT PELVOUX AND THE ALÉFROIDE, FROM NEAR MONT DAUPHIN
 3. THE MONT CENIS ROAD AND THE FELL RAILWAY NEAR THE SUMMIT OF THE
    PASS, ON THE ITALIAN SIDE
 4. THE MATTERHORN FROM NEAR THE SUMMIT OF THE THEODULE PASS
 5. “THE CHIMNEY”
 6. “IN ATTEMPTING TO PASS THE CORNER I SLIPPED AND FELL”
 7. A CANNONADE ON THE MATTERHORN (1862)
 8. THE CRAGS OF THE MATTERHORN, DURING THE STORM, MIDNIGHT, AUGUST
    10, 1863
 9. DESCENDING THE WESTERN ARÊTE OF THE POINTE DES ÉCRINS
 10. “WE SAW A TOE—IT SEEMED TO BELONG TO MOORE—WE SAW REYNAULD A
     FLYING BODY.”
 11. THE SUMMIT OF THE MOMING PASS IN 1861
 12. THE CLUB-ROOM OF ZERMATT IN 1864
 13. THE BERGSCHRUND ON THE DENT BLANCHE IN 1865
 14. THE MATTERHORN FROM THE RIFFELBERG
 15. THE GRANDES JORASSES AND THE DOIRE TORRENT, VAL FERRET (D’ITALIE)
 16. THE SUMMIT OF THE COL DOLENT
 17. PINNACLES NEAR SACHAS IN THE VALLEY OF THE DURANCE, FORMED FROM AN
     OLD MORAINE


In the Text

 Beachy Head
 The Devil of Notre Dame
 Mules
 A Curé in Difficulties
 Which is the Brute?
 At the St. Bernard
 “Garibaldi!”
 Briançon
 Mont Pelvoux from above La Bessée
 In the Val d’Alefred
 The Grand Pelvoux de Val Louise
 Buttresses of Mont Pelvoux
 Portrait of R.J.S. Macdonald
 Outline to Show Route up Mont Pelvoux
 The Blanket Bag
 Natural Pillar near Molines
 Crossing Mont Cenis
 The Little Postilion
 The Centre Rail on a Curve
 Section of the Fell Railway
 The Covered Ways of the Fell Railway
 The Centre Rail Break
 The Matterhorn from the north-east
 Portrait of J.J. Bennen
 Portrait of Jean-Antoine Carrel
 The Col du Lion: Looking towards the Tête du Lion
 Diagram to show manner of fastening Tent-poles
 Alpine Tent
 Climbing Claw
 Rope and Ring
 At Breil (Giomein)
 The Matterhorn from Breil
 “But what is this?”
 An Arch of the Aqueduct in the Val Tournanche
 Water-worn Rocks in the Gorge below the Gorner Glacier
 Striations produced by Glacier action
 “Carrel lowered me down”
 Portrait of Monsieur Favre
 Crossing the Channel
 Portrait of Michel-Auguste Croz
 The Aiguilles d’Arve from above Chalets of Rieu Blanc
 Portrait of Melchior Anderegg
 Map of the Brèche de la Meije, etc.
 The Vallon des Etançons
 Map of the Central Dauphiné Alps
 The Pointe des Ecrins from the Col du Galibier
 Outline to show Route up Pointe des Ecrins
 Fragment from the Summit of the Pointe des Ecrins
 A Night with Croz
 A Snow Couloir
 Portraits of Mr. Reilly on a wet day
 Our Camp on Mont Suc
 Ice-Avalanche on the Moming Pass
 Part of the Southern Ridge of the Grand Cornier
 Part of the Northern Ridge of the Grand Cornier
 Portrait of Leslie Stephen
 Portrait of T.S. Kennedy
 Diagrams to show Dip of Strata on the Matterhorn
 My Tent-bearer—The Hunchback
 The Bouquetin
 A Crétin of Aosta
 My Ice-axe
 Kennedy Ice-axe
 Crampon
 Portrait of Christian Almer
 On the Mer de Glace
 Ice-Pinnacles on the Mer de Glace
 Western Side of the Col de Talèfre
 Glissading
 The Wrong Way to use a Rope on Glacier
 The Right Way to use a Rope on Glacier
 “Croz! Croz!! Come here”
 The Summit of the Matterhorn
 The Actual Summit of the Matterhorn in 1865
 Rope broken on the Matterhorn
 Portrait of Monsieur Seiler
 Manilla Rope broken on the Matterhorn
 The “Second” Rope broken on the Matterhorn
 The End




PREFACE.


In the year 1860, shortly before leaving England for a long Continental
tour, a certain eminent London publisher requested me to make for him
some sketches of the great Alpine peaks. At this time I had only a
literary acquaintance with mountaineering, and had even not seen—much
less set foot upon—a mountain. Amongst the peaks which were upon my
list was Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphine. The sketches that were required of
it were to celebrate the triumph of some Englishmen who intended to
make its ascent. They came—they saw—but they did not conquer. By a mere
chance I fell in with a very agreeable Frenchman who accompanied this
party, and was pressed by him to return to the assault. In 1861 we did
so, with my friend Macdonald, and we conquered. This was the origin of
my scrambles amongst the Alps.

The ascent of Mont Pelvoux (including the disagreeables) was a very
delightful scramble. The mountain air did _not_ act as an emetic; the
sky did _not_ look black instead of blue; nor did I feel tempted to
throw myself over precipices. I hastened to enlarge my experience, and
went to the Matterhorn. I was urged toward Mont Pelvoux by those
mysterious impulses which cause men to peer into the unknown. Not only
was this mountain reputed to be the highest in France, and on that
account was worthy of attention, but it was the dominating point of a
most picturesque district of the highest interest, which, to this day,
remains almost unexplored. The Matterhorn attracted me simply by its
grandeur. It was considered to be the most thoroughly inaccessible of
all mountains, even by those who ought to have known better. Stimulated
to make fresh exertions by one repulse after another, I returned, year
after year, as I had opportunity, more and more determined to find a
way up it, or to _prove_ it to be really inaccessible.

A considerable portion of this volume is occupied by the history of
these attacks on the Matterhorn, and the other excursions that are
described have all some connection, more or less remote, with that
mountain or with Mont Pelvoux. All are new excursions (that is,
excursions made for the first time), unless the contrary is pointed
out. Some have been passed over very briefly, and entire ascents or
descents have been disposed of in a single line. If they had been
worked out at full length, three volumes instead of one would have been
required. Generally speaking, the salient points alone have been dwelt
upon, and the rest has been left to the imagination. This treatment has
saved the reader from much useless repetition.

In endeavoring to make the book of some use to those who may wish to go
mountain-scrambling, whether in the Alps or elsewhere, undue
prominence, perhaps, has been given to our mistakes and failures; and
it will doubtless be pointed out that our practice must have been bad
if the principles which are laid down are sound, or that the principles
must be unsound if the practice was good. It is maintained in an early
chapter that the positive, or unavoidable, dangers of mountaineering
are very small, yet from subsequent pages it can be shown that very
considerable risks were run. The reason is obvious—we were not
immaculate. Our blunders are not held up to be admired or to be
imitated, but to be avoided.

These scrambles amongst the Alps were holiday excursions, and as such
they should be judged. They are spoken of as sport, and nothing more.
The pleasure that they gave me cannot, I fear, be transferred to
others. The ablest pens have failed, and must always fail, to give a
true idea of the grandeur of the Alps. The most minute descriptions of
the greatest writers do nothing more than convey impressions that are
entirely erroneous—the reader conjures up visions, it may be
magnificent ones, but they are infinitely inferior to the reality. I
have dealt sparingly in descriptions, and have employed illustrations
freely, in the hope that the pencil may perhaps succeed where the pen
must inevitably have failed.

The preparation of the illustrations has occupied a large part of my
time during the last six years. With the exception of the views upon
pp. 21, 23 and 33, the whole of the illustrations have been engraved
expressly for the book, and, unless it is otherwise specified, all are
from my own sketches. About fifty have been drawn on the wood by Mr.
James Mahoney, and I am much indebted to that artist for the care and
fidelity with which he has followed my slight memoranda, and for the
spirit that he has put into his admirable designs. Most of his drawings
will be identified by his monogram. Twenty of the remainder are the
work of Mr. Cyrus Johnston, and out of these I would draw especial
attention to the view of the Matterhorn facing p. 36, the striated rock
upon p. 63, and the bits from the Mer de Glace upon pp. 138, 139. The
illustrations have been introduced as illustrations, and very rarely
for ornamental purposes. We have subordinated everything in them to
accuracy, and it is only fair to the artists who have honored me by
their assistance to say that many of their designs would have ranked
higher as works of art if they had been subjected to fewer
restrictions.

[Illustration: BEACHY HEAD]




CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.


On the 23d of July, 1860, I started for my first tour in the Alps. As
we steamed out into the Channel, Beachy Head came into view, and
recalled a scramble of many years ago. With the impudence of ignorance,
my brother and I, schoolboys both, had tried to scale that great chalk
cliff. Not the head itself—where sea-birds circle, and where the flints
are ranged so orderly in parallel lines—but at a place more to the
east, where the pinnacle called the Devil’s Chimney had fallen down.
Since that time we have been often in dangers of different kinds, but
never have we more nearly broken our necks than upon that occasion.

In Paris I made two ascents. The first to the seventh floor of a house
in the Quartier Latin—to an artist friend, who was engaged, at the
moment of my entry, in combat with a little Jew. He hurled him with
great good-will and with considerable force into some of his crockery,
and then recommended me to go up the towers of Notre Dame. Half an hour
later I stood on the parapet of the great west front, by the side of
the leering fiend which for centuries has looked down upon the great
city. It looked over the Hôtel Dieu to a small and commonplace
building, around which there was always a moving crowd. To that
building I descended. It was filled with chattering women and eager
children, who were struggling to get a good sight of three corpses
which were exposed to view. It was the Morgue. I quitted the place
disgusted, and overheard two women discussing the spectacle. One of
them concluded with, “But that it is droll;” the other answered
approvingly, “But that it is droll;” and the Devil of Notre Dame,
looking down upon them, seemed to say, “Yes, your climax, the
cancan—your end, not uncommonly, that building: it is droll, but that
it is droll.”

[Illustration]

I passed on to Switzerland; saw the sunlight lingering on the giants of
the Oberland; heard the echoes from the cow horns in the Lauterbrunnen
valley and the avalanches rattling off the Jungfrau; and then crossed
the Gemmi into the Valais, resting for a time by the beautiful
Oeschinen See, and getting a forcible illustration of glacier-motion in
a neighboring valley—the Gasteren Thal. The upper end of this valley is
crowned by the Tschingel glacier, which, as it descends, passes over an
abrupt cliff that is in the centre of its course. On each side the
continuity of the glacier is maintained, but in the centre it is cleft
in twain by the cliff. Lower down it is consolidated again. I scrambled
on to this lower portion, advanced toward the cliff, and then stopped
to admire the contrast of the brilliant pinnacles of ice with the blue
sky. Without a warning, a huge slice of the glacier broke away and fell
over the cliff on to the lower portion with a thundering crash.
Fragments rolled beyond me, although, fortunately, not in my direction.
I fled, and did not stop until off the glacier, but before it was
quitted learned another lesson in glacial matters: the terminal
moraine, which seemed to be a solid mound, broke away underneath me,
and showed that it was only a superficial covering resting on a slope
of glassy ice.

[Illustration]

On the steep path over the Gemmi there were opportunities for observing
the manners and customs of the Swiss mule. It is not perhaps in revenge
for generations of ill-treatment that the mule grinds one’s legs
against fences and stone walls, and pretends to stumble in awkward
places, particularly when coming round corners and on the brinks of
precipices; but their evil habit of walking on the outside edges of
paths (even in the most unguarded positions) is one that is distinctly
the result of association with man. The transport of wood from the
mountains into the valleys occupies most of the mules during a
considerable portion of the year: the fagots into which the wood is
made up project some distance on each side, and it is said that they
walk intuitively to the outside of paths having rocks on the other side
to avoid the collisions which would otherwise occur. When they carry
tourists they behave in a similar manner; and no doubt when the good
time for mules arrives, and they no longer carry burdens, they will
still continue, by natural selection, to do the same. This habit
frequently gives rise to scenes: two mules meet—each wishes to pass on
the outside, and neither will give way. It requires considerable
persuasion, through the medium of the tail, before such difficulties
are arranged.

I visited the baths of Leuk, and saw the queer assemblage of men, women
and children, attired in bathing-gowns, chatting, drinking and playing
at chess in the water. The company did not seem to be perfectly sure
whether it was decorous in such a situation and in such attire for
elderly men to chase young females from one corner to another, but it
was unanimous in howling at the advent of a stranger who remained
covered, and literally yelled when I departed without exhibiting my
sketch.

I trudged up the Rhone valley, and turned aside at Visp to go up the
Visp Thal, where one would expect to see greater traces of glacial
action, if a glacier formerly filled it, as one is said to have done.

I was bound for the valley of Saas, and my work took me high up the
Alps on either side, far beyond the limit of trees and the tracks of
tourists. The view from the slopes of the Wiessmies, on the eastern
side of the valley, five or six thousand feet above the village of
Saas, is perhaps the finest of its kind in the Alps. The full height of
the three-peaked Mischabel (the highest mountain in Switzerland) is
seen at one glance—eleven thousand feet of dense forests, green alps,
pinnacles of rock and glittering glaciers. The peaks seemed to me then
to be hopelessly inaccessible from this direction.

[Illustration]

I descended the valley to the village of Stalden, and then went up the
Visp Thal to Zermatt, and stopped there several days. Numerous traces
of the formidable earthquake-shocks of five years before still
remained, particularly at St. Nicholas, where the inhabitants had been
terrified beyond measure at the destruction of their churches and
houses. At this place, as well as at Visp, a large part of the
population was obliged to live under canvas for several months. It is
remarkable that there was hardly a life lost on this occasion, although
there were about fifty shocks, some of which were very severe.

At Zermatt I wandered in many directions, but the weather was bad and
my work was much retarded. One day, after spending a long time in
attempts to sketch near the Hörnli, and in futile endeavors to seize
the forms of the peaks as they for a few seconds peered out from above
the dense banks of woolly clouds, I determined not to return to Zermatt
by the usual path, but to cross the Görner glacier to the Riffel hotel.
After a rapid scramble over the polished rocks and snow-beds which
skirt the base of the Théodule glacier, and wading through some of the
streams which flow from it, at that time much swollen by the late
rains, the first difficulty was arrived at, in the shape of a precipice
about three hundred feet high. It seemed that there would be no
difficulty in crossing the glacier if the cliff could be descended, but
higher up and lower down the ice appeared, to my inexperienced eyes, to
be impassable for a single person. The general contour of the cliff was
nearly perpendicular, but it was a good deal broken up, and there was
little difficulty in descending by zigzagging from one mass to another.
At length there was a long slab, nearly smooth, fixed at an angle of
about forty degrees between two wall-sided pieces of rock: nothing,
except the glacier, could be seen below. It was a very awkward place,
but being doubtful if return were possible, as I had been dropping from
one ledge to another, I passed at length by lying across the slab,
putting the shoulder stiffly against one side and the feet against the
other, and gradually wriggling down, by first moving the legs and then
the back. When the bottom of the slab was gained a friendly crack was
seen, into which the point of the bâton could be stuck, and I dropped
down to the next piece. It took a long time coming down that little bit
of cliff, and for a few seconds it was satisfactory to see the ice
close at hand. In another moment a second difficulty presented itself.
The glacier swept round an angle of the cliff, and as the ice was not
of the nature of treacle or thin putty, it kept away from the little
bay on the edge of which I stood. We were not widely separated, but the
edge of the ice was higher than the opposite edge of rock, and worse,
the rock was covered with loose earth and stones which had fallen from
above. All along the side of the cliff, as far as could be seen in both
directions, the ice did not touch it, but there was this marginal
crevasse, seven feet wide and of unknown depth.

All this was seen at a glance, and almost at once I concluded that I
could not jump the crevasse, and began to try along the cliff lower
down, but without success, for the ice rose higher and higher, until at
last farther progress was stopped by the cliffs becoming perfectly
smooth. With an axe it would have been possible to cut up the side of
the ice—without one, I saw there was no alternative but to return and
face the jump.

It was getting toward evening, and the solemn stillness of the High
Alps was broken only by the sound of rushing water or of falling rocks.
If the jump should be successful, well: if not, I fell into that
horrible chasm, to be frozen in, or drowned in that gurgling, rushing
water. Everything depended on that jump. Again I asked myself, “Can it
be done?” It _must_ be. So, finding my stick was useless, I threw it
and the sketch-book to the ice, and first retreating as far as
possible, ran forward with all my might, took the leap, barely reached
the other side, and fell awkwardly on my knees. Almost at the same
moment a shower of stones fell on the spot from which I had jumped.

The glacier was crossed without further trouble, but the Riffel, which
was then a very small building, was crammed with tourists, and could
not take me in. As the way down was unknown to me, some of the people
obligingly suggested getting a man at the châlets, otherwise the path
would be certainly lost in the forest. On arriving at the châlets no
man could be found, and the lights of Zermatt, shining through the
trees, seemed to say, “Never mind a guide, but come along down: we’ll
show you the way;” so off I went through the forest, going straight
toward them. The path was lost in a moment, and was never recovered: I
was tripped up by pine roots, I tumbled over rhododendron bushes, I
fell over rocks. The night was pitch-dark, and after a time the lights
of Zermatt became obscure or went out altogether. By a series of slides
or falls, or evolutions more or less disagreeable, the descent through
the forest was at length accomplished, but torrents of a formidable
character had still to be passed before one could arrive at Zermatt. I
felt my way about for hours, almost hopelessly, by an exhaustive
process at last discovering a bridge, and about midnight, covered with
dirt and scratches, re-entered the inn which I had quitted in the
morning.

Others besides tourists got into difficulties. A day or two afterward,
when on the way to my old station near the Hörnli, I met a stout curé
who had essayed to cross the Théodule pass. His strength or his wind
had failed, and he was being carried down, a helpless bundle and a
ridiculous spectacle, on the back of a lanky guide, while the peasants
stood by with folded hands, their reverence for the Church almost
overcome by their sense of the ludicrous.

I descended the valley, diverging from the path at Randa to mount the
slopes of the Dom (the highest of the Mischabelhorner), in order to see
the Weisshorn face to face. The latter mountain is the noblest in
Switzerland, and from this direction it looks especially magnificent.
On its north there is a large snowy plateau that feeds the glacier of
which a portion is seen from Randa, and which on more than one occasion
has destroyed that village. From the direction of the Dom—that is,
immediately opposite—this Bies glacier seems to descend nearly
vertically: it does not do so, although it is very steep. Its size is
much less than formerly, and the lower portion, now divided into three
tails, clings in a strange, weird-like manner to the cliffs, to which
it seems scarcely possible that it can remain attached.

Unwillingly I parted from the sight of this glorious mountain, and went
down to Visp. A party of English tourists had passed up the valley a
short time before with a mule. The party numbered nine—eight women and
a governess. The mule carried their luggage, and was ridden by each in
turn. The peasants—themselves not unaccustomed to overload their
beasts—were struck with astonishment at the unwonted sight, and made
comments, more free than welcome to English ears, on the nonchalance
with which young miss sat, calm and collected, on the miserable beast,
while it was struggling under her weight combined with that of the
luggage. The story was often repeated; and it tends to sustain some of
the hard things which have been said of late about young ladies from
the ages of twelve or fourteen to eighteen.

[Illustration]

Arriving once more in the Rhone valley, I proceeded to Viesch, and from
thence ascended the Æggischhorn, on which unpleasant eminence I lost my
way in a fog, and my temper shortly afterward. Then, after crossing the
Grimsel in a severe thunderstorm, I passed on to Brienz, Interlachen
and Berne, and thence to Fribourg and Morat, Neuchâtel, Martigny and
the St. Bernard. The massive walls of the convent were a welcome sight
as I waded through the snow-beds near the summit of the pass, and
pleasant also was the courteous salutation of the brother who bade me
enter. He wondered at the weight of my knapsack, and I at the hardness
of their bread. The saying that the monks make the toast in the winter
that they give to tourists in the following season is not founded on
truth: the winter is their most busy time of the year. But it _is_ true
they have exercised so much hospitality that at times they have not
possessed the means to furnish the fuel for heating their chapel in the
winter.

[Illustration]

Instead of descending to Aosta, I turned aside into the Val Pelline, in
order to obtain views of the Dent d’Erin. The night had come on before
Biona was gained, and I had to knock long and loud upon the door of the
curé’s house before it was opened. An old woman with querulous voice
and with a large goître answered the summons, and demanded rather
sharply what was wanted, but became pacific, almost good-natured, when
a five-franc piece was held in her face and she heard that lodging and
supper were requested in exchange.

My directions asserted that a passage existed from Prerayen, at the
head of this valley, to Breuil, in the Val Tournanche, and the old
woman, now convinced of my respectability, busied herself to find a
guide. Presently she introduced a native picturesquely attired in
high-peaked hat, braided jacket, scarlet waistcoat and indigo
pantaloons, who agreed to take me to the village of Val Tournanche. We
set off early on the next morning, and got to the summit of the pass
without difficulty. It gave me my first experience of considerable
slopes of hard, steep snow, and, like all beginners, I endeavored to
prop myself up with my stick, and kept it _outside_, instead of holding
it between myself and the slope, and leaning upon it, as should have
been done. The man enlightened me, but he had, properly, a very small
opinion of his employer, and it is probably on that account that, a few
minutes after we had passed the summit, he said he would not go any
farther and would return to Biona. All argument was useless: he stood
still, and to everything that was said answered nothing but that he
would go back. Being rather nervous about descending some long
snow-slopes which still intervened between us and the head of the
valley, I offered more pay, and he went on a little way. Presently
there were some cliffs, down which we had to scramble. He called to me
to stop, then shouted that he would go back, and beckoned to me to come
up. On the contrary, I waited for him to come down, but instead of
doing so, in a second or two he turned round, clambered deliberately up
the cliff and vanished. I supposed it was only a ruse to extort offers
of more money, and waited for half an hour, but he did not appear
again. This was rather embarrassing, for he carried off my knapsack.
The choice of action lay between chasing him and going on to Breuil,
risking the loss of my knapsack. I chose the latter course, and got to
Breuil the same evening. The landlord of the inn, suspicious of a
person entirely innocent of luggage, was doubtful if he could admit me,
and eventually thrust me into a kind of loft, which was already
occupied by guides and by hay. In later years we became good friends,
and he did not hesitate to give credit and even to advance considerable
sums.

My sketches from Breuil were made under difficulties: my materials had
been carried off, nothing better than fine sugar-paper could be
obtained, and the pencils seemed to contain more silica than plumbago.
However, they _were_ made, and the pass was again crossed, this time
alone. By the following evening the old woman of Biona again produced
the faithless guide. The knapsack was recovered after the lapse of
several hours, and then I poured forth all the terms of abuse and
reproach of which I was master. The man smiled when called a liar, and
shrugged his shoulders when referred to as a thief, but drew his knife
when spoken of as a pig.

The following night was spent at Cormayeur, and the day after I crossed
the Col Ferrex to Orsières, and on the next the Tête Noir to Chamounix.
The Emperor Napoleon arrived the same day, and access to the Mer de
Glace was refused to tourists; but, by scrambling along the Plan des
Aiguilles, I managed to outwit the guards, and to arrive at the
Montanvert as the imperial party was leaving, failing to get to the
Jardin the same afternoon, but very nearly succeeding in breaking a leg
by dislodging great rocks on the moraine of the glacier.

From Chamounix I went to Geneva, and thence by the Mont Cenis to Turin
and to the Vaudois valleys. A long and weary day had ended when Paesana
was reached. The inn was full, and I was tired and about to go to bed
when some village stragglers entered and began to sing. They sang to
Garibaldi! The tenor, a ragged fellow, whose clothes were not worth a
shilling, took the lead with wonderful expression and feeling. The
others kept their places and sang in admirable time. For hours I sat
enchanted, and long after I retired the sound of their melody could be
heard, relieved at times by the treble of the girl who belonged to the
inn.

[Illustration: GARIBALDI!]

The next morning I passed the little lakes which are the sources of the
Po, on my way into France. The weather was stormy, and misinterpreting
the patois of some natives—who in reality pointed out the right way—I
missed the track, and found myself under the cliffs of Monte Viso. A
gap that was occasionally seen in the ridge connecting it with the
mountains to the east tempted me up, and after a battle with a
snow-slope of excessive steepness, I reached the summit. The scene was
extraordinary, and, in my experience, unique. To the north there was
not a particle of mist, and the violent wind coming from that direction
blew one back staggering. But on the side of Italy the valleys were
completely filled with dense masses of cloud to a certain level; and
there—where they felt the influence of the wind—they were cut off as
level as the top of a table, the ridges appearing above them.

I raced down to Abries, and went on through the gorge of the Guil to
Mont Dauphin. The next day found me at La Bessée, at the junction of
the Val Louise with the valley of the Durance, in full view of Mont
Pelvoux; and by chance I walked into a cabaret where a Frenchman was
breakfasting who a few days before had made an unsuccessful attempt to
ascend that mountain with three Englishmen and the guide Michel Croz of
Chamounix—a right good fellow, by name Jean Reynaud.

The same night I slept at Briançon, intending to take the courier on
the following day to Grenoble, but all places had been secured several
days beforehand, so I set out at two P.M. on the next, day for a
seventy-mile walk. The weather was again bad, and on the summit of the
Col de Lautaret I was forced to seek shelter in the wretched little
hospice. It was filled with workmen who were employed on the road, and
with noxious vapors which proceeded from them. The inclemency of the
weather was preferable to the inhospitality of the interior. Outside,
it was disagreeable, but grand—inside, it was disagreeable and mean.
The walk was continued under a deluge of rain, and I felt the way down,
so intense was the darkness, to the village of La Grave, where the
people of the inn detained me forcibly. It was perhaps fortunate that
they did so, for during that night blocks of rock fell at several
places from the cliffs on to the road with such force that they made
large holes in the macadam, which looked as if there had been
explosions of gunpowder. I resumed the walk at half-past five next
morning, and proceeded, under steady rain, through Bourg d’Oysans to
Grenoble, arriving at the latter place soon after seven P. M., having
accomplished the entire distance from Briançon in about eighteen hours
of actual walking. This was the end of the Alpine portion of my tour of
1860, on which I was introduced to the great peaks, and acquired the
passion for mountain-scrambling the development of which is described
in the following chapters.

[Illustration: BRIANÇON]




CHAPTER II.
THE ASCENT OF MONT PELVOUX.


The district of which Mont Pelvoux and the neighboring summits are the
culminating points is, both historically and topographically, one of
the most interesting in the Alps. As the nursery and the home of the
Vaudois, it has claims to permanent attention: the names of Waldo and
of Neff will be remembered when men more famous in their time are
forgotten, and the memory of the heroic courage and the simple piety of
their disciples will endure as long as history lasts.

This district contains the highest summits in France, and some of its
finest scenery. It has not perhaps the beauties of Switzerland, but has
charms of its own: its cliffs, its torrents and its gorges are
unsurpassed, its deep and savage valleys present pictures of grandeur,
and even sublimity, and it is second to none in the boldness of its
mountain forms.

The district includes a mass of valleys which vie with each other in
singularity of character and dissimilarity of climate. Some the rays of
the sun can never reach, they are so deep and narrow. In others the
very antipodes may be found, the temperature more like that of the
plains of Italy than of alpine France. This great range of climate has
a marked effect on the flora of these valleys: sterility reigns in
some, stones take the place of trees, débris and mud replace plants and
flowers: in others, in the space of a few miles, one passes vines,
apple, pear and cherry trees, the birch, alder, walnut, ash, larch and
pine alternating with fields of rye, barley, oats, beans and potatoes.

The valleys are for the most part short and erratic. They are not,
apparently, arranged on any definite plan: they are not disposed, as is
frequently the case elsewhere, either at right angles to, or parallel
with, the highest summits, but they wander hither and thither, taking
one direction for a few miles, then doubling back, and then perhaps
resuming their original course. Thus long perspectives are rarely to be
seen, and it is difficult to form a general idea of the disposition of
the peaks.

The highest summits are arranged almost in a horse-shoe form. The
highest of all, which occupies a central position, is the Pointe des
Écrins; the second in height, the Meije, is on the north; and the Mont
Pelvoux, which gives its name to the entire block, stands almost
detached by itself on the outside.

At the beginning of July, 1861, I despatched to Reynaud from Havre
blankets (which were taxed as “prohibited fabrics”), rope, and other
things desirable for the excursion, and set out on the tour of France,
but four weeks later, at Nimes, found myself completely collapsed by
the heat, then 94° Fahr. in the shade, so I took a night train at once
to Grenoble.

I lost my way in the streets of this picturesque but noisome town, and
having but a half hour left in which to get a dinner and take a place
in the diligence, was not well pleased to hear that an Englishman
wished to see me. It turned out to be my friend Macdonald, who confided
to me that he was going to try to ascend a mountain called Pelvoux in
the course of ten days, but on hearing of my intentions agreed to join
us at La Bessée on the 3d of August. In a few moments more I was
perched in the banquette _en route_ for Bourg d’Oysans, in a miserable
vehicle which took nearly eight hours to accomplish less than thirty
miles.

At five on a lovely morning I shouldered my knapsack and started for
Briançon. Gauzy mists clung to the mountains, but melted away when
touched by the sun, and disappeared by jerks (in the manner of views
when focused in a magic lantern), revealing the wonderfully bent and
folded strata in the limestone cliffs behind the town. Then I entered
the Combe de Malval, and heard the Romanche eating its way through that
wonderful gorge, and passed on to Le Dauphin, where the first glacier
came into view, tailing over the mountain-side on the right. From this
place until the summit of the Col de Lautaret was passed, every gap in
the mountains showed a glittering glacier or a soaring peak: the finest
view was at La Grave, where the Meije rises by a series of tremendous
precipices eight thousand feet above the road. The finest distant view
of the pass is seen after crossing the col, near Monetier. A mountain,
commonly supposed to be Monte Viso, appears at the end of the vista,
shooting into the sky: in the middle distance, but still ten miles off,
is Briançon with its interminable forts, and in the foreground, leading
down to the Guisane and rising high up the neighboring slopes, are
fertile fields, studded with villages and church-spires. The next day I
walked over from Briançon to La Bessée, to my worthy friend Jean
Reynaud, the surveyor of roads of his district.

[Illustration: MONT PELVOUX FROM ABOVE BESSÉE]

All the peaks of Mont Pelvoux are well seen from La Bessée—the highest
point as well as that upon which the French engineers erected their
cairn in 1828. Neither Reynaud nor any one else knew this. The natives
knew only that the engineers had ascended one peak, and had seen from
that a still higher point, which they called the Pointe des Arcines or
des Écrins. They could not say whether this latter could be seen from
La Bessée, nor could they tell the peak upon which the cairn had been
erected. We were under the impression that the highest point was
concealed by the peaks we saw, and would be gained by passing over
them. They knew nothing of the ascent of Monsieur Puiseux, and they
confidently asserted that the highest point of Mont Pelvoux had not
been attained by any one: it was this point we wished to reach.

Nothing prevented our starting at once but the absence of Macdonald and
the want of a bâton. Reynaud suggested a visit to the postmaster, who
possessed a bâton of local celebrity. Down we went to the bureau, but
it was closed: we hallooed through the slits, but no answer. At last
the postmaster was discovered endeavoring (with very fair success) to
make himself intoxicated. He was just able to ejaculate, “France! ’tis
the first nation in the world!”—a phrase used by a Frenchman when in
the state in which a Briton begins to shout, “We won’t go home till
morning,” national glory being uppermost in the thoughts of one, and
home in those of the other. The bâton was produced: it was a branch of
a young oak, about five feet long, gnarled and twisted in several
directions. “Sir,” said the postmaster, as he presented it, “France!
’tis the first—the first nation in the world, by its—” He stuck.
“Bâtons,” I suggested. “Yes, yes, sir: by its bâtons, by its—its—” and
here he could not get on at all. As I looked at this young limb, I
thought of my own; but Reynaud, who knew everything about everybody in
the village, said there was not a better one; so off we went with it,
leaving the official staggering in the road, and muttering, “France!
’tis the first nation in the world!”

The 3d of August came, but Macdonald did not appear, so we started for
the Val Louise, our party consisting of Reynaud, myself and a porter,
Jean Casimir Giraud, nicknamed “Little Nails,” the shoemaker of the
place. An hour and a half’s smart walking took us to La Ville de Val
Louise, our hearts gladdened by the glorious peaks of Pelvoux shining
out without a cloud around them. I renewed acquaintance with the mayor
of La Ville. His aspect was original and his manners were gracious, but
the odor which proceeded from him was dreadful. The same may be said of
most of the inhabitants of these valleys.

Reynaud kindly undertook to look after the commissariat, and I found to
my annoyance, when we were about to leave, that I had given tacit
consent to a small wine-cask being carried with us, which was a great
nuisance from the commencement. It was excessively awkward to handle:
one man tried to carry it, and then another, and at last it was slung
from one of our bâtons, and was carried by two, which gave our party
the appearance of a mechanical diagram to illustrate the uses of
levers.

At La Ville the Val Louise splits into two branches—the Val
d’Entraigues on the left, and the Vallon d’Alefred (or Ailefroide) the
right: our route was the latter, and we moved steadily forward to the
village of La Pisse, where Pierre Sémiond lived, who was reputed to
know more about the Pelvoux than any other man. He looked an honest
fellow, but unfortunately he was ill and could not come. He recommended
his brother, an aged creature, whose furrowed and wrinkled face hardly
seemed to announce the man we wanted; but, having no choice, we engaged
him and again set forth.

[Illustration: IN THE VAL D’ALEFRED]

Walnut and a great variety of other trees gave shadow to our path and
fresh vigor to our limbs, while below, in a sublime gorge, thundered
the torrent, whose waters took their rise from the snows we hoped to
tread on the morrow.

The mountain could not be seen at La Ville, owing to a high intervening
ridge: we were now moving along the foot of this to get to the châlets
of Alefred—or, as they are sometimes called, Aléfroide—where the
mountain actually commences. From this direction the subordinate but
more proximate peaks appear considerably higher than the loftier ones
behind, and sometimes conceal them. But the whole height of the peak,
which in these valleys goes under the name of the “Grand Pelvoux,” is
seen at one place from its summit to its base—six or seven thousand
feet of nearly perpendicular cliffs.

The châlets of Alefred are a cluster of miserable wooden huts at the
foot of the Grand Pelvoux, and are close to the junction of the streams
which descend from the glacier de Sapenière (or du Selé) on the left,
and the glaciers Blanc and Noir on the right. We rested a minute to
purchase some butter and milk, and Sémiond picked up a
disreputable-looking lad to assist in carrying, pushing and otherwise
moving the wine-cask.

[Illustration: THE GRAND PELVOUX DE VAL LOUISE]

Our route now turned sharply to the left, and all were glad that the
day was drawing to a close, so that we had the shadows from the
mountains. A more frightful and desolate valley it is scarcely possible
to imagine: it contains miles of boulders, débris, stones, sand and
mud—few trees, and they placed so high as to be almost out of sight.
Not a soul inhabits it: no birds are in the air, no fish in the waters:
the mountain is too steep for the chamois, its slopes too inhospitable
for the marmot, the whole too repulsive for the eagle. Not a living
thing did we see in this sterile and savage valley during four days,
except some few poor goats which had been driven there against their
will.

We rested a little at a small spring, and then hastened onward till we
nearly arrived at the foot of the Sapenière glacier, when Sémiond said
we must turn to the right, up the slopes. This we did, and clambered
for half an hour through scattered pines and fallen boulders. Then
evening began to close in rapidly, and it was time to look for a
resting-place. There was no difficulty in getting one, for all around
it was a chaotic assemblage of rocks. We selected the under side of
one, which was more than fifty feet long by twenty high, cleared it of
rubbish, and then collected wood for a fire.

That camp-fire is a pleasant reminiscence. The wine-cask had got
through all its troubles: it was tapped, and the Frenchmen seemed to
derive some consolation from its execrable contents. Reynaud chanted
scraps of French songs, and each contributed his share of joke, story
or verse. The weather was perfect, and our prospects for the morrow
were good. My companions’ joy culminated when a packet of red fire was
thrown into the flames. It hissed and bubbled for a moment or two, and
then broke out into a grand flare. The effect of the momentary light
was magnificent: all around the mountains were illuminated for a
second, and then relapsed into their solemn gloom. One by one our party
dropped off to sleep, and at last I got into my blanket-bag. It was
hardly necessary, for although we were at a height of at least seven
thousand feet, the minimum temperature was above 40° Fahrenheit.

We roused at three, but did not start till half-past four. Giraud had
been engaged as far as this rock only, but as he wished to go on, we
allowed him to accompany us. We mounted the slopes, and quickly got
above the trees, then had a couple of hours’ clambering over bits of
precipitous rock and banks of _débris_, and at a quarter to seven got
to a narrow glacier—Clos de l’Homme—which streamed out of the plateau
on the summit, and nearly reached the glacier de Sapenière. We worked
as much as possible to the right, in hope that we should not have to
cross it, but were continually driven back, and at last we found that
it was necessary to do so. Old Sémiond had a strong objection to the
ice, and made explorations on his own account to endeavor to avoid it;
but Reynaud and I preferred to cross it, and Giraud stuck to us. It was
narrow—in fact, one could throw a stone across it—and was easily
mounted on the side, but in the centre swelled into a steep dome, up
which we were obliged to cut. Giraud stepped forward and said he should
like to try his hand, and having got hold of the axe, would not give it
up; and here, as well as afterward when it was necessary to cross the
gullies filled with hard snow which abound on the higher part of the
mountain, he did all the work, and did it admirably.

Old Sémiond of course came after us when we got across. We then
zigzagged up some snow-slopes, and shortly afterward commenced to
ascend the interminable array of buttresses which are the great
peculiarity of the Pelvoux. They were very steep in many places, but on
the whole afforded a good hold, and no climbing should be called
difficult which does that. Gullies abounded among them, sometimes of
great length and depth. _They_ were frequently rotten, and would have
been difficult for a single man to pass. The uppermost men were
continually abused for dislodging rocks and for harpooning those below
with their bâtons. However, without these incidents the climbing would
have been dull: they helped to break the monotony.

[Illustration: BUTTRESSES OF MONT PELVOUX]

We went up chimneys and gullies by the hour together, and always seemed
to be coming to something, although we never got to it. The outline
sketch will help to explain the situation. We stood at the foot of a
great buttress—perhaps about two hundred feet high—and looked up. It
did not go to a point as in the diagram, because we could not see the
top, although we felt convinced that behind the fringe of pinnacles we
did see there was a top, and that it was the edge of the plateau we so
much desired to attain. Up we mounted, and reached the pinnacles; but,
lo! another set was seen, and another, and yet more, till we reached
the top, and found it was only a buttress, and that we had to descend
forty or fifty feet before we could commence to mount again. When this
operation had been performed a few dozen times it began to be
wearisome, especially as we were in the dark as to our whereabouts.
Sémiond, however, encouraged us, and said he knew we were on the right
route; so away we went once more.

It was now nearly mid-day, and we seemed no nearer the summit of the
Pelvoux than when we started. At last we all joined together and held a
council. “Sémiond, old friend, do you know where we are now?” “Oh yes,
perfectly, to a yard and a half.” “Well, then, how much are we below
this plateau?” He affirmed we were not half an hour from the edge of
the snow. “Very good: let us proceed.” Half an hour passed, and then
another, but we were still in the same state: pinnacles, buttresses and
gullies were in profusion, but the plateau was not in sight. So we
called him again—for he had been staring about latterly as if in
doubt—and repeated the question, “How far below are we now?” Well, he
thought it might be half an hour more. “But you said that just now: are
you sure we are going right?” Yes, he believe, we were. Believed!—that
would not do. “Are you sure we are going right for the Pic des
Arcines?” “Pic dei Arcines!” he ejaculated in astonishment, as if he
had heard the words for the first time—“Pic des Arcines! No, but for
the pyramid, the celebrated pyramid he had helped the great Capitaine
Durand,” etc.

Here was a fix. We had been talking about it to him for a whole day,
and now he confessed he knew nothing about it. I turned to Reynaud, who
seemed thunderstruck: “What do you suggest?” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” we said, after explaining our minds pretty freely to Sémiond,
“the sooner we turn back the better, for we have no wish to see your
pyramid.”

We halted for an hour, and then commenced the descent. It took us
nearly seven hours to come down to our rock, but I paid no heed to the
distance, and do not remember anything about it. When we got down we
made a discovery which affected us as much as the footprint in the sand
did Robinson Crusoe: a blue silk veil lay by our fireside. There was
but one solution—Macdonald had arrived, but where was he? We soon
packed our baggage, and tramped in the dusk, through the stony desert,
to Alefred, where we arrived about half-past nine. “Where is the
Englishman?” was the first question. He was gone to sleep at La Ville.
We passed that night in a hay-loft, and in the morning, after settling
with Sémiond, we posted down to catch Macdonald. We had already
determined on the plan of operation, which was to get him to join us,
return, and be independent of all guides, simply taking the best man we
could get as a porter. I set my heart on Giraud—a good fellow, with no
pretence, although in every respect up to the work. But we were
disappointed: he was obliged to go to Briançon.

The walk soon became exciting. The natives inquired the result of our
expedition, and common civility obliged us to stop. But I was afraid of
losing my man, for it was said he would wait only till ten o’clock, and
that time was near at hand. At last I dashed over the bridge—time from
Alefred an hour and a quarter—but a cantonnier stopped me, saying that
the Englishman had just started for La Bessée. I rushed after him,
turned angle after angle of the road, but could not see him: at last,
as I came round a corner, he was also just turning another, going very
fast. I shouted, and luckily he heard me. We returned, reprovisioned
ourselves at La Ville, and the same evening saw us passing our first
rock, en route for another. I have said we determined to take no guide,
but on passing La Pisse old Sémiond turned out and offered his
services. He went well, in spite of his years and disregard of truth.
“Why not take him?” said my friend. So we offered him a fifth of his
previous pay, and in a few seconds he closed with the offer, but this
time came in an inferior position—we were to lead, he to follow. Our
second follower was a youth of twenty-seven years, who was not all that
could be desired. He drank Reynaud’s wine, smoked our cigars, and
quietly secreted the provisions when we were nearly starving. Discovery
of his proceedings did not at all disconcert him, and he finished up by
getting several items added to our bill at La Ville, which, not a
little to his disgust, we disallowed.

This night we fixed our camp high above the tree-line, and indulged
ourselves in the healthy employment of carrying our fuel up to it. The
present rock was not so comfortable as the first, and before we could
settle down we were obliged to turn out a large mass which was in the
way. It was very obstinate, but moved at length—slowly and gently at
first, then faster and faster, at last taking great jumps in the air,
striking a stream of fire at every touch, which shone out brightly as
it entered the gloomy valley below; and long after it was out of sight
we heard it bounding downward, and then settle with a subdued crash on
the glacier beneath. As we turned back from this curious sight, Reynaud
asked if we had ever seen a torrent on fire, and told us that in the
spring the Durance, swollen by the melting of the snow, sometimes
brings down so many rocks that where it passes through a narrow gorge
at La Bessée no water whatever is seen, but only boulders rolling over
and over, grinding each other into powder, and striking so many sparks
that the stream looks as if it were on fire.

We had another merry evening, with nothing to mar it: the weather was
perfect, and we lay backward in luxurious repose, looking at the sky
spangled with its ten thousand brilliant lights.

The ranges stood
Transfigured in the silver flood.
Their snows were flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
Took shadow, or the sombre green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black,
Against the whiteness at their back.[1]

 [1] J.G. Whittier, “Snow-Bound.”

[Illustration: R. J. S. MACDONALD]

Macdonald related his experiences over the café noir. He had traveled
day and night for several days in order to join us, but had failed to
find our first bivouac, and had encamped a few hundred yards from us
under another rock, higher up the mountain. The next morning he
discerned us going along a ridge at a great height above him, and as it
was useless to endeavor to overtake us, he lay down and watched with a
heavy heart until we had turned the corner of a buttress and vanished
out of sight.

Nothing but the heavy breathing of our already sound—asleep comrades
broke the solemn stillness of the night. It was a silence to be felt.
Nothing! Hark! what is that dull booming sound above us? Is that
nothing? There it is again, plainer: on it comes, nearer, clearer: ’tis
a crag escaped from the heights above. What a fearful crash! We jump to
our feet. Down it comes with awful fury: what power can withstand its
violence? Dancing leaping, flying, dashing against others, roaring as
it descends. Ah, it has passed! No: there it is again, and we hold our
breath as, with resistless force and explosions like artillery, it
darts past, with an avalanche of shattered fragments trailing in its
rear. ’Tis gone, and we breathe more freely as we hear the finale on
the glacier below.

We retired at last, but I was too excited to sleep. At a quarter-past
four every man once more shouldered his pack and started. This time we
agreed to keep more to the right, to see if it were not possible to get
to the plateau without losing any time by crossing the glacier. To
describe our route would be to repeat what has been said before. We
mounted steadily for an hour and a half, sometimes walking, but more
frequently climbing, and then found, after all, that it was necessary
to cross the glacier. The part on which we struck came down a very
steep slope, and was much crevassed. The word crevassed hardly
expresses its appearance: it was a mass of formidable séracs. We found,
however, more difficulty in getting on than across it, but, thanks to
the rope, it was passed somehow: then the interminable buttresses began
again. Hour after hour we proceeded upward, frequently at fault and
obliged to descend. The ridge behind us had sunk long ago, and we
looked over it and all others till our eyes rested on the majestic
Viso. Hour after hour passed, and monotony was the order of the day:
when twelve o’clock came we lunched, and contemplated the scene with
satisfaction: all the summits in sight, with the single exception of
the Viso, had given in, and we looked over an immense expanse—a perfect
sea of peaks and snow-fields. Still the pinnacles rose above us, and
opinions were freely uttered that we should see no summit of Pelvoux
that day. Old Sémiond had become a perfect bore to all: whenever one
rested for a moment to look about, he would say, with a complacent
chuckle, “Don’t be afraid—follow me.” We came at last to a very bad
piece, rotten and steep, and no hold. Here Reynaud and Macdonald
confessed to being tired, and talked of going to sleep. A way was
discovered out of the difficulty: then some one called out, “Look at
the Viso!” and we saw that we almost looked over it. We worked away
with redoubled energy, and at length caught sight of the head of the
glacier as it streamed out of the plateau. This gave us fresh hopes: we
were not deceived, and with a simultaneous shout we greeted the
appearance of our long wished-for snows. A large crevasse separated us
from them, but a bridge was found: we tied ourselves in line and moved
safely over it. Directly we got across there arose before us a fine
snow-capped peak. Old Sémiond cried, “The pyramid! I see the pyramid!”
“Where, Sémiond, where?” “There, on the top of that peak.”

[Illustration: MONT PELVOUX]

There, sure enough, was the cairn he had helped to erect more than
thirty years before. But where was the Pic des Arcines which we were to
see? It was nowhere visible, but only a great expanse of snow, bordered
by three lower peaks. Somewhat sadly we moved toward the pyramid,
sighing that there was no other to conquer, but hardly had we gone two
hundred paces before there rose a superb white cone on the left, which
had been hidden before by a slope of snow. We shouted, “The Pic des
Arcines!” and inquired of Sémiond if he knew whether that peak had been
ascended. As for him, he knew nothing except that the peak before us
was called the Pyramid, from the cairn he had, etc., etc., and that it
had been ascended since. “All right, then: face about;” and we
immediately turned at right angles for the cone, the porter making
faint struggles for his beloved pyramid. Our progress was stopped in
the sixth of a mile by the edge of the ridge connecting the two peaks,
and we perceived that it curled over in a lovely volute. We
involuntarily retreated. Sémiond, who was last in the line, took the
opportunity to untie himself, and refused to come on, said we were
running dangerous risks, and talked vaguely of crevasses. We tied him
up again and proceeded. The snow was very soft: we were always
knee-deep, and sometimes floundered in up to the waist, but a
simultaneous jerk before and behind always released one. By this time
we had arrived at the foot of the final peak. The left-hand ridge
seemed easier than that upon which we stood, so we curved round to get
to it. Some rocks peeped out one hundred and fifty feet below the
summit, and up these we crawled, leaving our porter behind, as he said
he was afraid. I could not resist the temptation, as we went off, to
turn round and beckon him onward, saying, “Don’t be afraid—follow me,”
but he did not answer to the appeal, and never went to the top. The
rocks led to a short ridge of ice—our plateau on one side, and a nearly
vertical precipice on the other. Macdonald cut up it, and at a quarter
to two we stood shaking hands on the loftiest summit of the conquered
Pelvoux!

[Illustration: MONT PELVOUX AND THE ALÉFROIDE, FROM NEAR MONT
DAUPHIN, IN THE VALLEY OF THE DURANCE.]

The day still continued everything that could be desired, and far and
near countless peaks burst into sight, without a cloud to hide them.
The mighty Mont Blanc, full seventy miles away, first caught our eyes,
and then, still farther off, the Monte Rosa group; while, rolling away
to the east, one unknown range after another succeeded in unveiled
splendor, fainter and fainter in tone, but still perfectly defined,
till at last the eye was unable to distinguish sky from mountain, and
they died away in the far-off horizon. Monte Viso rose up grandly, but
it was less than forty miles away, and we looked over it to a hazy mass
we knew must be the plains of Piedmont. Southward, a blue mist seemed
to indicate the existence of the distant Mediterranean: to the west we
looked over to the mountains of Auvergne. Such was the panorama, a view
extending in nearly every direction for more than a hundred miles. It
was with some difficulty we wrenched our eyes from the more distant
objects to contemplate the nearer ones. Mont Dauphin was very
conspicuous, but La Bessée was not readily perceived. Besides these,
not a human habitation could be seen: all was rock, snow or ice; and
large as we knew were the snow-fields of Dauphine, we were surprised to
find that they very far surpassed our most ardent imagination. Nearly
in a line between us and the Viso, immediately to the south of Chateau
Queyras, was a splendid group of mountains of great height. More to the
south an unknown peak seemed still higher, while close to us we were
astonished to discover that there was a mountain which appeared even
higher than that on which we stood. At least this was my opinion:
Macdonald thought it not so high, and Reynaud insisted that its height
was much about the same as our own.

This mountain was distant a couple of miles or so, and was separated
from us by a tremendous abyss, the bottom of which we could not see. On
the other side rose this mighty wall-sided peak, too steep for snow,
black as night, with sharp ridges and pointed summit. We were in
complete ignorance of its whereabouts, for none of us had been on the
other side: we imagined that La Bérarde was in the abyss at our feet,
but it was in reality beyond the other mountain.

We left the summit at last, and descended to the rocks and to our
porter, where I boiled some water, obtained by melting snow. After we
had fed and smoked our cigars (lighted without difficulty from a common
match), we found it was ten minutes past three, and high time to be
off. We dashed, waded and tumbled for twenty-five minutes through the
snow, and then began the long descent of the rocks. It was nearly four
o’clock, and as it would be dark at eight, it was evident that there
was no time to be lost, and we pushed on to the utmost. Nothing
remarkable occurred going down. We kept rather closer to the glacier,
and crossed at the same point as in the morning. Getting _off_ it was
like getting _on_ it—rather awkward. Old Sémiond had got over, so had
Reynaud: Macdonald came next, but as he made a long stretch to get on
to a higher mass, he slipped, and would have been in the bowels of a
crevasse in a moment had he not been tied.

It was nearly dark by the time we had crossed, but still I hoped that
we should be able to pass the night at our rock. Macdonald was not so
sanguine, and he was right; for at last we found ourselves quite at
fault, and wandered helplessly up and down for an hour, while Reynaud
and the porter indulged in a little mutual abuse. The dreary fact that,
as we could not get down, we must stay where we were, was now quite
apparent.

We were at least ten thousand five hundred feet high, and if it
commenced to rain or snow, as the gathering clouds and rising wind
seemed to threaten, we might be in a sore plight. We were hungry,
having eaten little since three A. M., and a torrent we heard close at
hand, but could not discover, aggravated our thirst. Sémiond endeavored
to get some water from it, but although he succeeded in doing so, he
was wholly unable to return, and we had to solace him by shouting at
intervals through the night.

A more detestable locality for a night out of doors it is difficult to
imagine. There was no shelter of any kind, it was perfectly exposed to
the chilly wind which began to rise, and it was too steep to promenade.
Loose, rubbly stones covered the ground, and had to be removed before
we could sit with any comfort. This was an advantage, although we
hardly thought so at the time, as it gave us some employment, and after
an hour’s active exercise of that interesting kind I obtained a small
strip, about nine feet long, on which it was possible to walk. Reynaud
was furious at first, and soundly abused the porter, whose opinion as
to the route down had been followed, rather than that of our friend,
and at last settled down to a deep dramatic despair, and wrung his
hands with frantic gesture, as he exclaimed, “Oh, malheur, malheur! Oh
misérables!”

Thunder commenced to growl and lightning to play among the peaks above,
and the wind, which had brought the temperature down to nearly
freezing-point, began to chill us to the bones. We examined our
resources. They were six and half cigars, two boxes of vesuvians,
one-third of a pint of brandy-and-water, and half a pint of spirits of
wine—rather scant fare for three fellows who had to get through seven
hours before daylight. The spirit-lamp was lighted, and the remaining
spirits of wine, the brandy and some snow were heated by it. It made a
strong liquor, but we only wished for more of it. When that was over,
Macdonald endeavored to dry his socks by the lamp, and then the three
lay down under my plaid to pretend to sleep. Reynaud’s woes were
aggravated by toothache: Macdonald somehow managed to close his eyes.

The longest night must end, and ours did at last. We got down to our
rock in an hour and a quarter, and found the lad not a little surprised
at our absence. He said he had made a gigantic fire to light us down,
and shouted with all his might: we neither saw the fire nor heard his
shouts. He said we looked a ghastly crew, and no wonder: it was our
fourth night out.

We feasted at our cave, and performed some very necessary ablutions.
The persons of the natives are infested by certain agile creatures,
whose rapidity of motion is only equaled by their numbers and voracity.
It is dangerous to approach too near them, and one has to study the
wind, so as to get on their weather side: in spite of all such
precautions my unfortunate companion and myself were now being rapidly
devoured alive. We only expected a temporary lull of our tortures, for
the interiors of the inns are like the exteriors of the natives,
swarming with this species of animated creation.

It is said that once, when these tormentors were filled with an
unanimous desire, an unsuspecting traveler was dragged bodily from his
bed! This needs confirmation. One word more, and I have done with this
vile subject. We returned from our ablutions, and found the Frenchmen
engaged in conversation. “Ah!” said old Sémiond, “as to fleas, I don’t
pretend to be different to any one else—_I have them._” This time he
certainly spoke the truth.

We got down to La Ville in good time, and luxuriated there for several
days: we played many games of bowls with the natives, and were
invariably beaten by them. At last it was necessary to part: I walked
southward to the Viso, and Macdonald went to Briançon.

After parting from my agreeable companions, I walked by the gorge of
the Guil to Abries, and made the acquaintance at that place of an
ex-harbormaster of Marseilles—a genial man, who spoke English well.
Besides the ex-harbormaster and some fine trout in the neighboring
streams, there was little to invite a stay at Abries. The
inn—L’Éitoile, chez Richard—is a place to be avoided. Richard, it may
be observed, possessed the instincts of a robber. At a later date, when
forced to seek shelter in his house, he desired to see my passport, and
catching sight of the words John Russell, he entered that name instead
of my own in a report to the gendarmerie, uttering an exclamation of
joyful surprise at the same time. I foolishly allowed the mistake to
pass, and had to pay dearly for it, for he made out a lordly bill,
against which all protest was unavailing.

I quitted the abominations of Abries to seek a quiet bundle of hay at
Le Chalp, a village some miles nearer to the Viso. On approaching the
place the odor of sanctity became distinctly perceptible; and on
turning a corner the cause was manifested: there was the priest of the
place, surrounded by some of his flock. I advanced humbly, hat in hand,
but almost before a word could be said, he broke out with, “Who are
you? What are you? What do you want?” I endeavored to explain.

“You are a deserter—I know you are a deserter: go away, you can’t stay
here: go to Le Monta, down there—I won’t have you here;” and he
literally drove me away. The explanation of his strange behavior was
that Piedmontese soldiers who were tired of the service had not
unfrequently crossed the Col de la Traversette into the valley, and
trouble had arisen from harboring them. However, I did not know this at
the time, and was not a little indignant that I, who was marching to
the attack, should be taken for a deserter.

So I walked away, and shortly afterward, as it was getting dark,
encamped in a lovely hole—a cavity or kind of basin in the earth, with
a stream on one side, a rock to windward and some broken pine branches
close at hand. Nothing could be more perfect—rock, hole, wood and
water. After making a roaring fire, I nestled in my blanket-bag (an
ordinary blanket sewn up, double round the legs, with a piece of
elastic ribbon round the open end) and slept, but not for long. I was
troubled with dreams of the Inquisition: the tortures were being
applied, priests were forcing fleas down my nostrils and into my eyes,
and with red-hot pincers were taking out bits of flesh, and then
cutting off my ears and tickling the soles of my feet. This was too
much: I yelled a great yell, and awoke to find myself covered with
innumerable crawling bodies: they were ants. I had camped by an
ant-hill, and, after making its inhabitants mad with the fire, had
coolly lain down in their midst.

The night was fine, and as I settled down in more comfortable quarters,
a brilliant meteor sailed across full 60° of the cloudless sky, leaving
a trail of light behind which lasted for several seconds. It was the
herald of a splendid spectacle. Stars fell by hundreds, and, not dimmed
by intervening vapors, they sparkled with greater brightness than
Sirius in our damp climate.

[Illustration: THE BLANKET BAG]

The next morning, after walking up the valley to examine the Viso, I
returned to Abries, and engaged a man from a neighboring hamlet for
whom the ex-harbormaster had sent—an inveterate smoker, and thirsty in
proportion, whose pipe never left his mouth except to allow him to
drink. We returned up the valley together, and slept in the hut of a
shepherd whose yearly wage was almost as small as that of the herdsman
spoken of in Hyperion by Longfellow; and the next morning, in his
company, proceeded to the summit of the pass which I had crossed in
1860; but we were baffled in our attempt to get near the mountain. A
deep notch with precipitous cliffs cut us off from it: the snow-slope,
too, which existed in the preceding year on the Piedmontese side of the
pass, was now wanting, and we were unable to descend the rocks which
lay beneath. A fortnight afterward the mountain was ascended for the
first time by Messrs. Mathews and Jacomb, with the two Crozes of
Chamounix. Their attempt was made from the southern side, and the
ascent, which was formerly considered a thing totally impossible, has
become one of the most common and favorite excursions of the district.

We returned crest-fallen to Abries. The shepherd, whose boots were very
much out of repair, slipped upon the steep snow-slopes and performed
wonderful but alarming gyrations, which took him to the bottom of the
valley more quickly than he could otherwise have descended. He was not
much hurt, and was made happy by a few needles and a little thread to
repair his abraded garments: the other man, however, considered it
willful waste to give him brandy to rub in his cuts, when it could be
disposed of in a more ordinary and pleasant manner.

The night of the 14th of August found me at St. Veran, a village made
famous by Neff, but in no other respect remarkable, saving that it is
supposed to be the highest in Europe. The Protestants _now_ form only a
miserable minority: in 1861 there were said to be one hundred and
twenty of them to seven hundred and eighty Roman Catholics. The poor
inn was kept by one of the former, and it gave the impression of great
poverty. There was no meat, no bread, no butter, no cheese: almost the
only things that could be obtained were eggs. The manners of the
natives were primitive: the woman of the inn, without the least sense
of impropriety, stayed in the room until I was fairly in bed, and her
bill for supper, bed and breakfast amounted to one-and-sevenpence.

In this neighborhood, and indeed all round about the Viso, the chamois
still remain in considerable numbers. They said at St. Veran that six
had been seen from the village on the day I was there, and the
innkeeper declared that he had seen fifty together in the previous
week! I myself saw in this and in the previous season several small
companies round about the Viso. It is perhaps as favorable a district
as any in the Alps for a sportsman who wishes to hunt the chamois, as
the ground over which they wander is by no means of excessive
difficulty.

[Illustration: NATURAL PILLAR NEAR MOLINES (WEATHER ACTION)]

The next day I descended the valley to Ville Vieille, and passed, near
the village of Molines, but on the opposite side of the valley, a
remarkable natural pillar, in form not unlike a champagne bottle, about
seventy feet high, which had been produced by the action of the
weather, and in all probability chiefly by rain. In this case a “block
of euphotide or diallage rock protects a friable limestone:” the
contrast of this dark cap with the white base, and the singularity of
the form, made it a striking object. These natural pillars are among
the most remarkable examples of the potent effects produced by the
long-continued action of quiet-working forces. They are found in
several other places in the Alps, as well as elsewhere.

The village of Ville Vieille boasts of an inn with the sign of the
Elephant, which, in the opinion of local amateurs, is a proof that
Hannibal passed through the gorge of the Guil. I remember the place
because its bread, being only a month old, was unusually soft, and for
the first time during ten days it was possible to eat some without
first of all chopping it into small pieces and soaking it in hot water,
which produced a slimy paste on the outside, but left a hard, untouched
kernel.

The same day I crossed the Col Isoard to Briançon. It was the 15th of
August, and all the world was _en fête;_ sounds of revelry proceeded
from the houses of Servières as I passed over the bridge upon which the
pyrrhic dance is annually performed, and natives in all degrees of
inebriation staggered about the paths. It was late before the lights of
the great fortress came into sight, but unchallenged I passed through
the gates, and once more sought shelter under the roof of the Hôtel de
l’Ours.

[Illustration: CROSSING MONT CENIS (1861)]




CHAPTER III.
THE MONT CENIS—THE FELL RAILWAY


Guide-books say that the pass of the Mont Cenis is dull. It is long,
certainly, but it has a fair proportion of picturesque points, and it
is not easy to see how it can be dull to those who have eyes. In the
days when it was a rude mountain track, crossed by trains of mules, and
when it was better known to smugglers than to tourists, it may have
been dull; but when Napoleon’s road changed the rough path into one of
the finest highways in Europe, mounting in grand curves and by uniform
grades, and rendered the trot possible throughout its entire distance,
the Mont Cenis became one of the most interesting passes in the Alps.
The diligence service which was established was excellent, and there
was little or nothing to be gained by traveling in a more expensive
manner. The horses were changed as rapidly as on the best lines in the
best period of coaching in England, and the diligences themselves were
as comfortable as a “milord” could desire. The most exciting portion of
the route was undoubtedly that between Lanslebourg and Susa. When the
zigzags began teams of mules were hooked on, and the driver and his
helpers marched by their side with long whips, which they handled
skillfully. Passengers dismounted and stretched their legs by cutting
the curves. The pace was slow but steady, and scarcely a halt was made
during the rise of two thousand feet. Crack! crack! went the whips as
the corners of the zigzags were turned. Great commotion among the
mules! They scrambled and went round with a rush, tossing their heads
and making music with their bells. The summit was gained, the mules
were detached and trotted back merrily, while we, with fresh horses,
were dragged at the gallop over the plain to the other side. The little
postilion seated on the leader smacked his whip lustily as he swept
round the corners cut through the rock, and threw his head back as the
echoes returned, expectant of smiles and of future centimes.

[Illustration]

The air was keen and often chilly, but the summit was soon passed, and
one quickly descended to warmth again. Once more there was a change.
The horses, reduced in number to three, or perhaps two, were the
sturdiest and most sure of foot, and they raced down with the precision
of old stagers. Woe to the diligence if they stumbled! So thought the
conductor, who screwed down the brakes as the corners were approached.
The horses, held well in hand, leant inward as the top-heavy vehicle,
so suddenly checked, heeled almost over; but in another moment the
brake was released, and again they swept down, urged onward by the
whip, “hoi” and “ha” of the driver.

All this is changed. The Victor Emmanuel railway superseded a
considerable portion of Napoleon’s road, and the “Fell” railway the
rest, while the great tunnel of the Alps will soon bring about another
change.

The Fell railway, which has been open about eighteen months, is a line
that well deserves attention. Thirty-eight years ago, Mr. Charles
Vignolles, the eminent engineer, and Mr. Ericsson, patented the idea
which is now an accomplished fact on the Mont Cenis. Nothing was done
with it until Mr. Fell, the projector of the railway which bears his
name, took it up, and to him much credit is due for bringing an
admirable principle into operation.

The Fell railway follows the great Cenis road very closely, and
diverges from it only to avoid villages or houses, or, as at the summit
of the pass on the Italian side, to ease the gradients. The line runs
from St. Michel to Susa. The distance between these two places is, as
the crow flies, almost exactly equivalent to the distance from London
to Chatham (30 miles), but by reason of the numerous curves and detours
the length of the line is nearly brought up to the distance of London
from Brighton (47 miles). From St. Michel to the summit of the pass it
rises 4460 feet, or 900 feet more than the highest point of Snowdon is
above the level of the sea; and from the summit of the pass to Susa, a
distance less than that from London to Kew, it descends no less than
5211 feet!

The railway itself is a marvel. For fifteen miles and three-quarters it
has steeper gradients than one in fifteen. In some places it is one in
twelve and a half! A straight piece of railway constructed on such a
gradient seems to go up a steep hill. One in eighty, or even one in a
hundred, produces a very sensible diminution in the pace of a light
train drawn by an ordinary locomotive: how, then, is a train to be
taken up an incline that is six times as steep? It is accomplished by
means of a third rail placed midway between the two ordinary ones, and
elevated above them.[2] The engines are provided with two pairs of
horizontal driving-wheels, as well as with the ordinary coupled
vertical ones, and the power of the machine is thus enormously
increased, the horizontal wheels gripping the centre rail with great
tenacity by being brought together, and being almost incapable of
slipping like the ordinary wheels when on even a moderate gradient.

 [2] This third rail, or, as it is termed, “the centre rail,” is laid
 on all the steep portions of the line, and round all except the
 mildest curves. Thirty miles, in all, of the road have the centre
 rail.

[Illustration: THE CENTRE RAIL ON A CURVE]

The third rail is the ordinary double-headed rail, and is laid
horizontally: it is bolted down to wrought-iron chairs three feet
apart, which are fixed by common coach-screws to a longitudinal sleeper
laid upon the usual transverse ones: the sleepers are attached to each
other by fang-bolts. The dimensions of the different parts will be seen
by reference to the annexed cross section:

[Illustration]

Let us now take a run on the railway, starting from St. Michel. For
some distance from that place the gradients are not of an extraordinary
character, and a good pace is maintained. The first severe piece is
about two miles up, where there is an incline of one in eighteen for
more than half a mile; that is to say, the line rises at one step one
hundred and sixty-four feet. From thence to Modane the gradients are
again moderate (for the Fell railway), and the distance—about ten miles
and a half from St. Michel—is accomplished without difficulty in an
hour. Modane station is 1128 feet above St. Michel, so that on this
_easy_ portion of the line there is an average rise of 110 feet per
mile, which is equal to a gradient of one in forty-eight—an inclination
sufficiently steep to bring an ordinary locomotive very nearly to a
halt.

Just after passing Modane station there is one of the steepest inclines
on the line, and it seems preposterous to suppose that any train could
ascend it. A stoppage of ten minutes is made at Modane, and on leaving
that station the train goes off at the hill with a rush. In a few yards
its pace is reduced, and it comes down and down to about four miles an
hour, which speed is usually maintained until the incline is passed,
without a diminution of the steam-pressure. I say usually, because, if
it should happen that there is not sufficient steam, or should the
driver happen to make a slip, the train would most likely come back to
Modane; for, although the brake-power on the train is much more than
sufficient to prevent it running back, the driver could hardly start
with the brakes on, and the train would inevitably run back if they
were off.

After this incline is passed, the line mounts by comparatively easy
gradients toward Fort Lesseillon: it is then at a great height above
the Arc, and as one winds round the faces of the cliff out of which the
Napoleon road was cut, looking down upon the foaming stream below,
without a suspicion of a parapet between the railway and the edge of
the precipice, one naturally thinks about what would happen if the
engine should leave the rails. The speed, however, that is kept up at
this part is very gentle, and there is probably much less risk of an
accident than there was in the days of diligences.

The next remarkable point on this line is at Termignon. The valley
turns somewhat abruptly to the east, and the course of the railway is
not at first perceived. It makes a great bend to the left, then doubles
back, and rises in a little more than a mile no less than three hundred
and thirty-four feet. This is, perhaps, the most striking piece of the
whole line.

Lanslebourg station, 25½ miles from, and 2220 feet above, St. Michel,
is arrived at in two hours and a quarter from the latter place. The
engines are now changed. Thus far we have been traversing the easy
portion of the route, but here the heavy section begins. From
Lanslebourg the line rises continuously to the summit of the Mont Cenis
pass, and accomplishes an ascent of 2240 feet in six miles and a third
of distance.

It is curious and interesting to watch the ascent of the trains from
Lanslebourg. The puffs of steam are seen rising above the trees,
sometimes going in one direction, and sometimes directly the contrary,
occasionally concealed by the covered ways—for over two miles out of
the six the line is enclosed by planked sides and a corrugated iron
roof, to keep out the snow—and then coming out again into daylight. A
halt for water has to be made about halfway up; but the engines are
able to start again, and to resume their rate of seven miles an hour,
although the gradient is no less than one in fourteen and a half.

The zigzags of the old Cenis road are well known as one of the most
remarkable pieces of road-engineering in the Alps. The railway follows
them, and runs parallel to the road on the outside throughout its
entire distance, with the exception of the turns at the corners, where
it is carried a little farther out, to render the curves less sharp.
Nevertheless, they are sufficiently sharp (135 feet radius), and would
be impracticable without the centre rail.

The run across the top of the pass, from the Summit station to the
Grande Croix station—a distance of about five miles—is soon
accomplished, and then the tremendous descent to Susa is commenced.
This, as seen from the engine, is little less than terrific. A large
part of this section is covered in, and the curves succeed one another
in a manner unknown on any other line. From the outside the line looks
more like a monstrous serpent than a railway. Inside, one can see but a
few yards ahead, the curves are so sharp, and the rails are nearly
invisible. The engine vibrates, oscillates and bounds: it is a matter
of difficulty to hold on. Then, on emerging into the open air, one
looks down some three or four thousand feet of precipice and steep
mountain-side. The next moment the engine turns suddenly to the left,
and driver and stoker have to grip firmly to avoid being left behind;
the next, it turns as suddenly to the right; the next, there is an
accession or diminution of speed from a change in the gradient. An
ordinary engine, moving at fifty miles an hour, with a train behind it,
is not usually very steady, but its motion is a trifle compared with
that of a Fell engine when running down hill.

[Illustration: THE COVERED WAYS ON THE “FELL” RAILWAY (ITALIAN SIDE OF
THE MONT CENIS)]

It may be supposed from this that traveling over the Fell railway is
disagreeable rather than pleasant. It is not so: the train is steady
enough, and the carriages have remarkably little motion. Outside, they
resemble the cars on the Swiss and American lines: they are entered at
the end, and the seats are arranged omnibus-fashion, down the length of
the carriage. Each carriage has a guard and two brakes—an ordinary one
and a centre-rail brake: the handles of these come close together at
the platform on one end, and are easily worked by one man. The
steadiness of the train is chiefly due to these centre-rail brakes. The
flat face A and the corresppnding one on the opposite side are brought
together against the two sides of the centre rail by the shaft B being
turned, and they hold it as in a vice. This greatly diminishes the
up-and-down motion, and renders oscillation almost impossible. The
steadiness of the train is still further maintained by pairs of flanged
guide-wheels under each of the carriages, which, on a straight piece of
line, barely touch the centre rail, but press upon it directly there is
the least deviation toward either side.[3] There is no occasion to use
the other brakes when the centre-rail brakes are on: the wheels of the
carriages are not stopped, but revolve freely, and consequently do not
suffer the deterioration which would otherwise result.

 [3] The carriages are not coupled in the ordinary way, and although
 there are no buffers, properly speaking, and in spite the speed of the
 train being changed incessantly, there is a freedom from the jarring
 which is so common on other lines. The reason is simply that the
 carriages are coupled up tightly.

[Illustration: THE MONT CENIS ROAD AND THE FELL RAILWAY NEAR THE SUMMIT
OF THE PASS, ON THE ITALIAN SIDE.]

The steam is shut off and the brakes are applied a very few minutes
after beginning the descent to Susa. The train might then run down for
the entire distance by its own weight. In practice, it is difficult to
apply the proper amount of retardation: the brakes have frequently to
be whistled off, and sometimes it is necessary to steam down against
them. Theoretically, this ought not of course to occur: it only happens
occasionally, and ordinarily the train goes down with the steam shut
off, and with the centre-rail brakes screwed up moderately. When an
average train—that is, two or three carriages and a luggage-van—is
running down at the maximum speed allowed (fifteen miles an hour), the
brakes can pull it up dead within seventy yards. The pace is properly
kept down to a low point in descending, and doing so, combined with the
knowledge that the brake-power can easily lessen it, will tend to make
the public look favorably on what might otherwise be considered a
dangerous innovation. The engines also are provided with the
centre-rail brake, on a pattern somewhat different from those on the
carriages, and the flat sides which press against the rails are renewed
_every journey._ It is highly desirable that they should be, for a
single run from Lanslebourg to Susa grinds a groove into them about
three-eighths of an inch in depth.

[Illustration: CENTRE RAIL BRAKE]

Driving the trains over the summit section requires the most constant
attention and no small amount of nerve, and the drivers, who are all
English, have well earned their money at the end of their run. Their
opinion of the line was concisely and forcibly expressed to me by one
of them in last August: “Yes, mister, they told us as how the line was
very steep, but they didn’t say that the engine would be on one curve,
when the fourgon was on another, and the carriages was on a third. Them
gradients, too, mister, they says they are one in twelve, but I think
they are one in _ten, at the least_, and they didn’t say as how we was
to come down them in that snakewise fashion. It’s worse than the G. I.
P.[4], mister: there a fellow could jump off, but here, in them covered
ways, there ain’t no place to jump to.”

 [4] The Great Indian Peninsula Railway, the line with the celebrated
 Bhore Ghaut incline, sixteen miles long, on an average gradient of one
 in forty-eight, which is said to have cost £800,000, or about double
 the entire cost of the Mount Cenis Railway, and six times its cost
 mile for mile. The Fell Railway cost £8000 per mile.

[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM NEAR THE SUMMIT OF THE THEODULE
PASS.]




CHAPTER IV.
MY FIRST SCRAMBLE ON THE MATTERHORN.


What power must have been required to shatter and to sweep away the
missing parts of this pyramid; for we do not see it surrounded by heaps
of fragments: one only sees other peaks—themselves rooted to the
ground—whose sides, equally rent, indicate an immense mass of débris,
of which we do not see any trace in the neighborhood. Doubtless this is
that débris which, in the form of pebbles, boulders and sand, fills our
valleys and our plains,—de Saussure.

Two summits amongst those in the Alps which yet remained virgin had
excited my admiration. One of these had been attacked numberless times
by the best mountaineers without success: the ether, surrounded by
traditional inaccessibility, was almost untouched. These mountains were
the Weisshorn and the Matterhorn.

After visiting the great tunnel of the Alps in 1861, I wandered for ten
days in the neighboring valleys, intending presently to attempt the
ascent of these two peaks. Rumors were floating about that the former
had been conquered, and that the latter was shortly to be attacked, and
they were confirmed on my arrival at Chatillon, at the entrance of the
Val Tournanche. My interest in the Weisshorn abated, but it was raised
to the highest pitch on hearing that Professor Tyndall was at Breuil,
and intending to try to crown his first victory by another and a still
greater one.

Up to this time my experience with guides had not been fortunate, and I
was inclined, improperly, to rate them at a low value. They represented
to me pointers-out of paths and great consumers of meat and drink, but
little more; and, with the recollection of Mont Pelvoux, I should have
greatly preferred the company of a couple of my countrymen to any
number of guides. In answer to inquiries at Chatillon, a series of men
came forward whose faces expressed malice, pride, envy, hatred and
roguery of every description, but who seemed to be destitute of all
good qualities. The arrival of two gentlemen with a guide, who they
represented was the embodiment of every virtue and exactly the man for
the Matterhorn, rendered it unnecessary to engage any of the others. My
new guide in _physique_ was a combination of Chang and Anak; and
although in acquiring him I did not obtain exactly what was wanted, his
late employers did exactly what _they_ wanted, for I obtained the
responsibility, without knowledge, of paying his back fare, which must
have been a relief at once to their minds and to their purses.

When walking up toward Breuil, we inquired for another man of all the
knowing ones, and they, with one voice, proclaimed that Jean-Antoine
Carrel, of the village of Val Tournanche, was the cock of his valley.
We sought, of course, for Carrel, and found him a well-made,
resolute-looking fellow, with a certain defiant air which was rather
taking. Yes, he would go. Twenty francs a day, whatever was the result,
was his price. I assented. But I must take his comrade. “Why so?” Oh,
it was absolutely impossible to get along without another man. As he
said this an evil countenance came forth out of the darkness and
proclaimed itself the comrade. I demurred, the negotiations broke off,
and we went up to Breuil. This place will be frequently mentioned in
subsequent chapters, and was in full view of the extraordinary peak the
ascent of which we were about to attempt.

It is unnecessary to enter into a minute description of the Matterhorn
after all that has been written about that famous mountain. My readers
will know that that peak is nearly fifteen thousand feet high, and that
it rises abruptly, by a series of cliffs which may properly be termed
precipices, a clear five thousand feet above the glaciers which
surround its base. They will know, too, that it was the last great
Alpine peak which remained unsealed—less on account of the difficulty
of doing so than from the terror inspired by its invincible appearance.
There seemed to be a _cordon_ drawn around it, up to which one might
go, but no farther. Within that invisible line jins and affreets were
supposed to exist—the Wandering Jew and the spirits of the damned. The
superstitious natives in the surrounding valleys (many of whom still
firmly believe it to be not only the highest mountain in the Alps, but
in the world) spoke of a ruined city on its summit wherein the spirits
dwelt; and if you laughed they gravely shook their heads, told you to
look yourself to see the castles and the walls, and warned one against
a rash approach, lest the infuriate demons from their impregnable
heights might hurl down vengeance for one’s derision. Such were the
traditions of the natives. Stronger minds felt the influence of the
wonderful form, and men who ordinarily spoke or wrote like rational
beings, when they came under its power seemed to quit their senses and
ranted and rhapsodized, losing for a time all common forms of speech.
Even the sober De Saussure was moved to enthusiasm when he saw the
mountain, and, inspired by the spectacle, he anticipated the
speculations of modern geologists in the striking sentences which are
placed at the head of this chapter.

The Matterhorn looks equally imposing from whatever side it is seen: it
never seems commonplace, and in this respect, and in regard to the
impression it makes upon spectators, it stands almost alone amongst
mountains. It has no rivals in the Alps, and but few in the world.

The seven or eight thousand feet which compose the actual peak have
several well-marked ridges and numerous others. The most continuous is
that which leads toward the north-east: the summit is at its higher,
and the little peak called the Hörnli is at its lower, end. Another one
that is well pronounced descends from the summit to the ridge called
the Furgen Grat. The slope of the mountain that is between these two
ridges will be referred to as the eastern face. A third, somewhat less
continuous than the others, descends in a south-westerly direction, and
the portion of the mountain that is seen from Breuil is confined to
that which is comprised between this and the second ridge. This section
is not composed, like that between the first and second ridge, of one
grand face, but it is broken up into a series of huge precipices,
spotted with snow-slopes and streaked with snow-gullies. The other half
of the mountain, facing the Z’Mutt glacier, is not capable of equally
simple definition. There are precipices apparent but not actual; there
are precipices absolutely perpendicular; there are precipices
overhanging; there are glaciers and there are hanging glaciers; there
are glaciers which tumble great _séracs_ over greater cliffs, whose
débris, subsequently consolidated, becomes glacier again; there are
ridges split by the frost, and washed by the rain and melted snow into
towers and spires; while everywhere there are ceaseless sounds of
action, telling that the causes are still in operation which have been
at work since the world began, reducing the mighty mass to atoms and
effecting its degradation.

[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE NORTH-EAST]

Most tourists obtain their first view of the mountain either from the
valley of Zermatt or from that of Tournanche. From the former direction
the base of the mountain is seen at its narrowest, and its ridges and
faces seem to be of prodigious steepness. The tourist toils up the
valley, looking frequently for the great sight which is to reward his
pains, without seeing it (for the mountain is first perceived in that
direction about a mile to the north of Zermatt), when all at once, as
he turns a rocky corner of the path, it comes into view, not, however,
where it is expected: the face has to be raised up to look at it—it
seems overhead. Although this is the impression, the fact is that the
summit of the Matterhorn from this point makes an angle with the eye of
less than 16°, while the Dom, from the same place, makes a larger
angle, but is passed by unobserved. So little can dependence be placed
on unaided vision. The view of the mountain from Breuil, in the Val
Tournanche, is not less striking than that on the other side, but
usually it makes less impression, because the spectator grows
accustomed to the sight while coming up or down the valley. From this
direction the mountain is seen to be broken up into a series of
pyramidal, wedge-shaped masses: on the other side it is remarkable for
the large, unbroken extent of cliffs that it presents, and for the
simplicity of its outline. It was natural to suppose that a way would
more readily be found to the summit on a side thus broken up than in
any other direction. The eastern face, fronting Zermatt, seemed one
smooth, impossible cliff from summit to base: the ghastly precipices
which face the Z’Mutt glacier forbade any attempt in that direction.
There remained only the side of Val Tournanche, and it will be found
that nearly all the earliest attempts to ascend the mountain were made
on that side.

The first efforts to ascend the Matterhorn of which I have heard were
made by the guides—or rather by the chasseurs—of Val Tournanche. These
attempts were made in the years 1858-’59, from the direction of Breuil,
and the highest point that was attained was about as far as the place
which is now called the “Chimney” (cheminée), a height of about twelve
thousand six hundred and fifty feet. Those who were concerned in these
expeditions were Jean-Antoine Carrel, Jean Jacques Carrel, Victor
Carrel, the Abbe Gorret and Gabrielle Maquignaz. I have been unable to
obtain any further details about them.

The next attempt was a remarkable one; and of it, too, there is no
published account. It was made by Messrs. Alfred, Charles and Sandbach
Parker, of Liverpool, in July, 1860. These gentlemen, _without guides_,
endeavoured to storm the citadel by attacking the eastern face, that to
which reference was just now made as a smooth, impracticable cliff. Mr.
Sandbach Parker informs me that he and his brothers went along the
ridge between the Hörnli and the peak until they came to the point
where the ascending angle is considerably increased. This place is
marked on Dufour’s map of Switzerland 3298 metres (10,820 feet). They
were then obliged to bear a little to the left to get on to the face of
the mountain, and afterward they turned to the right and ascended about
seven hundred feet farther, keeping as nearly as was practicable to the
crest of the ridge, but occasionally bearing a little to the left; that
is, more on to the face of the mountain. The brothers started from
Zermatt, and did not sleep out. Clouds, a high wind and want of time
were the causes which prevented these daring gentlemen from going
farther. Thus their highest point was under twelve thousand feet.

The third attempt upon the mountain was made toward the end of August,
1860, by Mr. Vaughan Hawkins, from the side of the Val Tournanche. A
vivid account of his expedition has been published by him in _Vacation
Tourists;_ and it has been referred to several times by Professor
Tyndall in the numerous papers he has contributed to Alpine literature.
I will dismiss it, therefore, as briefly as possible.

Mr. Hawkins had inspected the mountain in 1859 with the guide J. J.
Bennen, and he had formed the opinion that the south-west ridge would
lead to the summit. He engaged J. Jacques Carrel, who was concerned in
the first attempts, and, accompanied by Bennen (and by Professor
Tyndall, whom he had invited to take part in the expedition), he
started for the gap between the little and the great peak.

Bennen was a guide who was beginning to be talked about. During the
chief part of his brief career he was in the service of Wellig, the
landlord of the inn on the Æggischhorn, and was hired out by him to
tourists. Although his experience was limited, he had acquired a good
reputation; and his book of certificates, which is lying before me,
shows that he was highly esteemed by his employers. A good-looking man,
with courteous, gentlemanly manners, skillful and bold, he might by
this time have taken a front place amongst guides if he had only been
endowed with more prudence. He perished miserably in the spring of 1864
not far from his home, on a mountain called the Haut de Cry, in the
Valais.

[Illustration: J. J. BENNEN (1862)]

Mr. Hawkins’ party, led by Bennen, climbed the rocks abutting against
the Couloir du Lion on its south side, and attained the Col du Lion,
although not without difficulty. They then followed the south-west
ridge, passed the place at which the earliest explorers had turned back
(the Chimney), and ascended about three hundred feet more. Mr. Hawkins
and J. J. Carrel then stopped, but Bennen and Professor Tyndall mounted
a few feet higher. They retreated, however, in less than half an hour,
finding that there was too little time, and, descending to the col by
the same route as they had followed on the ascent, proceeded thence to
Breuil—down the couloir instead of by the rocks. The point at which Mr.
Hawkins stopped is easily identified from his description. Its height
is 12,992 feet above the sea. I think that Bennen and Tyndall could not
have ascended more than fifty or sixty feet beyond this in the few
minutes they were absent from the others, as they were upon one of the
most difficult parts of the mountain. This party therefore accomplished
an advance of about three hundred and fifty or four hundred feet.

Mr. Hawkins did not, as far as I know, make another attempt; and the
next was made by the Messrs. Parker in July, 1861. They again started
from Zermatt, followed the route they had struck out on the previous
year, and got a little higher than before; but they were defeated by
want of time, left Zermatt shortly afterward on account of bad weather,
and did not again renew their attempts. Mr. Parker says: “In neither
case did we go as high as we could. At the point where we turned we saw
our way for a few hundred feet farther, but beyond that the
difficulties seemed to increase.” I am informed that both attempts
should be considered as excursions undertaken with the view of
ascertaining whether there was any encouragement to make a more
deliberate attack on the north-east side.

My guide and I arrived at Breuil on he 28th of August, 1861, and we
found that Professor Tyndall _had_ been there a day or two before, but
had done nothng. I had seen the mountain from nearly every direction,
and it seemed, even to a novice like myself, far too much for a single
day. I intended to sleep out upon it as high as possible, and to
attempt to reach the summit on the following day. We endeavored to
induce another man to accompany us, but without success. Matthias zum
Taugwald and other well-known guides were there at the time, but they
declined to go on any account. A sturdy old fellow—Peter Taugwalder by
name—said he would go. His price? “Two hundred francs.” “What! whether
we ascend or not?” “Yes—nothing less.” The end of the matter was, that
all the men who were more or less capable showed a strong
disinclination or positively refused to go (their disinclination being
very much in proportion to their capacity), or else asked a prohibitive
price. This, it may be said once for all, was the reason why so many
futile attempts were made upon the Matterhorn. One first-rate guide
after another was brought up to the mountain and patted on the back,
but all declined the business. The men who went had no heart in the
matter, and took the first opportunity to turn back,[5] for they were,
with the exception of one man—to whom reference will be made
presently—universally impressed with the belief that the summit was
entirely inaccessible.

 [5] The guide Bennen must be excepted.

We resolved to go alone, but, anticipating a cold bivouac, begged the
loan of a couple of blankets from the innkeeper. He refused them,
giving the curious reason that we had bought a bottle of brandy at Val
Tournanche, and had not bought any from him! No brandy, no blankets,
appeared to be his rule. We did not require them that night, as it was
passed in the highest cow-shed in the valley, which is about an hour
nearer to the mountain than is the hotel. The cowherds, worthy fellows
seldom troubled by tourists, hailed our company with delight, and did
their best to make us comfortable, brought out their little stores of
simple food, and, as we sat with them round the great copper pot which
hung over the fire, bade us in husky voice, but with honest intent, to
beware of the perils of the haunted cliffs. When night was coming on we
saw stealing up the hillside the forms of Jean-Antoine Carrel and the
comrade. “Oh ho!” I said, “you have repented?” “Not at all: you deceive
yourself.” “Why, then, have you come here?” “Because we ourselves are
going on the mountain tornorrow.” “Oh, then it is _not_ necessary to
have more than three?” “Not for _us._” I admired their pluck, and had a
strong inclination to engage the pair, but final ly decided against it.
The comrade turned out to be the J. J. Carrel who had been with Mr.
Hawkins, and was nearly related to the other man.

[Illustration: JEAN-ANTOINE CARREL (1869)]

Both were bold mountaineers, but Jean-Antoine was incomparably the
better man of the two, and he is the finest rock-climber I have ever
seen. He was the only man who persistently refused to accept defeat,
and who continued to believe, in spite of all discouragements, that the
great mountain was not inaccessible, and that it could be ascended from
the side of his native valley.

The night wore away without any excitement, except from the fleas, a
party of whom executed a spirited fandango on my cheek to the sound of
music produced on the drum of my ear by one of their fellows beating
with a wisp of hay. The two Carrels crept noiselessly out before
daybreak, and went off. We did not leave until nearly seven o’clock,
and followed them leisurely, leaving all our properties in the
cow-shed, sauntered over the gentian-studded slopes which intervene
between the shed and the Glacier du Lion, left cows and their pastures
behind, traversed the stony wastes and arrived at the ice. Old, hard
beds of snow lay on its right bank (our left hand), and we mounted over
them on to the lower portion of the glacier with ease. But as we
ascended crevasses became numerous, and we were at last brought to a
halt by some which were of very large dimensions; and as our cutting
powers were limited, we sought an easier route, and turned naturally to
the lower rocks of the Tête du Lion, which overlook the glacier on its
west. Some good scrambling took us in a short time on to the crest of
the ridge which descends toward the south; and thence up to the level
of the Col du Lion there was a long natural staircase, on which it was
seldom necessary to use the hands. We dubbed the place “The Great
Staircase.” Then the cliffs of the Tête du Lion, which rise above the
couloir, had to be skirted. This part varies considerably in different
seasons, and in 1861 we found it difficult, for the fine steady weather
of that year had reduced the snow-beds abutting against it to a lower
level than usual, and the rocks which were left exposed at the junction
of the snow with the cliffs had few ledges or cracks to which we could
hold. But by half-past ten o’clock we stood on the col, and looked down
upon the magnificent basin out of which the Z’Mutt glacier flows. We
decided to pass the night upon the col, for we were charmed with the
capabilities of the place, although it was one where liberties could
not be taken. On one side a sheer-wall overhung the Tiefenmatten
glacier—on the other, steep, glassy slopes of hard snow descended to
the Glacier du Lion, furrowed by water and by falling stones: on the
north there was the great peak of the Matterhorn,[6] and on the south
the cliffs of the Tête du Lion. Throw a bottle down to the
Tiefenmatten—no sound returns for more than a dozen seconds.

 [6] The engraving is made after a sketch taken from the rocks of the
 Matterhorn, just above the Col.

How fearful
And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low!

[Illustration: THE COL DU LION, LOOKING TOWARD THE TÊTE DU LION]

But no harm could come from that side—neither could it from the other.
Nor was it likely that it would from the Tête du Lion, for some jutting
ledges conveniently overhung our proposed resting-place. We waited for
a while, basked in the sunshine, and watched or listened to the
Carrels, who were sometimes seen or heard high above us upon the ridge
leading toward the summit; and, leaving at mid-day, we descended to the
cow-shed, packed up the tent and other properties, and returned to the
col, although heavily laden, before six o’clock. This tent was
constructed on a pattern suggested by Mr. Francis Galton, and it was
not a success. It looked very pretty when set up in London, but it
proved thoroughly useless in the Alps. It was made of light canvas, and
opened like a book: one end was closed permanently and the other with
flaps: it was supported by two alpenstocks, and had the canvas sides
prolonged so as to turn in underneath. Numerous cords were sewn to the
lower edges, to which stones were to be attached, but the main
fastenings were by a cord which passed underneath the ridge and through
iron rings screwed into the tops of the alpenstocks, and were secured
by pegs. The wind, which playfully careered about the surrounding
cliffs, was driven through our gap with the force of a blow-pipe: the
flaps of the tent would not keep down, the pegs would not stay in, and
it exhibited so marked a desire to go to the top of the Dent Blanche
that we thought it prudent to take it down and to sit upon it. When
night came on we wrapped ourselves in it, and made our camp as
comfortable as the circumstances would allow. The silence was
impressive. No living thing was near our solitary bivouac; the Carrels
had turned back and were out of hearing; the stones had ceased to fall
and the trickling water to murmur—

“The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship,
And in our lonely life had grown
To have an almost human tone.”[7]

 [7] J. G. Whittier.

It was bitterly cold. Water froze hard in a bottle under my head. Not
surprising, as we were actually on snow, and in a position where the
slightest wind was at once felt. For a time we dozed, but about
midnight there came from high aloft a tremendous explosion, followed by
a second of dead quiet. A great mass of rock had split off and was
descending toward us. My guide started up, wrung his hands and
exclaimed, “O my God, we are lost!” We heard it coming, mass after mass
pouring over the precipices, bounding and rebounding from cliff to
cliff, and the great rocks in advance smiting one another. They seemed
to be close, although they were probably distant, but some small
fragments, which dropped upon us at the same time from the ledges just
above, added to the alarm, and my demoralized companion passed the
remainder of the night in a state of shudder, ejaculating “Terrible!”
and other adjectives.

We put ourselves in motion at daybreak, and commenced the ascent of the
south-west ridge. There was no more sauntering with hands in the
pockets—each step had to be earned by downright climbing. But it was
the most pleasant kind of climbing. The rocks were fast and
unencumbered with débris, the cracks were good, although not numerous,
and there was nothing to fear except from one’s self. So we thought, at
least, and shouted to awake echoes from the cliffs. Ah! there is no
response. Not yet: wait a while—everything here is upon a superlative
scale: count a dozen and then the echoes will return from the walls of
the Dent d’Hérens, miles away, in waves of pure and undefiled sound,
soft, musical and sweet. Halt a moment to regard the view! We overlook
the Tête du Lion, and nothing except the Dent d’Hérens, whose summit is
still a thousand feet above us, stands in the way: the ranges of the
Graian Alps, an ocean of mountains, are seen at a glance, governed by
their three great peaks, the Grivola, Grand Paradis and Tour de St.
Pierre. How soft, and yet how sharp, they look in the early morning!
The mid-day mists have not begun to rise—nothing is obscured: even the
pointed Viso, all but a hundred miles away, is perfectly defined.

Turn to the east and watch the sun’s slanting rays coming across the
Monte Rosa snow-fields. Look at the shadowed parts and see how even
they, radiant with reflected light, are more brilliant than man knows
how to depict. See how, even there, the gentle undulations give shadows
within shadows, and how, yet again, where falling stones or ice have
left a track, there are shadows upon shadows, each with a light and a
dark side, with infinite gradations of matchless tenderness. Then note
the sunlight as it steals noiselessly along and reveals countless
unsuspected forms—the delicate ripple-lines which mark the concealed
crevasse, and the waves of drifted snow, producing each minute more
lights and fresh shadows, sparkling on the edges and glittering on the
ends of the icicles, shining on the heights and illuminating the
depths, until all is aglow and the dazzled eye returns for relief to
the sombre crags.

Hardly an hour had passed since we left the col before we arrived at
the “Chimney.” It proved to be the counterpart of the place to which
reference has been before made: a smooth, straight slab of rock was
fixed at a considerable angle between two others equally smooth. My
companion essayed to go up, and after crumpling his long body into many
ridiculous positions, he said that he would not, for he could not do
it. With some little trouble I got up it unassisted, and then my guide
tied himself on to the end of our rope, and I endeavored to pull him
up. But he was so awkward that he did little for himself, and so heavy
that he proved too much for me, and after several attempts he untied
himself and quietly observed that he should go down. I told him he was
a coward, and _he_ mentioned his opinion of me. I requested him to go
to Breuil, and to say that he had left his “monsieur” on the mountain,
and he turned to go, whereupon I had to eat humble pie and ask him to
come back; for although it was not very difficult to go up, and not at
all dangerous with a man standing below, it was quite another thing to
come down, as the lower edge overhung in a provoking manner. The day
was perfect, the sun was pouring down grateful warmth, the wind had
fallen, the way seemed clear, no insuperable obstacle was in sight; but
what could one do alone? I stood on the top, chafing under this
unexpected contretemps, and remained for some time irresolute; but as
it became apparent that the Chimney was swept more frequently than was
necessary (it was a natural channel for falling stones), I turned at
last, descended with the assistance of my companion, and returned with
him to Breuil, where we arrived about mid-day.

The Carrels did not show themselves, but we were told that they had not
got to any great height,[8] and that the “comrade,” who for convenience
had taken off his shoes and tied them round his waist, had managed to
let one of them slip, and had come down with a piece of cord fastened
round his naked foot. Notwithstanding this, they had boldly glissaded
down the Couloir du Lion, J. J. Carrel having his shoeless foot tied up
in a pocket handkerchief.

 [8] I learned afterwards from Jean-Antoine Carrel that they got
 considerably higher than upon their previous attempts, and about 250
 or 300 feet higher than Professore Tyndall in 1860. In 1862 I saw the
 initials of J. A. Carrel cut on the rocks at the place where he and
 his comrade had turned back.

The Matterhorn was not assailed again in 1861. I left Breuil with the
conviction that it was little use for a single tourist to organize an
attack upon it, so great was its influence on the morals of the guides,
and persuaded that it was desirable at least two should go, to back
each other when required; and departed with my guide over the Col
Théodule, longing more than before to make the ascent, and determined
to return—if possible with a companion—to lay siege to the mountain
until one or the other was vanquished.




CHAPTER V.
RENEWED ATTEMPTS TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.


The year 1862 was still young, and the Matterhorn, clad in its wintry
garb, bore but little resemblance to the Matterhorn of the summer, when
a new force came to do battle with the mountain from another direction.
Mr. T. S. Kennedy of Leeds conceived the extraordinary idea that the
peak might prove less impracticable in January than in June, and
arrived at Zermatt in the former month to put his conception to the
test. With stout Peter Perm and sturdy Peter Taugwalder he slept in the
little chapel at the Schwarzensee, and on the next morning, like the
Messrs. Parker, followed the ridge between the peak called Hörnli and
the great mountain. But they found that snow in winter obeyed the
ordinary laws, and that the wind and frost were not less unkind than in
summer. “The wind whirled up the snow and spiculæ of ice into our faces
like needles, and flat pieces of ice a foot in diameter, carried up
from the glacier below, went flying past. Still no one seemed to like
to be the first to give in, till a gust fiercer than usual forced us to
shelter for a time behind a rock. Immediately it was tacitly understood
that our expedition must now end. but we determined to leave some
memento of our visit, and, after descending a considerable distance, we
found a suitable place with loose stones of which to build a cairn. In
half an hour a tower six feet high was erected, a bottle, with the
date, was placed inside, and we retreated as rapidly as possible.” This
cairn was placed at the spot marked upon Dufour’s Map of Switzerland
10,820 feet (3298 metres), and the highest point attained by Mr.
Kennedy was not, I imagine, more than two or three hundred feet above
it.

Shortly after this, Professor Tyndall gave, in his little
tract—_Mountaineering_ in 1861—an account of the reason why he had left
Breuil in August, 1861, without doing anything. It seems that he sent
his guide Bennen to reconnoitre, and that the latter made the following
report to his employer: “Herr, I have examined the mountain carefully,
and find it more difficult and dangerous than I had imagined. There is
no place upon it where we could well pass the night. We might do so on
yonder col upon the snow, but there we should be almost frozen to
death, and totally unfit for the work of the next day. On the rocks
there is no ledge or cranny which could give us proper harborage; and
starting from Breuil, it is certainly impossible to reach the summit in
a single day.” “I was entirely taken aback,” says Tyndall, “by this
report. I felt like a man whose grip had given way, and who was
dropping through the air…” Bennen was evidently dead against any
attempt upon the mountain. “We can, at all events, reach the lower of
the two summits,” I remarked. “Even that is difficult,” he replied;
“but when you have reached it, what then? The peak has neither name nor
fame.”[9]

 [9] _Mountaineering in_ 1861, pp. 86-7. Tyndall and Bennen were
 mistaken in supposing that the mountain has two summits; it has only
 one. They seem to have been deceived by the appearance of that part of
 the south-west ridge which is called “the shoulder” (l’épaule), as
 seen from Breil. Viewed from that place, its southern end has
 certainly, through foreshortening, the semblance of a peak; but when
 one regards it from the Col Theodule, or from any place in the same
 direction, the delusion is at once apparent.

I was more surprised than discouraged by this report by Bennen.
One-half of his assertions I knew to be wrong. The col to which he
referred was the Col du Lion, upon which he had passed a night less
than a week after he had spoken so authoritatively; and I had seen a
place not far below the “Chimney”—a place about five hundred feet above
the col—where it seemed possible to construct a sleeping-place.
Bennen’s opinions seem to have undergone a complete change. In 1860 he
is described as having been enthusiastic to make an attempt—in 1861 he
was dead against one. Nothing dismayed by this, my friend Mr. Reginald
Macdonald, our companion on the Pelvoux—to whom so much of our success
had been due—agreed to join me in a renewed assault from the south; and
although we failed to secure Melchior Anderegg and some other notable
guides, we obtained two men of repute—namely, Johann zum Taugwald and
Johann Kronig of Zermatt. We met at that place early in July, but
stormy weather prevented us even from crossing to the other side of the
chain for some time. We crossed the Col Théodule on the 5th, but the
weather was thoroughly unsettled: it was raining in the valleys and
snowing upon the mountains. Shortly before we gained the summit we were
made extremely uncomfortable by hearing mysterious rushing sounds,
which sometimes seemed as if a sudden gust of wind was sweeping along
the snow, and at others almost like the swishing of a long whip; yet
the snow exhibited no signs of motion and the air was perfectly calm.
The dense, black storm-clouds made us momentarily expect that our
bodies might be used as lightning-conductors, and we were well
satisfied to get under shelter of the inn at Breuil without having
submitted to any such experience.

We had need of a porter, and by the advice of our landlord descended to
the châlets of Breuil in search of one Luc Meynet. We found his house,
a mean abode, encumbered with cheese-making apparatus, and tenanted
only by some bright-eyed children; but as they said that Uncle Luc
would soon be home, we waited at the door of the little châlet and
watched for him. At last a speck was seen coming round the corner of
the patch of pines below Breuil, and then the children clapped their
hands, dropped their toys and ran eagerly forward to meet him. We saw
an ungainly, wobbling figure stoop down and catch up the little ones,
kiss them on each cheek, and put them into the empty panniers on each
side of the mule, and then heard it come on caroling, as if this was
not a world of woe; and yet the face of little Luc Meynet, the
hunchback of Breuil, bore traces of trouble and sorrow, and there was
more than a touch of sadness in his voice when he said that he must
look after his brother’s children. All his difficulties were, however,
at length overcome, and he agreed to join us to carry the tent.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: ALPINE TENT]

In the past winter I had turned my attention to tents, and that which
we had brought with us was the result of experiments to devise one
which should be sufficiently portable to be taken over the most
difficult ground, and which should combine lightness with stability.
Its base was just under six feet square, and a section perpendicular to
its length was an equilateral triangle, the sides of which were six
feet long. It was intended to accommodate four persons. It was
supported by four ash poles six feet and a half long and one inch and a
quarter thick, tapering to the top to an inch and an eighth: these were
shod with iron points. The order of proceeding in the construction of
the tent was as follows: Holes were drilled through the poles about
five inches from their tops for the insertion of two wrought-iron
bolts, three inches long and one-quarter of an inch thick. The bolts
were then inserted, and the two pairs of poles were set out (and fixed
up by a cord) to the proper dimensions. The roof was then put on. This
was made of the rough, unbleached calico called forfar, which can be
obtained in six-feet widths, and it was continued round for about two
feet on each side, on to the floor. The width of the material was the
length of the tent, and seams were thus avoided in the roof. The forfar
was sewn round each pole, particular care being taken to avoid wrinkles
and to get the whole perfectly taut. The flooring was next put in and
sewn down to the forfar. This was of the ordinary plaid mackintosh,
about nine feet square, the surplus three feet being continued up the
sides to prevent draughts. It is as well to have two feet of this
surplus on one side, and only one foot on the other, the latter amount
being sufficient for the side occupied by the feet. One end was then
permanently closed by a triangular piece of forfar, which was sewn down
to that which was already fixed. The other end was left open, and had
two triangular flaps that overlapped each other, and which were
fastened up when we were inside by pieces of tape. Lastly, the forfar
was nailed down to the poles to prevent the tent getting out of shape.
The cord which was used for climbing served for the tent: it was passed
over the crossed poles and underneath the ridge of the roof, and the
two ends—one fore and the other aft—were easily secured to pieces of
rock. Such a tent costs about four guineas, and its weight is about
twenty-three pounds; or, if the lightest kind of forfar is used, it
need not exceed twenty pounds.

Sunday, the 6th of July, was showery, and snow fell on the Matterhorn,
but we started on the following morning with our three men, and pursued
my route of the previous year. I was requested to direct the way, as
none save myself had been on the mountain before, but I did not
distinguish myself on this occasion, and led my companions nearly to
the top of the small peak before the mistake was discovered. The party
becoming rebellious, a little exploration was made toward our right,
and we found that we were upon the top of the cliff overlooking the Col
du Lion. The upper part of the small peak is of a very different
character to the lower part: the rocks are not so firm, and they are
usually covered or intermixed with snow and glazed with ice: the angle
too is more severe. While descending a small snow-slope to get on to
the right track, Kronig slipped on a streak of ice and went down at a
fearful pace. Fortunately, he kept on his legs, and by a great effort
succeeded in stopping just before he arrived at some rocks that jutted
through the snow, which would infallibly have knocked him over. When we
rejoined him a few minutes later we found that he was incapable of
standing, much less of moving, with a face corpse-like in hue, and
trembling violently. He remained in this condition for more than an
hour, and the day was consequently far advanced before we arrived at
our camping-place on the col. Profiting by the experience of last year,
we did not pitch the tent actually on the snow, but collected a
quantity of débris from the neighboring ledges, and after constructing
a rough platform of the larger pieces, leveled the whole with the dirt
and mud.

Meynet had proved invaluable as a tent-bearer, for, although his legs
were more picturesque than symmetrical, and although he seemed to be
built, on principle, with no two parts alike, his very deformities
proved of service; and we quickly found he had a spirit of no common
order, and that few peasants are more agreeable companions or better
climbers than little Luc Meynet, the hunchback of Breuil. He now showed
himself not less serviceable as a scavenger, and humbly asked for
gristly pieces of meat rejected by the others, or for suspicious eggs,
and seemed to consider it a peculiar favor, if not a treat, to be
permitted to drink the coffee-grounds. With the greatest contentment he
took the worst place at the door of the tent, and did all the dirty
work which was put upon him by the guides, as gratefully as a dog who
has been well beaten will receive a stroke.

A strong wind sprang up from the east during the night, and in the
morning it was blowing almost a hurricane. The tent behaved nobly, and
we remained under its shelter for several hours after the sun had
risen, uncertain what it was best to do. A lull tempted us to move, but
we had scarcely ascended a hundred feet before the storm burst upon us
with increased fury. Advance or return was alike impossible: the ridge
was denuded of its débris, and we clutched our hardest when we saw
stones as big as a man’s fist blown away horizontally into space. We
dared not attempt to stand upright, and remained stationary on all
fours, glued, as it were, to the rocks. It was intensely cold, for the
blast had swept along the main chain of the Pennine Alps and across the
great snow-fields around Monte Rosa. Our warmth and courage rapidly
evaporated, and at the next lull we retreated to the tent, having to
halt several times in that short distance. Taugwald and Kronig then
declared that they had had enough, and refused to have anything more to
do with the mountain. Meynet also informed us that he would be required
down below for important cheese-making operations on the following day.
It was therefore needful to return to Breuil, and we arrived there at
2.30 P.M., extremely chagrined at our complete defeat.

Jean-Antoine Carrel, attracted by rumors, had come up to the inn during
our absence, and after some negotiations agreed to accompany us, with
one of his friends named Pession, on the first fine day. We thought
ourselves fortunate, for Carrel clearly considered the mountain a kind
of _preserve_, and regarded our late attempt as an act of _poaching._
The wind blew itself out during the night, and we started again, with
these two men and a porter, at 8 A. M. on the 9th, with unexceptionable
weather. Carrel pleased us by suggesting that we should camp even
higher than before; and we accordingly proceeded, without resting at
the col, until we overtopped the Tête du Lion. Near the foot of the
“Chimney,” a little below the crest of the ridge and on its eastern
side, we found a protected place; and by building up from ledge to
ledge (under the direction of our leader, who was a mason by
profession) we at length constructed a platform of sufficient size and
of considerable solidity. Its height was about twelve thousand five
hundred and fifty feet above the sea; and it exists, I believe, at the
present time. We then pushed on, as the day was very fine, and after a
short hour’s scramble got to the foot of the Great Tower upon the ridge
(that is to say, to Mr. Hawkins’ farthest point), and afterward
returned to our bivouac. We turned out again at 4 A. M., and at 5.15
started upward once more, with fine weather and the thermometer at 28°.
Carrel scrambled up the Chimney, and Macdonald and I after him.
Pession’s turn came, but when he arrived at the top he looked very ill,
declared himself to be thoroughly incapable, and said that he must go
back. We waited some time, but he did not get better, neither could we
learn the nature of his illness. Carrel flatly refused to go on with us
alone. We were helpless. Macdonald, ever the coolest of the cool,
suggested that we should try what we could do without them, but our
better judgment prevailed, and finally we returned together to Breuil.
On the next day my friend started for London.

Three times I had essayed the ascent of this mountain, and on each
occasion had failed ignominiously. I had not advanced a yard beyond my
predecessors. Up to the height of nearly thirteen thousand feet there
were no extraordinary difficulties: the way so far might even become “a
matter of amusement.” Only eighteen hundred feet remained, but they
were as yet untrodden, and might present the most formidable obstacles.
No man could expect to climb them by himself. A morsel of rock only
seven feet high might at any time defeat him if it were perpendicular.
Such a place might be possible to two, or a bagatelle to three men. It
was evident that a party should consist of three men at least. But
where could the other two men be obtained? Carrel was the only man who
exhibited any enthusiasm in the matter, and he in 1861 had absolutely
refused to go unless the party consisted of at least _four_ persons.
Want of men made the difficulty, not the mountain.

The weather became bad again, so I went to Zermatt on the chance of
picking up a man, and remained there during a week of storms. Not one
of the good men, however, could be induced to come, and I returned to
Breuil on the 17th, hoping to combine the skill of Carrel with the
willingness of Meynet on a new attempt by the same route as before; for
the Hönli ridge, which I had examined in the mean time, seemed to be
entirely impracticable. Both men were inclined to go, but their
ordinary occupations prevented them from starting at once.

My tent had been left rolled up at the second platform, and whilst
waiting for the men it occurred to me that it might have been blown
away during the late stormy weather; so I started off on the 18th to
see if this were so or not. The way was by this time familiar, and I
mounted rapidly, astonishing the friendly herdsmen—who nodded
recognition as I flitted past them and the cows—for I was alone,
because no man was available. But more deliberation was necessary when
the pastures were passed and climbing began, for it was needful to mark
each step in case of mist or surprise by night. It is one of the few
things which can be said in favor of mountaineering alone (a practice
which has little besides to commend it) that it awakens a man’s
faculties and makes him observe. When one has no arms to help and no
head to guide him except his own, he must needs take note even of small
things, for he cannot afford to throw away a chance; and so it came to
pass upon my solitary scramble, when above the snow-line and beyond the
ordinary limits of flowering plants, when peering about noting angles
and landmarks, that my eyes fell upon the tiny straggling
plants—oftentimes a single flower on a single stalk—pioneers of
vegetation, atoms of life in a world of desolation, which had found
their way up—who can tell how?—from far below, and were obtaining bare
sustenance from the scanty soil in protected nooks; and it gave a new
interest to the well-known rocks to see what a gallant fight the
survivors made (for many must have perished in the attempt) to ascend
the great mountain. The gentian, as one might have expected, was there,
but it was run close by saxifrages and by _Linaria alpina_, and was
beaten by _Thlaspi rotundifolium;_ which latter plant was the highest I
was able to secure, although it too was overtopped by a little white
flower which I knew not and was unable to reach.

The tent was safe, although snowed up, and I turned to contemplate the
view, which, when seen alone and undisturbed, had all the strength and
charm of complete novelty. The highest peaks of the Pennine chain were
in front—the Breithorn (13,685 feet), the Lyskamm (14,889), and Monte
Rosa (15,217); then turning to the right, the entire block of mountains
which separated the Val Tournanche from the Val d’Ayas was seen at a
glance, with its dominating summit, the Grand Tournalin (11,155).
Behind were the ranges dividing the Val d’Ayas from the valley of
Gressoney, backed by higher summits. More still to the right the eye
wandered down the entire length of the Val Tournanche, and then rested
upon the Graian Alps with their innumerable peaks, and upon the
isolated pyramid of Monte Viso (12,643) in the extreme distance. Next,
still turning to the right, came the mountains intervening between the
Val Tournanche and the Val Barthelemy: Mont Rouss (a round-topped,
snowy summit, which seems so important from Breuil, but which is in
reality only a buttress of the higher mountain, the Château des Dames)
had long ago sunk, and the eye passed over it, scarcely heeding its
existence, to the Becca Salle (or, as it is printed on the map, Bee de
Sale), a miniature Matterhorn, and to other and more important heights.
Then the grand mass of the Dent d’Hérens (13,714) stopped the way—a
noble mountain, encrusted on its northern slopes with enormous hanging
glaciers, which broke away at mid-day in immense slices, and thundered
down on to the Tiefenmatten glacier; and lastly, most splendid of all,
came the Dent Blanche (14,318), soaring above the basin of the great
Z’Muttgletscher. Such a view is hardly to be matched in the Alps, and
_this_ view is very rarely seen, as I saw it, perfectly unclouded.

Time sped away unregarded, and the little birds which had built their
nests on the neighboring cliffs had begun to chirp their evening hymn
before I thought of returning. Half mechanically, I turned to the tent,
unrolled it and set it up: it contained food enough for several days,
and I resolved to stay over the night. I had started from Breuil
without provisions or telling Favre, the innkeeper, who was accustomed
to my erratic ways, where I was going. I returned to the view. The sun
was setting, and its rosy rays, blending with the snowy blue, had
thrown a pale, pure violet far as the eye could see; the valleys were
drowned in a purple gloom, while the summits shone with unnatural
brightness; and as I sat in the door of the tent and watched the
twilight change to darkness, the earth seemed to become less earthly
and almost sublime: the world seemed dead, and I its sole inhabitant.
By and by the moon, as it rose, brought the hills again into sight, and
by a judicious repression of detail rendered the view yet more
magnificent. Something in the south hung like a great glow-worm in the
air: it was too large for a star, and too steady for a meteor, and it
was long before I could realize the incredible fact that it was the
moonlight glittering on the great snow-slope on the north side of Monte
Viso, at a distance, as the crow flies, of ninety-eight miles.
Shivering, at last I entered the tent and made my coffee. The night was
passed comfortably, and the next morning, tempted by the brilliancy of
the weather, I proceeded yet higher in search of another place for a
platform.

[Illustration]

Solitary scrambling over a pretty wide area had shown me that a single
individual is subjected to very many difficulties which do not trouble
a party of two or three men, and that the disadvantages of being alone
are more felt while descending than during the ascent. In order to
neutralize these inconveniences, I had devised two little appliances,
which were now brought into use for the first time. One was a claw, a
kind of grapnel, about five inches long, made of shear steel one-fifth
of an inch thick. This was of use in difficult places where there was
no hold within arm’s length, but where there were cracks or ledges some
distance higher. It could be stuck on the end of the alpenstock and
dropped into such places, or, on extreme occasions, flung up until it
attached itself to something. The edges that laid hold of the rocks
were serrated, which tended to make them catch more readily: the other
end had a ring to which a rope was fastened. It must not be understood
that this was employed for hauling one’s self up by for any great
distance, but that it was used in ascending, at the most, for only a
few yards at a time. In descending, however, it could be prudently used
for a greater distance at a time, as the claws could be planted firmly;
but it was necessary to keep the rope taut and the pull constantly in
the direction of the length of the implement, otherwise it had a
tendency to slip away. The second device was merely a modification of a
dodge practiced by all climbers. It is frequently necessary for a
single man (or for the last man of a party) during a descent to make a
loop in the end of his rope, which he passes over some rocks, and to
come down holding the free end. The loop is then jerked off, and the
process may be repeated. But as it sometimes happens that there are no
rocks at hand which will allow a loose loop to be used, a slipknot has
to be resorted to, and the rope is drawn in tightly. Consequently, it
will occur that it is not possible to jerk the loop off, and the rope
has to be cut and left behind. To prevent this, I had a wrought-iron
ring (two and a quarter inches in diameter and three-eighths of an inch
thick) attached to one end of my rope, and a loop could be made in a
moment by passing the other end of the rope through the ring, which of
course slipped up and held tightly as I descended holding the free end.
A strong piece of cord was also attached to the ring, and on arriving
at the bottom this was pulled: the ring slid back again, and the loop
was whipped off readily. By means of these two simple appliances I was
able to ascend and descend rocks which otherwise would have been
completely impassable. The combined weight of these two things amounted
to less than half a pound.

[Illustration]

The rocks of the south-west ridge are by no means difficult for some
distance above the Col du Lion. This is true of the rocks up to the
level of the Chimney, but they steepen when that is passed, and
remaining smooth and with but few fractures, and still continuing to
dip outward, present some steps of a very uncertain kind, particularly
when they are glazed with ice. At this point (just above the Chimney)
the climber is obliged to follow the southern (or Breuil) side of the
ridge, but in a few feet more one must turn over to the northern (or
Z’Mutt) side, where in most years Nature kindly provides a snow-slope.
When this is surmounted, one can again return to the crest of the
ridge, and follow it by easy rocks to the foot of the Great Tower. This
was the highest point attained by Mr. Hawkins in 1860, and it was also
our highest on the 9th of July.

This Great Tower is one of the most striking features of the ridge. It
stands out like a turret at the angle of a castle. Behind it a
battlemented wall leads upward to the citadel. Seen from the Théodule
pass, it looks only an insignificant pinnacle, but as one approaches it
(on the ridge), so it seems to rise, and when one is at its base it
completely conceals the upper parts of the mountain. I found here a
suitable place for the tent, which, although not so well protected as
the second platform, possessed the advantage of being three hundred
feet higher up; and fascinated by the wildness of the cliffs, and
enticed by the perfection of the weather, I went on to see what was
behind.

The first step was a difficult one: the ridge became diminished to the
least possible width, it was hard to keep one’s balance, and just where
it was narrowest a more than perpendicular mass barred the way. Nothing
fairly within arm’s reach could be laid hold of: it was necessary to
spring up, and then to haul one’s self over the sharp edge by sheer
strength. Progression directly upward was then impossible. Enormous and
appalling precipices plunged down to the Tiefenmatten glacier on the
left, but round the right-hand side it was just possible to go. One
hindrance then succeeded another, and much time was consumed in seeking
the way. I have a vivid recollection of a gully of more than usual
perplexity at the side of the Great Tower, with minute ledges and steep
walls; of the ledges dwindling down, and at last ceasing; of finding
myself, with arms and legs divergent, fixed as if crucified, pressing
against the rock, and feeling each rise and fall of my chest as I
breathed; of screwing my head round to look for a hold, and not seeing
any, and of jumping sideways on to the other side.

Places such as this gully have their charm so long as a man feels that
the difficulties are within his power, but their enchantment vanishes
directly they are too much for him, and when he feels this they are
dangerous to him. The line which separates the difficult from the
dangerous is sometimes a very shadowy, but it is not an imaginary one.
It is a true line, without breadth. It is often easy to pass and very
hard to see. It is sometimes passed unconsciously, and the
consciousness that it has been passed is felt too late; but so long as
a man undertakes that which is well within his power, he is not likely
to pass this line, or consequently to get into any great danger,
although he may meet with considerable difficulty. That which is within
a man’s power varies, of course, according to time, place and
circumstance, but as a rule he can tell pretty well when he is arriving
at the end of his tether; and it seems to me, although it is difficult
to determine for another, even approximately, the limits to which it is
prudent for him to go, that it is tolerably easy to do so for one’s
self. But (according to my opinion) if the doubtful line is crossed
consciously, deliberately, one passes from doing that which is
justifiable to doing that which is unjustifiable, because it is
imprudent.

I expect that any intelligent critic will inquire, “But do you really
mean to assert that dangers in mountaineering arise only from
superlative difficulty, and that the perfect mountaineer does not run
any risks?” I am not prepared to go quite so far as this, although
there is only one risk to which the scrambler on the Higher Alps is
unavoidably subject which does not occur to pedestrians in London’s
streets. This arises from falling rocks, and I shall endeavor in the
course of this work to make the reader understand that it is a
_positive_ danger, and one against which skill, strength and courage
are equally unavailing. It occurs at unexpected times, and may occur in
almost any place. The critic may retort, “Your admission of this one
danger destroys all the rest of the argument.” I agree with him that it
would do so if it were a _grave_ risk to life. But although it is a
real danger, it is not a very serious risk. Not many cases can be
quoted of accidents which have happened through falling stones, and I
do not know an instance of life having been lost in this way in the
High Alps.[10] I suppose, however, few persons will maintain that it is
unjustifiable to do anything, for sport or otherwise, so long as _any_
risk is incurred, else it would be unjustifiable to cross Fleet street
at mid-day. If it were one’s bounden duty to avoid every risk, we
should have to pass our lives indoors. I conceive that the pleasures of
mountaineering outweigh the risks arising from this particular cause,
and that the practice will not be vetoed on its account. Still, I wish
to stamp it as a _positive_ danger, and as one which may imperil the
life of the most perfect mountaineer.

 [10] The contrary is the case in regard to the Lower Alps. Amongst
 others, the case may be mentioned of a lady who (not very long ago)
 had her skull fractured while sitting at the base of the Mer de Glace.

This digression has been caused by an innocent gully which I feared the
reader might think was dangerous. It was an untrodden vestibule, which
led to a scene so wild that even the most sober description of it must
seem an exaggeration. There was a change in the quality of the rock,
and there was a change in the appearance of the ridge. The rocks
(talcose gneiss) below this spot were singularly firm—it was rarely
necessary to test one’s hold: the way led over the living rock, and not
up rent-off fragments. But here all was decay and ruin. The crest of
the ridge was shattered and cleft, and the feet sank in the chips which
had drifted down; while above, huge blocks, hacked and carved by the
hand of time, nodded to the sky, looking like the gravestones of
giants. Out of curiosity I wandered to a notch in the ridge, between
two tottering piles of immense masses which seemed to need but a few
pounds on one or the other side to make them fall, so nicely poised
that they would literally have rocked in the wind, for they were put in
motion by a touch, and based on support so frail that I wondered they
did not collapse before my eyes. In the whole range of my Alpine
experience I have seen nothing more striking than this desolate, ruined
and shattered ridge at the back of the Great Tower. I have seen
stranger shapes—rocks which mimic the human form, with monstrous
leering faces, and isolated pinnacles sharper and greater than any
here—but I have never seen exhibited so impressively the tremendous
effects which may be produced by frost, and by the long-continued
action of forces whose individual effects are imperceptible.

It is needless to say that it is impossible to climb by the crest of
the ridge at this part: still, one is compelled to keep near to it, for
there is no other way. Generally speaking, the angles on the Matterhorn
are too steep to allow the formation of considerable beds of snow, but
here there is a corner which permits it to accumulate, and it is turned
to gratefully, for by its assistance one can ascend four times as
rapidly as upon the rocks.

The Tower was now almost out of sight, and I looked over the central
Pennine Alps to the Grand Combin and to the chain of Mont Blanc. My
neighbor, the Dent d’Hérens, still rose above me, although but
slightly, and the height which had been attained could be measured by
its help. So far, I had no doubts about my capacity to descend that
which had been ascended; but in a short time, on looking ahead, I saw
that the cliffs steepened, and I turned back (without pushing on to
them and getting into inextricable difficulties), exulting in the
thought that they would be passed when we returned together, and that I
had without assistance got nearly to the height of the Dent d’Hérens,
and considerably higher than any one had been before.[11] My exultation
was a little premature.

 [11] A remarkable streak of snow (marked “cravate” in the outline of
 the Matterhorn, as seen from the Theodule) runs across the cliff at
 this part of the mountain. My highest point was somewhat higher than
 the lowest part of this snow, and was consequently nearly 13,500 feet
 above the sea.

[Illustration: THE CHIMNEY. ON THE SOUTH-WEST RIDGE OF THE MATTERHORN.]

About five P. M. I left the tent again, and thought myself as good as
at Breuil. The friendly rope and claw had done good service, and had
smoothed all the difficulties. I lowered myself through the Chimney,
however, by making a fixture of the rope, which I then cut off and left
behind, as there was enough and to spare. My axe had proved a great
nuisance in coming down, and I left it in the tent. It was not attached
to the bâton, but was a separate affair—an old navy boarding-axe. While
cutting up the different snow-beds on the ascent, the bâton trailed
behind fastened to the rope; and when climbing the axe was carried
behind, run through the rope tied round my waist, and was sufficiently
out of the way; but in descending, when coming down face outward (as is
always best where it is possible), the head or the handle of the weapon
caught frequently against the rocks, and several times nearly upset me.
So, out of laziness if you will, it was left in the tent. I paid dearly
for the imprudence.

The Col du Lion was passed, and fifty yards more would have placed me
on the “Great Staircase,” down which one can run. But on arriving at an
angle of the cliffs of the Tête du Lion, while skirting the upper edge
of the snow which abuts against them, I found that the heat of the two
past days had nearly obliterated the steps which had been cut when
coming up. The rocks happened to be impracticable just at this corner,
so nothing could be done except make the steps afresh. The snow was too
hard to beat or tread down, and at the angle it was all but ice: half a
dozen steps only were required, and then the ledges could be followed
again. So I held to the rock with my right hand, and prodded at the
snow with the point of my stick until a good step was made, and then,
leaning round the angle, did the same for the other side. So far well,
but in attempting to pass the corner (to the present moment I cannot
tell how it happened) I slipped and fell.

[Illustration: IN ATTEMPTING TO PASS THE CORNER I SLIPPED AND FELL.]

The slope was steep on which this took place, and descended to the top
of a gully that led down through two subordinate buttresses toward the
Glacier du Lion, which was just seen, a thousand feet below. The gully
narrowed and narrowed until there was a mere thread of snow lying
between two walls of rock, which came to an abrupt termination at the
top of a precipice that intervened between it and the glacier. Imagine
a funnel cut in half through its length, placed at an angle of
forty-five degrees, with its point below and its concave side
uppermost, and you will have a fair idea of the place.

The knapsack brought my head down first, and I pitched into some rocks
about a dozen feet below: they caught something and tumbled me off the
edge, head over heels, into the gully. The bâton was dashed from my
hands, and I whirled downward in a series of bounds, each longer than
the last—now over ice, now into rocks—striking my head four or five
times, each time with increased force. The last bound sent me spinning
through the air, in a leap of fifty or sixty feet, from one side of the
gully to the other, and I struck the rocks, luckily, with the whole of
my left side. They caught my clothes for a moment, and I fell back on
to the snow with motion arrested: my head fortunately came the right
side up, and a few frantic catches brought me to a halt in the neck of
the gully and on the verge of the precipice. Bâton, hat and veil
skimmed by and disappeared, and the crash of the rocks which I had
started, as they fell on to the glacier, told how narrow had been the
escape from utter destruction. As it was, I fell nearly two hundred
feet in seven or eight bounds. Ten feet more would have taken me in one
gigantic leap of eight hundred feet on to the glacier below.

The situation was still sufficiently serious. The rocks could not be
left go for a moment, and the blood was spurting out of more than
twenty cuts. The most serious ones were in the head, and I vainly tried
to close them with one hand while holding on with the other. It was
useless: the blood jerked out in blinding jets at each pulsation. At
last, in a moment of inspiration, I kicked out a big lump of snow and
stuck it as a plaster on my head. The idea was a happy one, and the
flow of blood diminished: then, scrambling up, I got, not a moment too
soon, to a place of safety and fainted away. The sun was setting when
consciousness returned, and it was pitch dark before the Great
Staircase was descended; but by a combination of luck and care the
whole forty-eight hundred feet of descent to Breuil was accomplished
without a slip or once missing the way. I slunk past the cabin of the
cowherds, who were talking and laughing inside, utterly ashamed of the
state to which I had been brought by my imbecility, and entered the inn
stealthily, wishing to escape to my room unnoticed. But Favre met me in
the passage, demanded, “Who is it?” screamed with fright when he got a
light, and aroused the household. Two dozen heads then held solemn
council over mine, with more talk than action. The natives were
unanimous in recommending that hot wine (syn. vinegar), mixed with
salt, should be rubbed into the cuts. I protested, but they insisted.
It was all the doctoring they received. Whether their rapid healing was
to be attributed to that simple remedy or to a good state of health, is
a question: they closed up remarkably soon, and in a few days I was
able to move again.

It was sufficiently dull during this time. I was chiefly occupied in
meditating on the vanity of human wishes, and in watching my clothes
being washed in the tub which was turned by the stream in the front of
the house; and I vowed that if an Englishman should at any time fall
sick in the Val Tournanche, he should not feel so solitary as I did at
this dreary time.[12]

 [12] As it seldom happens that one survives such a fall, it may be
 interesting to record what my sensations were during its occurrence. I
 was perfectly conscious of what was happening, and felt each blow;
 but, like a patient under chloroform, experienced no pain. Each blow
 was, naturally, more severe than that which preceded it, and I
 distinctly remember thinking “Well, if the next is harder still, that
 will be the end!” Like persons who have been rescued from drowning, I
 remember that the recollection of a multitude of things rushed through
 my head, many of them trivialities or absurdities, which had been
 forgotten long before; and, more remarkable, this bounding through
 space did not feel disagreeable. But I think that in no very great
 distance more, consciousness as well as sensation would have been
 lost, and upon that I base my belief, improbable as it seems, that
 death by a fall from a great height is as painless an end as can be
 experienced.
    The battering was very rough, yet no bones were broken. The most
    severe cuts were one of four inches long on the top of the bead,
    and another of three inches on the right temple: this latter bled
    frightfully. There was a formidable-looking cut, of about the same
    size as the last, on the palm of the left hand, and every limb was
    grazed, or cut, more or less seriously. The tips of the ears were
    taken off, and a sharp rock cut a circular bit out of the side of
    the left boot, sock, and ankle, at one stroke. The loss of blood,
    although so great, did not seem to be permanently injurious. The
    only serious effect has been the reduction of a naturally retentive
    memory to a very common-place one; and although my recollections of
    more distant occurrences remain unshaken, the events of that
    particular day would be clean gone but for the few notes which were
    written down before the accident.

[Illustration: AT BREUIL (GIOMEIN)]

The news of the accident brought Jean-Antoine Carrel up to Breuil, and
along with the haughty chasseur came one of his relatives, a strong and
able young fellow named Cæsar. With these two men and Meynet I made
another start on the 23d of July. We got to the tent without any
trouble, and on the following day had ascended beyond the Tower, and
were picking our way cautiously over the loose rocks behind (where my
traces of the week before were well apparent) in lovely weather, when
one of those abominable and almost instantaneous changes occurred to
which the Matterhorn is so liable on its southern side. Mists were
created out of invisible vapors, and in a few minutes snow fell
heavily. We stopped, as this part was of excessive difficulty, and,
unwilling to retreat, remained on the spot several hours, in hopes that
another change would occur; but as it did not, we at length went down
to the base of the Tower, and commenced to make a third platform, at
the height of 12,992 feet above the sea. It still continued to snow,
and we took refuge in the tent. Carrel argued that the weather had
broken up, and that the mountain would become so glazed with ice as to
render any attempt futile; and I, that the change was only temporary,
and that the rocks were too hot to allow ice to form upon them. I
wished to stay until the weather improved, but my leader would not
endure contradiction, grew more positive and insisted that we must go
down. We went down, and when we got below the col his opinion was found
to be wrong: the cloud was confined to the upper three thousand feet,
and outside it there was brilliant weather.

Carrel was not an easy man to manage. He was perfectly aware that he
was the cock of the Val Tournanche, and he commanded the other men as
by right. He was equally conscious that he was indispensable to me, and
took no pains to conceal his knowledge of the fact. If he had been
commanded or if he had been entreated to stop, it would have been all
the same. But, let me repeat, he was the only first-rate climber I
could find who believed that the mountain was not inaccessible. With
him I had hopes, but without him none; so he was allowed to do as he
would. His will on this occasion was almost incomprehensible. He
certainly could not be charged with cowardice, for a bolder man could
hardly be found; nor was he turning away on account of difficulty, for
nothing to which we had yet come seemed to be difficult to _him;_ and
his strong personal desire to make the ascent was evident. There was no
occasion to come down on account of food, for we had taken, to guard
against this very casualty, enough to last for a week; and there was no
danger and little or no discomfort in stopping in the tent. It seemed
to me that he was spinning out the ascent for his own purposes, and
that although he wished very much to be the first man on the top, and
did not object to be accompanied by any one else who had the same wish,
he had no intention of letting one succeed too soon—perhaps to give a
greater appearance of _éclat_ when the thing was accomplished. As he
feared no rival, he may have supposed that the more difficulties he
made the more valuable he would be estimated, though, to do him
justice, he never showed any great hunger for money. His demands were
fair, not excessive; but he always stipulated for so much per day, and
so, under any circumstances, he did not do badly.

Vexed at having my time thus frittered away, I was still well pleased
when he volunteered to start again on the morrow if it was fine. We
were to advance the tent to the foot of the Tower, to fix ropes in the
most difficult parts beyond, and to make a push for the summit on the
following day.

The next morning (Friday, the 25th), when I arose, good little Meynet
was ready and waiting, and he said that the two Carrels had gone off
some time before, and had left word that they intended marmot-hunting,
as the day was favorable for that sport. My holiday had nearly expired,
and these men clearly could not be relied upon; so, as a last resort, I
proposed to the hunchback to accompany me alone, to see if we could not
get higher than before, though of reaching the summit there was little
or no hope. He did not hesitate, and in a few hours we stood—for the
third time together—upon the Col du Lion, but it was the first time
Meynet had seen the view unclouded. The poor little deformed peasant
gazed upon it silently and reverently for a time, and then
unconsciously fell on one knee in an attitude of adoration, and clasped
his hands, exclaiming in ecstasy, “O beautiful mountains!” His actions
were as appropriate as his words were natural, and tears bore witness
to the reality of his emotion.

Our power was too limited to advance the tent, so we slept at the old
station, and, starting very early the next morning, passed the place
where we had turned back on the 24th, and subsequently my highest point
on the 19th. We found the crest of the ridge so treacherous that we
took to the cliffs on the right, although most unwillingly. Little by
little we fought our way up, but at length we were both spread-eagled
on the all-but perpendicular face, unable to advance and barely able to
descend. We returned to the ridge. It was almost equally difficult, and
infinitely more unstable; and at length, after having pushed our
attempts as far as was prudent, I determined to return to Breuil, and
to have a light ladder made to assist us to overcome some of the
steepest parts. I expected, too, that by this time Carrel would have
had enough marmot-hunting, and would deign to accompany us again.

We came down at a great pace, for we were now so familiar with the
mountain and with each other’s wants that we knew immediately when to
give a helping hand and when to let alone. The rocks also were in a
better state than I have ever seen them, being almost entirely free
from glaze of ice. Meynet was always merriest on the difficult parts,
and on the most difficult kept on enunciating the sentiment, “We can
only die once,” which thought seemed to afford him infinite
satisfaction. We arrived at the inn early in the evening, and I found
my projects summarily and unexpectedly knocked on the head.

Professor Tyndall had arrived while we were absent, and he had engaged
both Cæsar and Jean-Antoine Carrel. Bennen was also with him, together
with a powerful and active friend, a Valaisan guide named Anton Walter.
They had a ladder already prepared, provisions were being collected,
and they intended to start on the following morning (Sunday). This new
arrival took me by surprise. Bennen, it will be remembered, refused
point-blank to take Professor Tyndall on the Matterhorn in 1861. “He
was dead against any attempt on the mountain,” says Tyndall. He was now
eager to set out. Professor Tyndall has not explained in what way this
revolution came about in his guide. I was equally astonished at the
faithlessness of Carrel, and attributed it to pique at our having
presumed to do without him. It was useless to compete with the
professor and his four men, who were ready to start in a few hours, so
I waited to see what would come of their attempt.

[Illustration: A CANNONADE ON THE MATTERHORN (1862)]

Everything seemed to favor it, and they set out on a fine morning in
high spirits, leaving me tormented with envy and all uncharitableness.
If they succeeded, they carried off the prize for which I had been so
long struggling; and if they failed, there was no time to make another
attempt, for I was due in a few days more in London. When this came
home clearly to me, I resolved to leave Breuil at once, but when
packing up found that some necessaries had been left behind in the
tent. So I went off about mid-day to recover them, caught the army of
the professor before it reached the col, as they were going very
slowly, left them there (stopping to take food) and went on to the
tent. I was near to it when all at once I heard a noise aloft, and on
looking up perceived a stone of at least a foot cube flying straight at
my head. I ducked and scrambled under the lee side of a friendly rock,
while the stone went by with a loud buzz. It was the advanced guard of
a perfect storm of stones, which descended with infernal clatter down
the very edge of the ridge, leaving a trail of dust behind, with a
strong smell of sulphur that told who had sent them. The men below were
on the look-out, but the stones did not come near them, and breaking
away on one side went down to the glacier.

I waited at the tent to welcome the professor, and when he arrived went
down to Breuil. Early next morning some one ran to me saying that a
flag was seen on the summit of the Matterhorn. It was not so, however,
although I saw that they had passed the place where we had turned back
on the 26th. I had now no doubt of their final success, for they had
got beyond the point which Carrel, not less than myself, had always
considered to be the most questionable place on the whole mountain. Up
to it there was no choice of route—I suppose that at no one point
between it and the col was it possible to diverge a dozen paces to the
right or left—but beyond it it was otherwise, and we had always agreed
in our debates that if it could be passed success was certain.

The accompanying outline from a sketch taken from the door of the inn
at Breuil will help to explain. The letter A indicates the position of
the Great Tower; C, the “cravate” (the strongly-marked streak of snow
referred to in note 11, and which we just failed to arrive at on the
26th); B, the place where we now saw something that looked like a flag.
Behind the point B a nearly level ridge leads up to the foot of the
final peak, which will be understood by a reference to the outline on
page 83, on which the same letters indicate the same places. It was
just now said, we considered that if the point C could be passed,
success was certain. Tyndall was at B very early in the morning, and I
did not doubt that he would reach the summit, although it yet remained
problematical whether he would be able to stand on the very highest
point. The summit was evidently formed of a long ridge, on which there
were two points nearly equally elevated—so equally that one could not
say which was the highest—and between the two there seemed to be a deep
notch, marked D on the outlines, which might defeat one at the very
last moment.

[Illustration]

My knapsack was packed, and I had drunk a parting glass of wine with
Favre, who was jubilant at the success which was to make the fortune of
his inn, but I could not bring myself to leave until the result was
heard, and lingered about, as a foolish lover hovers round the object
of his affections even after he has been contemptuously rejected. The
sun had set before the men were descried coming over the pastures.
There was no spring in their steps: they too were defeated. The Carrels
hid their heads, but the others said, as men will do when they have
been beaten, that the mountain was horrible, impossible, and so
forth.—Professor Tyndall told me they had arrived _within a stone’s
throw of the summit_, and admonished me to have nothing more to do with
the mountain. I understood him to say that he should not try again, and
ran down to the village of Val Tournanche, almost inclined to believe
that the mountain was inaccessible, leaving the tent, ropes and other
matters in the hands of Favre, to be placed at the disposal of any
person who wished to ascend it—more, I am afraid, out of irony than
generosity. There may have been those who believed that the Matterhorn
could be ascended, but anyhow their faith did not bring forth works. No
one tried again in 1862.

[Illustration: “BUT WHAT IS THIS?”]




CHAPTER VI.
THE VAL TOURNANCHE—THE BREUILJOCH—ZERMATT—ASCENT OF THE GRAND
TOURNALIN.


I crossed the Channel on the of July, 1863, embarrassed by the
possession of two ladders, each twelve feet long, which joined together
like those used by firemen, and shut up like parallel rulers. My
luggage was highly suggestive of housebreaking, for, besides these,
there were several coils of rope and numerous tools of suspicious
appearance; and it was reluctantly admitted into France, but it passed
through the custom-house with less trouble than I anticipated, after a
timely expenditure of a few francs.

I am not in love with the douane. It is the purgatory of travelers,
where uncongenial spirits mingle together for a time before they are
separated into rich and poor. The douaniers look upon tourists as their
natural enemies: see how eagerly they pounce upon the portmanteaus! One
of them has discovered something. He has never seen its like before,
and he holds it aloft in the the face of its owner with inquisitorial
insolence: “But _what is_ this?” The explanation is but half
satisfactory “But what is _this?_” says he, laying hold of a little
box. “Powder.” “But that is forbidden to carry of powder on the
railway.” “Bah!” says another and older hand, “pass the effects of
monsieur;” and our countryman—whose cheeks had begun to redden under
the stares of his fellow-travelers—is allowed to depart with his
half-worn tooth-brush, while the discomfited douanier gives a mighty
shrug at the strange habits of those “whose insular position excludes
them from the march of continental ideas.”

My real troubles commenced at Susa. The officials there, more honest
and more obtuse than the Frenchmen, declined at one and the same time
to be bribed or to pass my baggage until a satisfactory account of it
was rendered; and as they refused to believe the true explanation, I
was puzzled what to say, but was presently relieved from the dilemma by
one of the men, who was cleverer than his fellows, suggesting that I
was going to Turin to exhibit in the streets—that I mounted the ladder
and balanced myself on the end of it, then lighted my pipe and put the
point of the baton in its bowl, and caused the baton to gyrate around
my head. The rope was to keep back the spectators, and an Englishman in
my company was the agent. “Monsieur is acrobat, then?” “Yes,
certainly.” “Pass the effects of monsieur the acrobat!”

These ladders were the source of endless trouble. Let us pass over the
doubts of the guardians of the Hotel d’Europe (Trombetta) whether a
person in the possession of such questionable articles should be
admitted to their very respectable house, and get to Chatillon, at the
entrance of the Val Tournanche. A mule was chartered to carry them, and
as they were too long to sling across its back, they were arranged
lengthways, and one end projected over the animal’s head, while the
other extended beyond its tail. A mule when going up or down hill
always moves with a jerky action, and in consequence of this the
ladders hit my mule severe blows between its ears and its flanks. The
beast, not knowing what strange creature it had on its back, naturally
tossed its head and threw out its legs, and this, of course, only made
the blows that it received more severe. At last it ran away, and would
have perished by rolling down a precipice if the men had not caught
hold of its tail. The end of the matter was, that a man had to follow
the mule, holding the end of the ladders, which obliged him to move his
arms up and down incessantly, and to bow to the hind quarters of the
animal in a way that afforded more amusement to his comrades than it
did to him.

I was once more _en route_ for the Matterhorn, for I had heard in the
spring of 1863 the cause of the failure of Professor Tyndall, and
learned that the case was not so hopeless as it appeared to be at one
time. I found that he arrived as far only as the northern end of “the
shoulder.” Carrel and all the men who had been with me knew of the
existence of the cleft at this point, and of the pinnacle which rose
between it and the final peak, and we had frequently talked about the
best manner of passing the place. On this we disagreed, but we were
both of opinion that when we got to “the shoulder” it would be
necessary to bear gradually to the right or to the left, to avoid
coming to the top of the notch. But Tyndall’s party, after arriving at
“the shoulder,” were led by his guides along the crest of the ridge,
and consequently when they got to its northern end they came to the top
of the notch, instead of the bottom—to the dismay of all but the
Carrels. Dr. Tyndall’s words are: “The ridge was here split by a deep
cleft which separated it from the final precipice, and the case became
more hopeless as we came more near.” The professor adds: “The mountain
is 14,800 feet high, and 14,600 feet had been acomplished.” He greatly
deceived himself: by the barometric measurements of Signer Giordano the
notch is no less than 800 feet below the summit. The guide Walter (Dr.
Tyndall says) said it was impossible to proceed, and the Carrels,
appealed to for their opinion (this is their own account), gave as an
answer, “We are porters—ask your guides.” Bennen, thus left to himself,
“was finally forced to accept defeat.” Tyndall had nevertheless
accomplished an advance of about four hundred feet over one of the most
difficult parts of the mountain.

The Val Tournanche is one of the most charming valleys in the Italian
Alps: it is a paradise to an artist, and if the space at my command
were greater, I would willingly linger over its groves of chestnuts,
its bright trickling rills and its roaring torrents, its upland
unsuspected valleys and its noble cliffs. The path rises steeply from
Chatillon, but it is well shaded, and the heat of the summer sun is
tempered by cool air and spray which comes off the ice-cold streams.
One sees from the path, at several places on the right bank of the
valley, groups of arches which have been built high up against the
faces of the cliffs. Guide-books repeat—on whose authority I know
not—that they are the remains of a Roman aqueduct. They have the Roman
boldness of conception, but the work has not the usual Roman solidity.
The arches have always seemed to me to be the remains of an
_unfinished_ work, and I learn from Jean-Antoine Carrel that there are
other groups of arches, which are not seen from the path, all having
the same appearance. It may be questioned whether those seen near the
village of Antey are Roman. Some of them are semicircular, whilst
others are pointed. Here is one of the latter, which might pass for
fourteenth-century work or later—a two-centred arch, with mean
voussoirs and the masonry in rough courses. These arches are well worth
the attention of an archaeologist, but some difficulty will be found in
approaching them closely.

[Illustration]

We sauntered up the valley, and got to Breuil when all were asleep. A
halo round the moon promised watery weather, and we were not
disappointed, for on the next day (August 1) rain fell heavily, and
when the clouds lifted for a time we saw that new snow lay thickly over
everything higher than nine thousand feet. J. A. Carrel was ready and
waiting (as I had determined to give the bold cragsman another chance);
and he did not need to say that the Matterhorn would be impracticable
for several days after all this new snow, even if the weather were to
arrange itself at once. Our first day together was accordingly spent
upon a neighboring summit, the Cimes Blanches—a degraded mountain well
known for its fine panoramic view. It was little that we saw, for in
every direction except to the south writhing masses of heavy clouds
obscured everything; and to the south our view was intercepted by a
peak higher than the Cimes Blanches, named the Grand Tournalin. But we
got some innocent pleasure out of watching the gambolings of a number
of goats, who became fast friends after we had given them some salt—in
fact, too fast, and caused us no little annoyance when we were
descending. “Carrel,” I said, as a number of stones whizzed by which
they had dislodged, “this must be put a stop to.” “Diable!” he grunted,
“it is very well to talk, but how will you do it?” I said that I would
try; and sitting down poured a little brandy into the hollow of my
hand, and allured the nearest goat with deceitful gestures. It was one
who had gobbled up the paper in which the salt had been carried—an
animal of enterprising character—and it advanced fearlessly and licked
up the brandy. I shall not easily forget its surprise. It stopped short
and coughed, and looked at me as much as to say, “Oh, you cheat!” and
spat and ran away, stopping now and then, to cough and spit again. We
were not troubled any more by those goats.

More snow fell during the night, and our attempt on the Matterhorn was
postponed indefinitely. Carrel and I wandered out again in the
afternoon, and went, first of all, to a favorite spot with tourists
near the end of the Görner glacier (or, properly speaking, the Boden
glacier), to a little verdant flat studded with _Euphrasia
officinalis_, the delight of swarms of bees, who gather there the honey
which afterward appears at the _table d’hôte._

On our right the glacier torrent thundered down the valley through a
gorge with precipitous sides, not easily approached, for the turf at
the top was slippery, and the rocks had everywhere been rounded by the
glacier, which formerly extended far away. This gorge seems to have
been made chiefly by the torrent, and to have been excavated
subsequently to the retreat of the glacier. It seems so, because not
merely upon its walls are there the marks of running water, but even
upon the rounded rocks at the top of its walls, at a height of seventy
or eighty feet above the present level of the torrent, there are some
of those queer concavities which rapid streams alone are known to
produce on rocks.

A little bridge, apparently frail, spans the torrent just above the
entrance to this gorge, and from it one perceives being fashioned in
the rocks below concavities similar to those to which reference has
just been made. The torrent is seen hurrying forward. Not everywhere.
In some places the water strikes projecting angles, and, thrown back by
them, remains almost stationary, eddying round and round: in others,
obstructions fling it up in fountains, which play perpetually on the
_under_ surfaces of overhanging masses; and sometimes do so in such a
way that the water not only works upon the under surfaces, but round
the corner; that is to say, upon the surfaces which are _not_ opposed
to the general direction of the current. In all cases _concavities_ are
being produced. Projecting angles are rounded, it is true, and are more
or less convex, but they are overlooked on account of the prevalence of
concave forms.

[Illustration: WATER-WORN ROCKS IN THE GORGE BELOW THE GÖRNER GLACIER]

Cause and effect help each other here. The inequalities of the torrent
bed and walls cause its eddyings, and the eddies fashion the
concavities. The more profound the latter become, the more disturbance
is caused in the water. The destruction of the rocks proceeds at an
ever-increasing rate, for the larger the amount of surface that is
exposed, the greater are the opportunities for the assaults of heat and
cold.

When water is in the form of glacier it has not the power of making
concavities such as these in rocks, and of working upon surfaces which
are not opposed to the direction of the current. Its nature is changed:
it operates in a different way, and it leaves marks which are readily
distinguished from those produced by torrent action.

[Illustration: STRIATIONS PRODUCED BY GLACIER ACTION (AT GRINDELWALD)]

The prevailing forms which result from glacier action are more or less
_convex._ Ultimately, all angles and almost all curves are obliterated,
and large areas of flat surfaces are produced. This perfection of
abrasion is rarely found except in such localities as have sustained a
grinding much more severe than that which has occurred in the Alps. Not
merely can the operations of extinct glaciers be traced in detail by
means of the bosses of rock popularly termed _roches moutonnées_, but
their effects in the aggregate, on a range of mountains or an entire
country, can be recognized sometimes at a distance of fifteen or twenty
miles, from the incessant repetition of these convex forms.

We finished up the 3d of August with a walk over the Findelen glacier,
and returned to Zermatt at a later hour than we intended, both very
sleepy. This is noteworthy only on account of that which followed. We
had to cross the Col de Valpelline on the next day, and an early start
was desirable. Monsieur Seller, excellent man! knowing this, called us
himself, and when he came to my door I answered, “All right, Seller, I
will get up,” and immediately turned over to the other side, saying to
myself, “First of all, ten minutes’ more sleep.” But Seller waited and
listened, and, suspecting the case, knocked again: “Herr Whymper, have
you got a light?” Without thinking what the consequences might be, I
answered, “No;” and then the worthy man actually forced the lock off
his own door to give me one. By similar and equally friendly and
disinterested acts Monsieur Seller has acquired his enviable
reputation.

At four A.M. we left his Monte Rosa hotel, and were soon pushing our
way through the thickets of gray alder that skirt the path up the
exquisite little valley which leads to the Z’muttgletscher.

Nothing can seem or be more inaccessible than the Matterhorn upon this
side, and even in cold blood one holds his breath when looking at its
stupendous cliffs. There are but few equal to them in size in the Alps,
and there are none which can more truly be termed _precipices._
Greatest of them all is the immense north cliff, that which bends over
toward the Z’muttgletscher. Stones which drop from the top of that
amazing wall fall for about fifteen hundred feet before they touch
anything, and those which roll down from above and bound over it fall
to a much greater depth, and leap wellnigh one thousand feet beyond its
base. This side of the mountain has always seemed sombre, sad,
terrible: it is painfully suggestive of decay, ruin and death; and it
is now, alas! more than terrible by its associations.

“There is no aspect of destruction about the Matterhorn cliffs,” says
Professor Ruskin. Granted—when they are seen from afar. But approach
and sit down by the side of the Z’muttgletscher, and you will hear that
their piecemeal destruction is proceeding ceaselessly, incessantly. You
will _hear_, but probably you will not _see;_ for even when the
descending masses thunder as loudly as heavy guns, and the echoes roll
back from the Ebihorn opposite, they will still be as pin-points
against this grand old face, so vast is its scale.

If you would see the “aspects of destruction,” you must come still
closer and climb its cliffs and ridges, or mount to the plateau of the
Matterhorngletscher, which is cut up and ploughed up by these missiles,
and strewn on the surface with their smaller fragments: the larger
masses, falling with tremendous velocity, plunge into the snow and are
lost to sight.

The Matterhorngletscher, too, sends down _its_ avalanches, as if in
rivalry with the rocks behind. Round the whole of its northern side it
does not terminate in the usual manner by gentle slopes, but comes to a
sudden end at the top of the steep rocks which lie betwixt it and the
Z’muttgletscher; and seldom does an hour pass without a huge slice
breaking away and falling with dreadful uproar on to the slopes below,
where it is re-compacted.

The desolate, outside pines of the Z’mutt forests, stripped of their
bark and blanched by the weather, are a fit foreground to a scene that
can hardly be surpassed in solemn grandeur. It is a subject worthy of
the pencil of a great painter, and one which would tax the powers of
the very greatest.

Higher up the glacier the mountain is less savage in appearance, but it
is not less impracticable; and three hours later, when we arrived at
the island of rock called the Stockje (which marks the end of the
Z’muttgletscher proper, and which separates its higher feeder, the
Stockgletscher, from its lower but greater one, the Tiefenmatten),
Carrel himself, one of the least demonstrative of men, could not
refrain from expressing wonder at the steepness of its faces, and at
the audacity that had prompted us to camp upon the south-west ridge,
the profile of which is seen very well from the Stockje. Carrel then
saw the north and north-west sides of the mountain for the first time,
and was more firmly persuaded than ever that an ascent was possible
_only_ from the direction of Breuil.

Three years afterward, I was traversing the same spot with the guide
Franz Biener, when all at once a puff of wind brought to us a very bad
smell, and on looking about we discovered a dead chamois half-way up
the southern cliffs of the Stockje. We clambered up, and found that it
had been killed by a most uncommon and extraordinary accident. It had
slipped on the upper rocks, had rolled over and over down a slope of
débris without being able to regain its feet, had fallen over a little
patch of rocks that projected through the débris, and had caught the
points of both horns on a tiny ledge not an inch broad. It had just
been able to touch the débris where it led away down from the rocks,
and had pawed and scratched until it could no longer touch. It had
evidently been starved to death, and we found the poor beast almost
swinging in the air, with its head thrown back and tongue protruding,
looking to the sky as if imploring help.

We had no such excitement as this in 1863, and crossed this easy pass
to the châlets of Prerayen in a very leisurely fashion. From the summit
to Prerayen let us descend in one step. The way has been described
before, and those who wish for information about it should consult the
description of Mr. Jacomb, the discoverer of the pass. Nor need we stop
at Prerayen, except to remark that the owner of the châlets (who is
usually taken for a common herdsman) must not be judged by appearances.
He is a man of substance, he has many flocks and herds; and although,
when approached politely, he is courteous, he can (and probably will)
act as the _master_ of Prerayen if his position is _not_ recognized,
and with all the importance of a man who pays taxes to the extent of
five hundred francs per annum to his government.

The hill tops were clouded when we rose from our hay on the 5th of
August. We decided not to continue the tour of our mountain
immediately, and returned over our track of the preceding day to the
highest châlet on the left bank of the valley, with the intention of
attacking the Dent d’Erin on the next morning. We were interested in
this summit, more on account of the excellent view which it commanded
of the southwest ridge and the terminal peak of the Matterhorn than
from any other reason.

The Dent d’Erin had not been ascended at this time, and we had diverged
from our route on the 4th, and had scrambled some distance up the base
of Mont Brulé, to see how far its southwestern slopes were assailable.
We were divided in opinion as to the best way of approaching the peak.
Carrel, true to his habit of sticking to rocks in preference to ice,
counseled ascending by the long buttress of the Tête de Bella Cia
(which descends toward the west, and forms the southern boundary of the
last glacier that falls into the Glacier de Zardesan), and thence
traversing the heads of all the tributaries of the Zardesan to the
western and rocky ridge of the Dent. I, on the other hand, propose to
follow the Glacier de Zardesan itself throughout its entire length, and
from the plateau at its head (where my proposed route would cross
Carrel’s), make directly toward the summit up the snow-covered glacier
slope, instead of by the western ridge. The hunchback, who was
accompanying us on these excursions, declared in favor of Carrel’s
route, and it was accordingly adopted.

The first part of the programme was successfully executed; and at
half-past ten A.M. on the 6th of August we were sitting astride the
western ridge, at a height of about twelve thousand five hundred feet,
looking down upon the Tiefenmatten glacier. To all appearance, another
hour would place us on the summit, but in another hour we found that we
were not destined to succeed. The ridge (like all of the principal
rocky ridges of the great peaks upon which I have stood) had been
completely shattered by frost, and was nothing more than a heap of
piled-up fragments. It was always narrow, and where it was narrowest it
was also the most unstable and the most difficult. On neither side
could we ascend it by keeping a little below its crest—on the side of
the Tiefenmatten because it was too steep, and on both sides because
the dislodgment of a single block would have disturbed the equilibrium
of those which were above. Forced, therefore, to keep to the very crest
of the ridge, and unable to deviate a single step either to the right
or to the left, we were compelled to trust ourselves upon unsteady
masses, which trembled under our tread, which sometimes settled down,
grating in a hollow and ominous manner, and which seemed as if a very
little shake would send the whole roaring down in one awful avalanche.

I followed my leader, who said not a word, and did not rebel until we
came to a place where a block had to be surmounted which lay poised
across the ridge. Carrel could not climb it without assistance, or
advance beyond it until I joined him above; and as he stepped off my
back on to it I felt it quiver and bear down upon me. 1 doubted the
possibility of another man standing upon it without bringing it down.
Then I rebelled. There was no honor to be gained by persevering, or
dishonor in turning from a place which was dangerous on account of its
excessive difficulty. So we returned to Prerayen, for there was too
little time to allow us to reascend by the other route, which was
subsequently shown to be the right way up the mountain.

Four days afterward a party of Englishmen (including my friends W. E.
Hall, Crauford Grove and Reginald Macdonald) arrived in the Valpelline,
and (unaware of our attempt) on the 12th, under the skillful guidance
of Melchior Anderegg, made the first ascent of the Dent d’Erin by the
route which I had proposed. This is the only mountain which I have
essayed to ascend that has not, sooner or later, fallen to me. Our
failure was mortifying, but I am satisfied that we did wisely in
returning, and that if we had persevered by Carrel’s route, another
Alpine accident would have been recorded. I have not heard that another
ascent has been made of the Dent d’Erin.

On the 7th of August we crossed the Va Cornère pass, and had a good
look at the mountain named the Grand Tournalin as we descended the Val
de Chignana. This mountain was seen from so many points, and was so
much higher than any peak in its immediate neighborhood, that it was
bound to give a very fine view; and (as the weather continued
unfavorable for the Matterhorn) I arranged with Carrel to ascend it the
next day, and despatched him direct to the village of Val Tournanche to
make the necessary preparations, whilst I, with Meynet, made a short
cut to Breuil, at the back of Mont Panquero, by a little pass locally
known as the Col de Fenêtre. I rejoined Carrel the same evening at Val
Tournanche, and we started from that place at a little before five
A.M.on the 8th to attack the Tournalin.

Meynet was left behind for that day, and most unwillingly did the
hunchback part from us, and begged hard to be allowed to come. “Pay me
nothing, only let me go with you. I shall want but a little bread and
cheese, and of that I won’t eat much. I would much rather go with you
than carry things down the valley.” Such were his arguments, and I was
really sorry that the rapidity of our movements obliged us to desert
the good little man.

Carrel led over the meadows on the south and east of the bluff upon
which the village of Val Tournanche is built, and then by a zigzag path
through a long and steep forest, making many short cuts, which showed
he had a thorough knowledge of the ground. After we came again into
daylight our route took us up one of those little, concealed lateral
valleys which are so numerous on the slopes bounding the Val
Tournanche.

This valley, the Combe de Ceneil, has a general easterly trend, and
contains but one small cluster of houses (Ceneil). The Tournalin is
situated at the head of the combe, and nearly due east of the village
of Val Tournanche, but from that place no part of the mountain is
visible. After Ceneil is passed it conies into view, rising above a
cirque of cliffs (streaked by several fine waterfalls), at the end of
the combe. To avoid these cliffs the path bends somewhat to the south,
keeping throughout to the left bank of the valley; and at about
thirty-five hundred feet above Val Tournanche, and fifteen hundred feet
above Ceneil, and a mile or so to its east, arrives at the base of some
moraines, which are remarkably large, considering the dimensions of the
glaciers which formed them. The ranges upon the western side of the Val
Tournanche are seen to great advantage from this spot, but here the
path ends and the way steepens.

When we arrived at these moraines we had a choice of two routes—one
continuing to the east over the moraines themselves, the débris above
them, and a large snow-bed still higher up, to a kind of _col_ or
depression to the _south_ of the peak, from whence an easy ridge led
toward the summit; the other, over a shrunken glacier on our north-east
(now, perhaps, not in existence), which led to a well-marked _col_ on
the _north_ of the peak, from whence a less easy ridge rose directly to
the highest point. We followed the first named of these routes, and in
a little more than half an hour stood upon the col, which commanded a
most glorious view of the southern side of Monte Rosa, and of the
ranges to its east and to the east of the Val d’Ayas.

Whilst we were resting at this point a large party of vagrant chamois
arrived on the summit of the mountain from the northern side, some of
whom, by their statuesque position, seemed to appreciate the grand
panorama by which they were surrounded, while others amused themselves,
like two-legged tourists, in rolling stones over the cliffs. The
clatter of these falling fragments made us look up. The chamois were so
numerous that we could not count them, clustered around the summit,
totally unaware of our presence; and they scattered in a panic, as if a
shell had burst amongst them, when saluted by the cries of my excited
comrade, plunging wildly down in several directions, with unfaltering
and unerring bounds, with such speed and with such grace that we were
filled with admiration and respect for their mountaineering abilities.
The ridge that led from the col toward the summit was singularly easy,
although well broken up by frost, and Carrel thought that it would not
be difficult to arrange a path for mules out of the shattered blocks;
but when we arrived on the summit we found ourselves separated from the
very highest point by a cleft which had been concealed up to that time:
its southern side was nearly perpendicular, but it was only fourteen or
fifteen feet deep. Carrel lowered me down, and afterward descended on
to the head of my axe, and subsequently on to my shoulders, with a
cleverness which was almost as far removed from my awkwardness as his
own efforts were from those of the chamois. A few easy steps then
placed us on the highest point. It had not been ascended before, and we
commemorated the event by building a huge cairn, which was seen for
many a mile, and would have lasted for many a year had it not been
thrown down by the orders of Canon Carrel, on account of its
interrupting the sweep of a camera which he took to the lower summit in
1868 in order to photograph the panorama. According to that well-known
mountaineer, the summit of the Grand Tournalin is 6100 feet above the
village of Val Tournanche, and 11,155 feet above the sea. Its ascent
(including halts) occupied us only four hours. I recommend the ascent
of the Tournalin to any person who has a day to spare in the Val
Tournanche. It should be remembered, however (if its ascent is made for
the sake of the view), that these southern Pennine Alps seldom remain
unclouded after mid-day, and indeed frequently not later than ten or
eleven A. M. Toward sunset the equilibrium of the atmosphere is
restored, and the clouds very commonly disappear.

[Illustration: CARREL LOWERED ME DOWN.]

I advise the ascent of this mountain, not on account of its height or
from its accessibility or inacessibility, but simply for the wide and
splendid view which may be seen from its summit. Its position is
superb, and the list of the peaks which can be seen from it includes
almost the whole of the principal mountains of the Cottian, Dauphine,
Graian, Pennine and Oberland groups. The view has, in the highest
perfection, those elements of picturesqueness which are wanting in the
purely panoramic views of higher summits. There are three principal
sections, each with a central or dominating point, to which the eye is
naturally drawn. All three alike are pictures in themselves, yet all
are dissimilar. In the south, softened by the vapors of the Val
d’Aoste, extends the long line of the Graians, with mountain after
mountain twelve thousand five hundred feet and upward in height. It is
not upon these, noble as some of them are, that the eye will rest, but
upon the Viso, far off in the background. In the west and toward the
north the range of Mont Blanc and some of the greatest of the Central
Pennine Alps (including the Grand Combin and the Dent Blanche) form the
background, but they are overpowered by the grandeur of the ridges
which culminate in the Matterhorn. Nor in the east and north, where
pleasant grassy slopes lead downward to the Val d’Ayas, nor upon the
glaciers and snow-fields above them, nor upon the Oberland in the
background, will the eye long linger, when immediately in front,
several miles away, but seeming close at hand, thrown out by the pure
azure sky, there are the glittering crests of Monte Rosa.

Those who would, but cannot, stand upon the highest Alps may console
themselves with the knowledge that they do not usually yield the views
that make the strongest and most permanent impressions. Marvelous some
of the panoramas seen from the greatest peaks undoubtedly are, but they
are necessarily without those isolated and central points which are so
valuable pictorially, The eye roams over a multitude of objects (each
perhaps grand individually), and, distracted by an embarrassment of
riches, wanders from one to another, erasing by the contemplation of
the next the effect that was produced by the last; and when those happy
moments are over, which always fly with too great rapidity, the summit
is left with an impression that is seldom durable because it is usually
vague.

No views create such lasting impressions as those which are seen but
for a moment when a veil of mist is rent in twain and a single spire or
dome is disclosed. The peaks which are seen at these moments are not
perhaps the greatest or the noblest, but the recollection of them
outlives the memory of any panoramic view, because the picture,
photographed by the eye, has time to dry, instead of being blurred
while yet wet by contact with other impressions. The reverse is the
case with the bird’s-eye panoramic views from the great peaks, which
sometimes embrace a hundred miles in nearly every direction. The eye is
confounded by the crowd of details, and unable to distinguish the
relative importance of the objects which are seen. It is almost as
difficult to form a just estimate (with the eye) of the respective
heights of a number of peaks from a very high summit as it is from the
bottom of a valley. I think that the grandest and most satisfactory
stand-points for viewing mountain scenery are those which are
sufficiently elevated to give a feeling of depth as well as of
height—which are lofty enough to exhibit wide and varied views, but not
so high as to sink everything to the level of the spectator. The view
from the Grand Tournalin is a favorable example of this class of
panoramic views.

We descended from the summit by the northern route, and found it
tolerably stiff clambering as far as the col, but thence, down the
glacier, the way was straightforward, and we joined the route taken on
the ascent at the foot of the ridge leading toward the east. In the
evening we returned to Breuil.

There is an abrupt rise in the valley about two miles to the north of
the village of Val Tournanche, and just above this step the torrent has
eaten its way into its bed and formed an extraordinary chasm, which has
long been known by the name Gouffre des Busserailles. We lingered about
this spot to listen to the thunder of the concealed water, and to watch
its tumultuous boiling as it issued from the gloomy cleft, but our
efforts to peer into the mysteries of the place were baffled. In
November, 1865, the intrepid Carrel induced two trusty comrades—the
Maquignazes of Val Tournanche—to lower him by a rope into the chasm and
over the cataract. The feat required iron nerves and muscles and sinews
of no ordinary kind, and its performance alone stamps Carrel as a man
of dauntless courage. One of the Maquignazes subsequently descended in
the same way, and these two men were so astonished at what they saw
that they forthwith set to work with hammer and chisel to make a way
into this romantic gulf. In a few days they constructed a rough but
convenient plank gallery into the centre of the _gouffre_, along its
walls, and on payment of a toll of half a franc any one can now enter
the Gouffre des Busserailles.

I cannot, without a couple of sections and a plan, give an exact idea
to the reader of this remarkable place. It corresponds in some of its
features to the gorge figured upon, but it exhibits in a much more
notable manner the characteristic action and power of running water.
The length of the chasm or _gouffre_, is about three hundred and twenty
feet, and from the top of its walls to the surface of the water is
about one hundred and ten feet. At no part can the entire length or
depth be seen at a glance, for, although the width at some places is
fifteen feet or more, the view is limited by the sinuosities of the
walls. These are everywhere polished to a smooth,
vitreous-in-appearance surface. In some places the torrent has wormed
into the rock, and has left natural bridges. The most extraordinary
features of the Gouffre des Busserailles, however, are the caverns (or
_marmites_, as they are termed) which the water has hollowed out of the
heart of the rock. Carrel’s plank path leads into one of the greatest—a
grotto that is about twenty-eight feet across at its largest diameter,
and fifteen or sixteen feet high, roofed above by the living rock, and
with the torrent roaring fifty feet or thereabouts below, at the bottom
of a fissure. This cavern is lighted by candles, and talking in it can
only be managed by signs.

I visited the interior of the _gouffre_ in 1869, and my wonder at its
caverns was increased by observing the hardness of the hornblende out
of which they have been hollowed. Carrel chiseled off a large piece,
which is now lying before me. It has a highly polished, glassy surface,
and might be mistaken, for a moment, for ice-polished rock. But the
water has found out the atoms which were least hard, and it is dotted
all over with minute depressions, much as the face of one is who has
suffered from smallpox. The edges of these little hollows are
_rounded_, and all the surfaces of the depressions are polished nearly
or quite as highly as the general surface of the fragment. The water
has drilled more deeply into some veins of steatite than in other
places, and the presence of the steatite may possibly have had
something to do with the formation of the _gouffre_.

I arrived at Breuil again after an absence of six days, well satisfied
with my tour of the Matterhorn, which had been rendered very pleasant
by the willingness of my guides and by the kindliness of the natives.
But it must be admitted that the inhabitants of the Val Tournanche are
behind the times. Their paths are as bad as, or worse than, they were
in the time of De Saussure, and their inns are much inferior to those
on the Swiss side. If it were otherwise there would be nothing to
prevent the valley becoming one of the most popular and frequented of
all the valleys in the Alps; but as it is, tourists who enter it seem
to think only about how soon they can get out of it, and hence it is
much less known than it deserves to be on account of its natural
attractions.




CHAPTER VII.
OUR SIXTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN.


Carrel had _carte blanche_ in the matter of guides, and his choice fell
upon his relative Cæsar, Luc Meynet and two others whose names I do not
know. These men were now brought together, and our preparations were
completed, as the weather was clearing up.

We rested on Sunday, August 9, eagerly watching the lessening of the
mists around the great peak, and started just before dawn upon the
10th, on a still and cloudless morning, which seemed to promise a happy
termination to our enterprise.

By going always, but gently, we arrived upon the Col du Lion before
nine o’clock. Changes were apparent. Familiar ledges had vanished; the
platform whereon my tent had stood looked very forlorn; its stones had
been scattered by wind and frost, and had half disappeared; and the
summit of the col itself, which in 1862 had always been respectably
broad and covered by snow, was now sharper than the ridge of any church
roof, and was hard ice. Already we had found that the bad weather of
the past week had done its work. The rocks for several hundred feet
below the col were varnished with ice. Loose, incoherent snow covered
the older and harder beds below, and we nearly lost our leader through
its treacherousness. He stepped on some snow which seemed firm, and
raised his axe to deliver a swinging blow, but just as it was highest
the crust of the slope upon which he stood broke away, and poured down
in serpentine streams, leaving long bare strips, which glittered in the
sun, for they were glassy ice. Carrel, with admirable readiness, flung
himself back on to the rock off which he had stepped, and was at once
secured. He simply remarked, “It is time we were tied up,” and after we
had been tied up he went to work again as if nothing had happened.

We had abundant illustrations during the next two hours of the value of
a rope to climbers. We were tied up rather widely apart, and advanced
generally in pairs. Carrel, who led, was followed closely by another
man, who lent him a shoulder or placed an axe-head under his feet when
there was need; and when this couple were well placed, the second pair
advanced in similar fashion, the rope being drawn in by those above and
paid out gradually by those below. The leading men advanced, or the
third pair, and so on. This manner of progression was slow but sure.
One man only moved at a time, and if he slipped (and we frequently did
slip), he could slide scarcely a foot without being checked by the
others. The certainty and safety of the method gave confidence to the
one who was moving, and not only nerved him to put out his powers to
the utmost, but sustained nerve in really difficult situations. For
these rocks (which, it has been already said, were easy enough under
ordinary circumstances) were now difficult in a high degree. The
snow-water, which had trickled down for many days past in little
streams, had taken, naturally, the very route by which we wished to
ascend; and, re-frozen in the night, had glazed the slabs over which we
had to pass—sometimes with a fine film of ice as thin as a sheet of
paper, and sometimes so thickly that we could almost cut footsteps in
it. The weather was superb, the men made light of the toil, and shouted
to rouse the echoes from the Dent d’Hérens.

We went on gayly, passed the second tent-platform, the Chimney and the
other well-remembered points, and reckoned confidently on sleeping that
night upon the top of “the shoulder;” but before we had well arrived at
the foot of the Great Tower, a sudden rush of cold air warned us to
look out.

It was difficult to say where this air came from: it did not blow as a
wind, but descended rather as the water in a shower-bath. All was
tranquil again: the atmosphere _showed_ no signs of disturbance: there
was a dead calm, and not a speck of cloud to be seen anywhere. But we
did not remain very long in this state. The cold air came again, and
this time it was difficult to say where it did not come from. We jammed
down our hats as it beat against the ridge and screamed amongst the
crags. Before we had got to the foot of the Tower mists had been formed
above and below. They appeared at first in small, isolated patches (in
several places at the same time), which danced and jerked and were torn
into shreds by the wind, but grew larger under the process. They were
united together and rent again, showing us the blue sky for a moment,
and blotting it out the next, and augmented incessantly until the whole
heavens were filled with whirling, boiling clouds. Before we could take
off our packs and get under any kind of shelter a hurricane of snow
burst upon us from the east. It fell so thickly that in a few minutes
the ridge was covered by it. “What shall we do?” I shouted to Carrel.
“Monsieur,” said he, “the wind is bad, the weather has changed, we are
heavily laden. Here is a fine _gîte;_ let us stop. If we go on we shall
be half frozen. That is _my_ opinion.” No one differed from him; so we
fell to work to make a place for the tent, and in a couple of hours
completed the platform which we had commenced in 1862. The clouds had
blackened during that time, and we had hardly finished our task before
a thunder-storm broke upon us with appalling fury. Forked lightning
shot out at the turrets above and at the crags below. It was so close
that we quailed at its darts. It seemed to scorch us: we were in the
very focus of the storm. The thunder was simultaneous with the flashes,
short and sharp, and more like the noise of a door violently slammed,
multiplied a thousand-fold, than any noise to which I can compare it.

When I say that the thunder was _simultaneous_ with the lightning, I
speak as an inexact person. My meaning is, that the time which elapsed
between seeing the flash and hearing the report was inappreciable to
me. I wish to speak with all possible precision, and there are two
points in regard to this storm upon which I can speak with some
accuracy. The first is in regard to the distance of the lightning from
our party. We _might_ have been eleven hundred feet from it if a second
of time had elapsed between seeing the flashes and hearing the reports;
and a second of time is not appreciated by inexact persons. It was
certain that we were sometimes less than that distance from the
lightning, because I saw it pass in front of well-known points on the
ridge, both above and below us, which were less (sometimes considerably
less) than a thousand feet distant.

[Illustration: THE CRAGS OF THE MATTERHORN, DURING THE STORM, MIDNIGHT,
AUGUST 10, 1863]

Secondly, in regard to the difficulty of distinguishing sounds which
are merely echoes from true thunder or the noise which occurs
simultaneously with lightning. Arago entered into this subject at some
length in his Meteorological Essays, and seemed to doubt if it would
ever be possible to determine whether echoes are _always_ the cause of
the rolling sounds commonly called thunder. I shall not attempt to show
whether the rolling sounds should ever or never be regarded as true
thunder, but only that during this storm upon the Matterhorn it was
possible to distinguish the sound of the thunder itself from the sounds
(rolling and otherwise) which were merely the echoes of the first,
original sound.

At the place where we were camped a remarkable echo could be heard (one
so remarkable that if it could be heard in this country it would draw
crowds for its own sake): I believe it came from the cliffs of the Dent
d’Hérens. It was a favorite amusement with us to rouse this echo, which
repeated any sharp cry in a very distinct manner several times, after
the lapse of something like a dozen seconds. The thunderstorm lasted
nearly two hours, and raged at times with great fury; and the prolonged
rollings from the surrounding mountains after one flash had not usually
ceased before another set of echoes took up the discourse, and
maintained the reverberations without a break. Occasionally there was a
pause, interrupted presently by a single clap, the accompaniment of a
single discharge, and after such times I could recognize the echoes
from the Dent d’Hérens by their peculiar repetitions, and by the length
of time which had passed since the reports had occurred of which they
were the echoes.

If I had been unaware of the existence of this echo, I should have
supposed that the resounds were original reports of explosions which
had been unnoticed, since in intensity they were scarcely
distinguishable from the true thunder, which during this storm seemed
to me, upon every occasion, to consist of a single harsh, instantaneous
sound.[13]

 [13] The same has seemed to me to be the case at all times when I have
 been close to the points of explosion. There has been always a
 distinct interval between the first explosion and the rolling sounds
 and secondary explosions which I have _believed_ to be merely echoes;
 but it has never been possible (except in the above-mentioned case) to
 _identify_ them as such.
    Others have observed the same. “The geologist, Professor Theobald,
    of Chur, who was in the Solferino storm, between the Tschiertscher
    and Urden Alp, in the electric clouds, says that the peals were
    short, like cannon shots, but of a clearer, more cracking tone, and
    that the rolling of the thunder was only heard further on.”
    Berlepsch’s _Alps_, English ed., p. 133.

Or if, instead of being placed at a distance of less than a thousand
feet from the points of explosion (and consequently hearing the report
almost in the same moment as we saw the flash, am the rollings after a
considerable interval of time), we had been placed so that the original
report had fallen on our ears nearly at the same moment as the echoes,
we should probably have considered that the successive reports and
rollings of the echoes were reports of successive explosions occurring
nearly at the same moment, and that they were not echoes at all.

This is the only time (out of many storms witnessed in the Alps) I have
obtained evidence that the rollings of thunder are actually echoes, and
that they are not, necessarily, the reports of a number of discharges
over a long line, occurring at varying distances from the spectator,
and consequently unable to arrive at his ear at the same moment,
although they follow each other so swiftly as to produce a sound more
or less continuous.[14]

 [14] Mr. J. Glaislier has frequently pointed out that all sounds in
 balloons at some distance from the earth are notable for their
 brevity. “It is one sound only; _there is no reverberation, no
 reflection;_ and this is characteristic of all sounds in the balloon,
 one clear sound, continuing during its own vibrations, then gone in a
 moment.” (_Good Words_, 1863, p. 224.)
    I learn from Mr. Glaislier that the thunder claps which have been
    heard by him during his ‘travels in the air’ have been no exception
    to the general rule, and the absence of rolling has fortified his
    belief that the rolling sounds which accompany thunder are echoes,
    and echoes _only_.

The wind during all this time seemed to blow tolerably consistently
from the east. It smote the tent so vehemently (notwithstanding it was
partly protected by rocks) that we had grave fears our refuge might be
blown away bodily, with ourselves inside; so, during some of the lulls,
we issued out and built a wall to windward. At half-past three the wind
changed to the north-west, and the clouds vanished. We immediately took
the opportunity to send down one of the porters (under protection of
some of the others a little beyond the Col du Lion), as the tent would
accommodate only five persons. From this time to sunset the weather was
variable. It was sometimes blowing and snowing hard, and sometimes a
dead calm. The bad weather was evidently confined to the Mont Cervin,
for when the clouds lifted we could see everything that could be seen
from our gîte. Monte Viso, a hundred miles off, was clear, and the sun
set gorgeously behind the range of Mont Blanc. We passed the night
comfortably, even luxuriously, in our blanket-bags, but there was
little chance of sleeping, between the noise of the wind, of the
thunder and of the falling rocks. I forgave the thunder for the sake of
the lightning. A more splendid spectacle than its illumination of the
Matterhorn crags I do not expect to see.

We turned out at 3.30 A.M.on the 11th, and were dismayed to find that
it still continued to snow. At 9 A.M. the snow ceased to fall, and the
sun showed itself feebly, so we packed up our baggage and set out to
try to get upon “the shoulder.” We struggled upward until eleven
o’clock, and then it commenced to snow again. We held a council: the
opinions expressed at it were unanimous against advancing, and I
decided to retreat; for we had risen less than three hundred feet in
the past two hours, and had not even arrived at the rope which
Tyndall’s party left behind attached to the rocks, in 1862. At the same
rate of progression it would have taken us from four to five hours to
get upon “the shoulder.” Not one of us cared to attempt to do so under
the existing circumstances; for, besides having to move our own weight,
which was sufficiently troublesome at this part of the ridge, we had to
transport much heavy baggage, tent, blankets, provisions, ladder and
four hundred and fifty feet of rope, besides many other smaller
matters. These, however, were not the most serious considerations.
Supposing that we got upon “the shoulder,” we might find ourselves
detained there several days, unable either to go up or down.[15] I
could not risk any such detention, being under obligations to appear in
London at the end of the week. We got to Breuil in the course of the
afternoon: it was quite fine there, and the tenants of the inn received
our statements with evident skepticism. They were astonished to learn
that we had been exposed to a snow-storm of twenty-six hours’ duration.
“Why,” said Favre, the innkeeper, “_we_ have had no snow: it has been
fine all the time you have been absent, and there has been only that
small cloud upon the mountain.” Ah! that small cloud! None except those
who have had experience of it can tell what a formidable obstacle it
is.

 [15] Since then (on at least one occasion), several persons have found
 themselves in this predicament for five or six consecutive days!

[Illustration: MONSIEUR FAVRE.]

Why is it that the Matterhorn is subject to these abominable variations
of weather? The ready answer is, “Oh, the mountain is so isolated, it
attracts the clouds.” This is not a sufficient answer. Although the
mountain _is_ isolated, it is not so much more isolated than the
neighboring peaks that it should gather clouds when none of the others
do so. It will not at all account for the cloud to which I refer, which
is not formed by an aggregation of smaller, stray clouds drawn together
from a distance (as scum collects round a log in the water), but is
created against the mountain itself, and springs into existence where
no clouds were seen before. It is formed and hangs chiefly against the
southern sides, and particularly against the south-eastern side. It
frequently does not envelop the summit, and rarely extends down to the
Glacier du Lion and to the Glacier du Mont Cervin below. It forms in
the finest weather—on cloudless and windless days.

I conceive that we should look to differences of temperature rather
than to the height or isolation of the mountain for an explanation. I
am inclined to attribute the disturbances which occur in the atmosphere
of the southern sides of the Matterhorn on fine days principally to the
fact that the mountain is a _rock_ mountain—that it receives a great
amount of heat, and is not only warmer itself, but is surrounded by an
atmosphere of a higher temperature, than such peaks as the Weisshorn
and the Lyskamm, which are eminently _snow_ mountains.

In certain states of the atmosphere its temperature may be tolerably
uniform over wide areas and to great elevations. I have known the
thermometer to show seventy degrees in the shade at the top of an
Alpine peak more than thirteen thousand feet high, and but a very few
degrees higher six or seven thousand feet lower. At other times there
will be a difference of forty or fifty degrees (Fahrenheit) between two
stations, the higher not more than six or seven thousand feet above the
lower.

Provided that the temperature was uniform, or nearly so, on all sides
of the Matterhorn, and to a considerable distance above its summit, no
clouds would be likely to form upon it. But if the atmosphere
immediately surrounding it is warmer than the contiguous strata, a
local “courant ascendant” must necessarily be generated; and portions
of the cooler superincumbent (or circumjacent) air will naturally be
attracted toward the mountain, where they will speedily condense the
moisture of the warm air in contact with it. I cannot explain the
down-rushes of cold air which occur on it when all the rest of the
neighborhood appears to be tranquil, in any other way. The clouds are
produced by the contact of two strata of air (of widely different
temperatures) charged with invisible moisture, as surely as certain
colorless fluids produce a white, turbid liquid when mixed together.
The order has been, wind of a low temperature, mist, rain, snow or
hail.

This opinion is borne out to some extent by the behavior of the
neighboring mountains. The Dom (14,935 feet) and the Dent Blanche
(14,318) have both of them large cliffs of bare rock upon their
southern sides, and against those cliffs clouds commonly form (during
fine, still weather) at the same time as the cloud on the Matterhorn;
whilst the Weisshorn (14,804) and the Lyskamm (14,889)--mountains of
about the same altitude, and which are in corresponding situations to
the former pair--usually remain perfectly clear.

I arrived at Chatillon at midnight on the 11th, defeated and
disconsolate, but, like a gambler who loses each throw, only the more
eager to have another try, to see if the luck would change; and
returned to London ready to devise fresh combinations and to form new
plans.

[Illustration: CROSSING THE CHANNEL]




CHAPTER VIII.
FROM ST. MICHEL TO LA BÉRARDE ON THE MONT CENIS ROAD, BY THE COL DES
AIGUILLES, D’ARVE, COL DE MARTIGNARE AND THE BRÈCHE DE LA MEIJE.


When we arrived upon the highest summit of Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphine,
in 1861, we saw, to our surprise and disappointment, that it was not
the culminating point of the district, and that another mountain,
distant about a couple of miles, and separated from us by an impassable
gulf, claimed that distinction. I was troubled in spirit about this
mountain, and my thoughts often reverted to the great wall-sided peak,
second in apparent inaccessibility only to the Matterhorn. It had,
moreover, another claim to attention—it was the highest mountain _in_
France.

The year 1862 passed away without a chance of getting to it, and my
holiday was too brief in 1863 even to think about it; but in the
following year it was possible, and I resolved to set my mind at rest
by completing the task which had been left unfinished in 1861.

In the mean time, others had turned their attention to Dauphine. First
of all (in 1862) came Mr. F. Tuckett—that mighty mountaineer, whose
name is known throughout the length and breadth of the Alps—with the
guides Michel Croz, Peter Perm and Bartolommeo Peyrotte, and great
success attended his arms. But Mr. Tuckett halted before the Pointe des
Écrins, and, dismayed by its appearance, withdrew his forces to gather
less dangerous laurels elsewhere. His expedition, however, threw some
light upon the Écrins. He pointed out the direction from which an
attack was most likely to be successful, and Mr. William Mathews and
the Rev. T. G. Bonney (to whom he communicated the result of his
labors) attempted to execute the ascent, with the brothers Michel and
J. B. Croz, by following his indications, but they too were defeated.

[Illustration: MICHEL-AUGUSTE CROZ (1865)]

The guide Michel Croz had thus been engaged in both of these
expeditions in Dauphiné, and I naturally looked to him for assistance.
Mr. Mathews (to whom I applied for information) gave him a high
character, and concluded his reply to me by saying “he was only happy
when upward of ten thousand feet high.”

I know what my friend meant. Croz was happiest when he was employing
his powers to the utmost. Places where you and I would “toil and sweat,
and yet be freezing cold,” were bagatelles to him, and it was only when
he got above the range of ordinary mortals, and was required to employ
his magnificent strength and to draw upon his unsurpassed knowledge of
ice and snow, that he could be said to be really and truly happy.

Of all the guides with whom I traveled, Michel Croz was the man who was
most after my own heart. He did not work like a blunt razor and take to
his toil unkindly. He did not need urging or to be told a second time
to do anything. You had but to say _what_ was to be done and _how_ it
was to be done, and the work _was_ done if it was possible. Such men
are not common, and when they are known they are valued. Michel was not
widely known, but those who did know him came again and again. The
inscription placed upon his tomb truthfully records that he was
“beloved by his comrades and esteemed by travelers.”

At the time that I was planning my journey, my friends Messrs. A. W.
Moore and Horace Walker were also drawing up their programme, and, as
we found that our wishes were very similar, we agreed to unite our
respective parties. My friends had happily secured Christian Almer of
Grindelwald as their guide. The combination of Croz and Almer was a
perfect one. Both men were in the prime of life, both were endued with
strength and activity far beyond the average, and the courage and the
knowledge of each were alike undoubted. The temper of Almer it was
impossible to ruffle: he was ever obliging and enduring—a bold but a
safe man. That which he lacked in fire, in dash, was supplied by Croz,
who, in his turn, was kept in place by Almer. It is pleasant to
remember how they worked together, and how each one confided to you
that he liked the other _so_ much because he worked _so_ well; but it
is sad, very sad, to those who have known the men, to know that they
can never work together again.

We met at St. Michel on the Mont Cenis road at mid-day on June 20,
1864, and proceeded in the afternoon over the Col de Valloires to the
village of the same name. The summit of this pretty little pass is
about thirty-five hundred feet above St. Michel, and from it we had a
fair view of the Aiguilles d’Arve, a group of three peaks of singular
form, which it was our especial object to investigate. They had been
seen by ourselves and others from numerous distant points, and always
looked very high and very inaccessible; but we had been unable to
obtain any information about them, except the few words in Joanne’s
_Itinéraire du Dauphiné_. Having made out from the summit of the Col de
Valloires that they could be approached from the valley of Valloires,
we hastened down to find a place where we could pass the night, as near
as possible to the entrance of the little valley leading up to them.

By nightfall we arrived at the entrance to this little valley (Vallon
des Aiguilles d’Arve), and found some buildings placed just where they
were wanted. The proprietress received us with civility, and placed a
large barn at our disposal, on the condition that no lights were struck
or pipes smoked therein; and when her terms were agreed to, she took us
into her own châlet, made up a huge fire, heated a gallon of milk and
treated us with genuine hospitality.

In the morning we found that the Vallon des Aiguilles d’Arve led away
nearly due west from the valley of Valloires and that the village of
Bonnenuit was placed (in the latter valley) almost exactly opposite to
the junction of the two.

At 3.55 A.M. on the 21st we set out up the Vallon, passed for a time
over pasture-land, and then over a stony waste, deeply channeled by
water-courses. At 5.30 the two principal Aiguilles were well seen, and
as by this time it was evident that the authors of the Sardinian
official map had romanced as extensively in this neighborhood as
elsewhere, it was necessary to hold a council.

Three questions were submitted to it: Firstly, Which is the highest of
these Aiguilles? Secondly, Which shall we go up? Thirdly, How is it to
be done?

The French engineers, it was said, had determined that the two highest
of them were respectively 11,513 and 11,529 feet in height; but we were
without information as to which two they had measured. Joanne indeed
said (but without specifying whether he meant all three) that the
Aiguilles had been several times ascended, and particularly mentioned
that the one of 11,513 feet was “relatively easy.”

We therefore said, “We will go up the peak of 11,529 feet.” But that
determination did not settle the second question. Joanne’s “relatively
easy” peak, according to his description, was evidently the most
northern of the three. _Our_ peak, then, was to be one of the other
two, but which of them? We were inclined to favor the central one, but
it was hard to determine, they looked so equal in height. When,
however, the council came to study the third question, “How is it to be
done?” it was unanimously voted that upon the eastern and southern
sides it was certainly relatively difficult, and that a move should be
made round to the northern side.

The movement was duly executed, and after wading up some snow-slopes of
considerable steepness (going occasionally beyond 40°), we found
ourselves in a gap or nick between the central and northernmost
Aiguille at 8.45 A M. We then studied the northern face of our intended
peak, and finally arrived at the conclusion that it was relatively
impracticable. Croz shrugged his big shoulders, and said, “My faith! I
think you will do well to leave it to others.” Almer was more explicit,
and volunteered the information that a thousand francs would not tempt
him to _try_ it. We then turned to the northernmost peak, but found its
southern faces even more hopeless than the northern faces of the
central one. We enjoyed accordingly the unwonted luxury of a three
hours’ rest on the top of our pass, for pass we were determined it
should be.

We might have done worse. We were ten thousand three hundred or ten
thousand four hundred feet above the level of the sea, and commanded a
most picturesque view of the mountains of the Tarentaise, while
somewhat east of south we saw the monarch of the Dauphiné _massif_,
whose closer acquaintance it was our intention to make. Three sunny
hours passed away, and then we turned to the descent. We saw the
distant pastures of a valley (which we supposed was the Vallon or
Ravine de la Sausse), and a long snow-slope leading down to them. But
from that slope we were cut off by precipitous rocks, and our first
impression was that we should have to return in our track. Some running
up and down, however, discovered two little gullies filled with threads
of snow, and down the most northern of these we decided to go. It was a
steep way, but a safe one, for the cleft was so narrow that we could
press the shoulder against one side whilst the feet were against the
other, and the last remnant of the winter’s snow, well hardened, clung
to the rift with great tenacity, and gave us a path when the rocks
refused one. In half an hour we got to the top of the great snow-slope.
Walker said, “Let us glissade;” the guides, “No, it is too steep.” Our
friend, however, started off at a standing glissade, and advanced for a
time very skillfully; but after a while he lost his balance, and
progressed downward and backward with great rapidity, in a way that
seemed to us very much like tumbling heels over head. He let go his axe
and left it behind, but it overtook him and batted him heartily. He and
it traveled in this fashion for some hundreds of feet, and at last
subsided into the rocks at the bottom. In a few moments we were
reassured as to his safety by hearing him ironically request us not to
keep him waiting down there.

[Illustration: THE AIGUILLES D’ARVE FROM ABOVE THE CHALETS OF RIEU
BLANC]

We others followed the tracks shown by the dotted line upon the
engraving (making zigzags to avoid the little groups of rocks which
jutted through the snow, by which Walker had been upset), descended by
a _sitting_ glissade, and rejoined our friend at the bottom. We then
turned sharply to the left, and tramped down the summit ridge of an old
moraine of great size. Its mud was excessively hard, and where some
large erratic blocks lay perched upon its crest we were obliged to cut
steps (in the mud) with our ice-axes.

Guided by the sound of a distant “moo,” we speedily found the highest
châlets in the valley, named Rieu Blanc. They were tenanted by three
old women (who seemed to belong to one of the missing links sought by
naturalists) destitute of all ideas except in regard to cows, and who
spoke a barbarous patois wellnigh unintelligible to the Savoyard Croz.
They would not believe that we had passed between the Aiguilles: “It is
impossible, the _cows_ never go there.” “Could we get to La Grave over
yonder ridge?” “Oh yes! the _cows_ often crossed!” Could they show us
the way? No, but we could follow the _cow_-tracks.

We stayed a while near these châlets to examine the western sides of
the Aiguilles d’Arve, and, according to our united opinion, the central
one was as inaccessible from this direction as from the east, north or
south. On the following day we saw them again, from a height of about
eleven thousand feet, in a south-easterly direction, and our opinion
remained unchanged.

We saw (on June 20-22) the central Aiguille from all sides, and very
nearly completely round the southernmost one. The northern one we also
saw on all sides excepting from the north. (It is, however, precisely
from this direction M. Joanne says that its ascent is relatively easy.)
We do not, therefore, venture to express any opinion respecting its
ascent, except as regards its actual summit. This is formed of two
curious prongs or pinnacles of rock, and we do not understand in what
way they (or either of them) can be ascended; nor shall we be surprised
if this ascent is discovered to have been made in spirit rather than
body—in fact, in the same manner as the celebrated ascent of Mont
Blanc, “not entirely to the summit, but as far as the Montanvert!”

All three of the Aiguilles _may_ be accessible, but they look as
inaccessible as anything I have seen. They are the highest summits
between the valleys of the Romanche and the Arc: they are placed
slightly to the north of the watershed between those two valleys, and a
line drawn through them runs pretty nearly north and south.

We descended by a rough path from Rieu Blanc to the châlets of La
Sausse, which give the name to the Vallon or Ravine de la Sausse in
which they are situated. This is one of the numerous branches of the
valley that leads to St. Jean d’Arve, and subsequently to St. Jean de
Maurienne.

Two passes, more or less known, lead from this valley to the village of
La Grave (on the Lautaret road) in the valley of the Romanche—viz., the
Col de l’Infernet and the Col de Martignare. The former pass was
crossed just thirty years ago by J. D. Forbes, and was mentioned by him
in his _Norway and its Glaciers_. The latter one lies to the north of
the former, and is seldom traversed by tourists, but it was convenient
for us, and we set out to cross it on the morning of the 22d, after
having passed a comfortable but not luxurious night in the hay at La
Sausse, where, however, the simplicity of the accommodation was more
than counterbalanced by the civility and hospitality of the people in
charge.[16]

 [16] While stopping in the hospice on the Col de Lautaret, in 1869, I
 was accosted by a middle-aged peasant, who asked if I would ride (for
 a consideration) in his cart towards Briançon. He was inquisitive as
 to my knowledge of his district, and at last asked, “Have you been at
 La Sausse?” “Yes.” “Well, then, I tell you, _you saw there some of the
 first people in the world_.” “Yes,” I said, “they were primitive,
 certainly.” But he was serious, and went on—“Yes, real brave people;”
 and, slapping his knee to give emphasis, “_but that they are
 first-rate for minding the cows!_”
    After this he became communicative. “You thought, probably,” said
    he, “when I offered to take you down, that I was some poor——, not
    worth a _sou;_ but I will tell you, that was my mountain! _my_
    mountain! that you saw at La Sausse; they were _my_ cows! a hundred
    of them altogether.” “Why, you are rich.” “Passably rich. I have
    another mountain on the Col du Galibier, and another at
    Ville-neuve.” He (although a common peasant in outward appearance)
    confessed to being worth four thousand pounds.

We left the chalets at 4.15 A.M. under a shower of good wishes from our
hostesses, proceeded at first toward the upper end of the ravine, then
doubled back up a long buttress which projects in an unusual way, and
went toward the Col de Martignare; but before arriving at its summit we
again doubled and resumed the original course. At 6 A. M. we stood on
the watershed, and followed it toward the east, keeping for some
distance strictly to the ridge, and afterward diverging a little to the
south to avoid a considerable secondary aiguille, which prevented a
straight track being made to the summit at which we were aiming. At
9.15 we stood on its top, and saw at once the lay of the land.

We were very fortunate in the selection of our summit. Not to speak of
other things, it gave a grand view of the ridge which culminates in the
peak called La Meije (13,080 feet), which used to be mentioned by
travelers under the name Aiguille du Midi de la Grave. It is the last,
the only, great Alpine peak which has never known the foot of man, and
one cannot speak in exaggerated terms of its jagged ridges, torrential
glaciers and tremendous precipices. But were I to discourse upon these
things without the aid of pictures, or to endeavor to convey in _words_
a sense of the loveliness of curves, of the beauty of _colour_ or of
the harmonies of _sound_, I should try to accomplish that which is
impossible, and at the best should succeed in but giving an impression
that the things spoken of may have been pleasant to hear or to behold,
although they are perfectly incomprehensible to read about. Let me
therefore avoid these things, not because I have no love for or thought
of them, but because they cannot be translated into language; and
presently, when topographical details must of necessity be returned to
again, I will endeavor to relieve the poverty of the pen by a free use
of the pencil.

Whilst we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse our attention was
concentrated on a point that was immediately opposite—on a gap or cleft
between the Meije and the mountain called the Rateau. It was, indeed,
in order to have a good view of this place that we made the ascent of
the Aiguille. It (that is, the gap itself) looked, as my companions
remarked, obtrusively and offensively a pass. It had not been crossed,
but it ought to have been; and this seemed to have been recognized by
the natives, who called it, very appropriately, the Brèche de la Meije.
It led to La Bérarde, a miserable village, without interest, without
commerce, and almost without population. Why, then, did we wish to
cross it? Because we were bound to the Pointe des Écrins, to which La
Bérarde was the nearest inhabited place.

When we sat upon the Aiguille de la Sausse we were rather despondent
about our prospects of crossing the Brèche, which seemed to present a
combination of all that was formidable. There was evidently but one way
by which it could be approached. We saw that at the top of the pass
there was a steep wall of snow or ice (so steep that it was most likely
ice), protected at its base by a big schrund or moat, which severed it
from the snow-fields below. Then (tracking our course downward) we saw
undulating snow-fields leading down to a great glacier. The snow-fields
would be easy work, but the glacier was riven and broken in every
direction, huge crevasses seemed to extend entirely across it in some
places, and everywhere it had that strange twisted look which tells of
the unequal motion of the ice. Where could we get on to it? At its base
it came to a violent end, being cut short by a cliff, over which it
poured periodical avalanches, as we saw by a great triangular bed of
débris below. We could not venture there—the glacier must be taken in
flank. But on which side? Not on the west—no one could climb those
cliffs. It must, if anywhere, be by the rocks on the east, and _they_
looked as if they were _roches moutonnées._

So we hurried down to La Grave, to hear what Melchior Anderegg (who had
just passed through the village with the family of our friend Walker)
had to say on the matter. Who is Melchior Anderegg? Those who ask the
question cannot have been in Alpine Switzerland, where the name of
Melchior is as well known as the name of Napoleon. Melchior, too, is an
emperor in his way—a very prince among guides. His empire is amongst
the “eternal snows”—his sceptre is an ice-axe.

Melchior Anderegg—more familiarly and perhaps more generally known
simply as Melchior—was born at Zaun, near Meiringen, on April 6, 1828.
He was first brought into public notice in Hinchcliff’s _Summer Months
in the Alps_, and was known to very few persons at the time that little
work was published. In 1855 he was “Boots” at the Grimsel hotel, and in
those days when he went out on expeditions it was for the benefit of
his master, the proprietor: Melchior himself only got the _trinkgelt._
In 1856 he migrated to the Schwarenbach inn on the Gemmi, where he
employed his time in carving objects for sale. In 1858 he made numerous
expeditions with Messrs. Hinchcliff and Stephen, and proved to his
employers that he possessed first-rate skill, indomitable courage and
an admirable character. His position has never been doubtful since that
year, and for a long time there has been no guide whose services have
been more in request: he is usually engaged a year in advance.

[Illustration: MELCHIOR ANDEREGG IN 1864]

It would be almost an easier task to say what he has not done than to
catalogue his achievements. Invariable success attends his arms: he
leads his followers to victory, but not to death. I believe that no
accident has ever befallen travelers in his charge. Like his friend
Almer, he can be called a _safe_ man. It is the highest praise that can
be given to a first-rate guide.

Early in the afternoon we found ourselves in the little inn at La
Grave, on the great Lautaret road, a rickety, tumble-down sort of
place, with nothing stable about it, as Moore wittily remarked, except
the smell. Melchior had gone, and had left behind a note which said, “I
think the passage of the Brèche _is_ possible, but that it will be very
difficult.” His opinion coincided with ours, and we went to sleep,
expecting to be afoot about eighteen or twenty hours on the morrow.

At 2.40 the next morning we left La Grave, in a few minutes crossed the
Romanche, and at 4 A.M. got to the moraine of the eastern branch of the
glacier that descends from the Brèche.[17] The rocks by which we
intended to ascend were placed between the two branches of this
glacier, and still looked smooth and unbroken. But by five o’clock we
were upon them. We had been deluded by them. No carpenter could have
planned a more convenient staircase. They were _not moutonnée_, their
smooth look from a distance was only owing to their singular firmness.
In an hour we had risen above the most crevassed portion of the
glacier, and began to look for a way on to it. Just at the right place
there was a patch of old snow at the side, and, instead of gaining the
ice by desperate acrobatic feats, we passed from the rocks on to it as
easily as one walks across a gangway. At half-past six we were on the
centre of the glacier, and the inhabitants of La Grave turned out _en
masse_ into the road and watched us with amazement as they witnessed
the falsification of their confident predictions. Well might they
stare, for our little caravan, looking to them like a train of flies on
a wall, crept up and up, without hesitation and without a halt—lost to
their sight one minute as it dived into a crevasse, then seen again
clambering up the other side. The higher we rose the easier became the
work, the angles lessened and our pace increased. The snow remained
shadowed, and we walked as easily as on a high road; and when (at 7.45)
the summit of the Brèche was seen, we rushed at it as furiously as if
it had been a breach in the wall of a fortress, carried the moat by a
dash, with a push behind and a pull before, stormed the steep slope
above, and at 8.50 stood in the little gap, 11,054 feet above the level
of the sea. The Brèche was won. Well might they stare—five hours and a
quarter had sufficed for sixty-five hundred feet of ascent.[18] We
screamed triumphantly as they turned in to breakfast.

 [17] Our route from La Grave to La Bérarde will be seen on the
 accompanying map.

 [18] Taking one kind of work with another, a thousand feet of height
 per hour is about as much as is usually accomplished on great Alpine
 ascents.

[Illustration: SCALE, THREE MILES TO AN INCH]

Our day’s work was as good as over (for we knew from Messrs. Mathews
and Bonney that there was no difficulty upon the other side), and we
abandoned ourselves to ease and luxury; wondering alternately, as we
gazed upon the Rateau and the Écrins, how the one mountain could
possibly hold itself together, and whether the other would hold out
against us. The former looked so rotten that it seemed as if a puff of
wind or a clap of thunder might dash the whole fabric to pieces, while
the latter asserted itself the monarch of the group, and towered head
and shoulders above all the rest of the peaks which form the great
horseshoe of Dauphiné. At length a cruel rush of cold air made us
shiver, and shift our quarters to a little grassy plot three thousand
feet below—an oasis in a desert—where we lay nearly four hours admiring
the splendid wall which protects the summit of the Meije from assault
upon this side.[19] Then we tramped down the Vallon des Étançons, a
howling wilderness, the abomination of desolation; destitute alike of
animal or vegetable life; pathless, of course; suggestive of chaos, but
of little else; covered almost throughout its entire length with
débris, from the size of a walnut up to that of a house: in a word, it
looked as if half a dozen moraines of first-rate dimensions had been
carted and shot into it. Our tempers were soured by constant pitfalls:
it was impossible to take the eyes from the feet, and if an unlucky
individual so much as blew his nose without standing still to perform
the operation, the result was either an instantaneous tumble or a
barked shin or a half-twisted ankle. There was no end to it, and we
became more savage at every step, unanimously agreeing that no power on
earth would ever induce us to walk up or down this particular valley
again. It was not just to the valley, which was enclosed by noble
mountains—unknown, it is true, but worthy of a great reputation, and
which, if placed in other districts, would be sought after and cited as
types of daring form and graceful outline.

 [19] This wall may be described as an exaggerated Gemmi, as seen from
 Leukerbad. From the highest summit of La Meije right down to the
 Glacier des Etançons (a depth of about 3200 feet), the cliff is all
 but perpendicular, and appears to be completely unassailable. The
 dimensions of these pages are insufficient to do justice to this
 magnificent wall, which is the most imposing of its kind that I have
 seen; otherwise it would have been engraved.

[Illustration: THE VALLON DES ÉTANÇONS (LOOKING TOWARD LA BÉRARDE)]




CHAPTER IX.
THE ASCENT OF THE POINTE DES ÉCRINS.


Before five o’clock on the afternoon of June 23 we were trotting down
the steep path that leads into La Bérarde. We put up, of course, with
the chasseur-guide Rodier (who, as usual, was smooth and smiling), and
after congratulations were over we returned to the exterior to watch
for the arrival of one Alexander Pic, who had been sent overnight with
our baggage viâ Freney and Venos. But when the night fell and no Pic
appeared, we saw that our plans must be modified, for he was necessary
to our very existence: he carried our food, our tobacco, our all. So,
after some discussion, it was agreed that a portion of our programme
should be abandoned, that the night of the 24th should be passed at the
head of the Glacier de la Bonne Pierre, and that on the 25th a push
should be made for the summit of the Écrins. We then went to straw.

Our porter Pic strolled in next morning with his usual jaunty air, and
we seized upon our tooth-brushes, but upon looking for the cigars we
found starvation staring us in the face. “Hullo! Monsieur Pic, where
are our cigars?” “Gentlemen,” he began, “I am desolated!” and then,
quite pat, he told a long rigmarole about a fit on the road, of
brigands, thieves, of their ransacking the knapsacks when he was
insensible, and of finding them gone when he revived. “Ah, Monsieur
Pic! we see what it is—you have smoked them yourself!” “Gentlemen, I
never smoke—_never!_” Whereupon we inquired secretly if he was known to
smoke, and found that he was. However, he said that he had never spoken
truer words, and perhaps he had not, for he is reported to be the
greatest liar in Dauphiné!

[Illustration: THE CENTRAL DAUPHINÉ ALPS.]

We were now able to start, and set out at 1.15 P M. to bivouac upon the
Glacier de la Bonne Pierre, accompanied by Rodier, who staggered under
a load of blankets. Many slopes had to be mounted, and many torrents to
be crossed, all of which have been described by Mr. Tuckett. We,
however, avoided the difficulties he experienced with the latter by
crossing them high up, where they were subdivided. But when we got on
to the moraine on the right bank of the glacier (or, properly speaking,
on to one of the moraines, for there are several), mists descended, to
our great hindrance, and it was 5.30 before we arrived on the spot at
which it was intended to camp.

Each one selected his nook, and we then joined round a grand fire made
by our men. Fortnum & Mason’s portable soup was sliced up and brewed,
and was excellent; but it should be said that before it _was_ excellent
three times the quantity named in the directions had to be used. Art is
required in drinking as in making this soup, and one point is this:
always let your friends drink first; not only because it is more
polite, but because the soup has a tendency to burn the mouth if taken
too hot, and one drink of the bottom is worth two of the top, as all
the goodness settles.

While engaged in these operations the mist that enveloped the glacier
and surrounding peaks was becoming thinner: little bits of blue sky
appeared here and there, until suddenly, when we were looking toward
the head of the glacier, far, far above us, at an almost inconceivable
height, in a tiny patch of blue, appeared a wonderful rocky pinnacle,
bathed in the beams of the fast-sinking sun. We were so electrified by
the glory of the sight that it was some seconds before we realized what
we saw, and understood that that astounding point, removed apparently
miles from the earth, was one of the highest summits of Les Écrins, and
that we hoped, before another sun had set, to stand upon an even
loftier pinnacle. The mists rose and fell, presenting us with a series
of dissolving views of ravishing grandeur, and finally died away,
leaving the glacier and its mighty bounding precipices under an
exquisite pale blue sky, free from a single speck of cloud.

The night passed over without anything worth mention, but we had
occasion to observe in the morning an instance of the curious
evaporation that is frequently noticeable in the High Alps. On the
previous night we had hung up on a knob of rock our mackintosh bag
containing five bottles of Rodier’s bad wine. In the morning, although
the stopper appeared to have been in all night, about four-fifths had
evaporated. It was strange: my friends had not taken any, neither had
I, and the guides each declared that they had not seen any one touch
it. In fact, it was clear that there was no explanation of the
phenomenon but in the dryness of the air. Still, it is remarkable that
the dryness of the air (or the evaporation of wine) is always greatest
when a stranger is in one’s party; the dryness caused by the presence
of even a single Chamounix porter is sometimes so great that not
four-fifths but the entire quantity disappears. For a time I found
difficulty in combating this phenomenon, but at last discovered that if
I used the wine-flask as a pillow during the night the evaporation was
completely stopped.

At 4 A.M. we moved off across the glacier in single file toward the
foot of a great gully which led from the upper slopes of the Glacier de
la Bonne Pierre to the lowest point in the ridge that runs from the
Écrins to the mountain called Roche Faurio—cheered by Rodier, who now
returned with his wraps to La Bérarde.

[Illustration]

By five minutes to six we were at the top of the gully (a first-rate
couloir about one thousand feet high), and within sight of our work.
Hard, thin and wedge-like as the Écrins had looked from afar, it had
never looked so hard and so thin as it did when we emerged from the top
of the couloir through the gap in the ridge: no tender shadows spoke of
broad and rounded ridges, but sharp and shadowless its serrated edges
stood out against the clear sky. It had been said that the route must
be taken by one of the ridges of the final peak, but both were alike
repellent, hacked and notched in numberless places. They reminded me of
my failure on the Dent d’Hérens in 1863, and of a place on a similar
ridge from which advance or retreat was alike difficult. But, presuming
one or other of these ridges or arètes to be practicable, there
remained the task of getting to them, for completely round the base of
the final peak swept an enormous bergschrund, almost separating it from
the slopes which lay beneath. It was evident thus early that the ascent
would not be accomplished without exertion, and that it would demand
all our faculties and all our time. In more than one respect we were
favored. The mists were gone, the day was bright and perfectly calm,
there had been a long stretch of fine weather beforehand, and the snow
was in excellent order; and, most important of all, the last new snow
which had fallen on the final peak, unable to support itself, had
broken away and rolled in a mighty avalanche over schrund, névé,
séracs, over hills and valleys in the glacier (leveling one and filling
the other), completely down to the col, where it lay in huge jammed
masses, powerless to harm us; and had made a broad track, almost a
road, over which, for part of the way at least, we might advance with
rapidity.

We took in all this in a few minutes, and seeing there was no time to
be lost, despatched a hasty meal, left knapsacks, provisions and all
encumbrances by the col, started again at half-past six, and made
direct for the left side of the schrund, for it was there alone that a
passage was practicable. We crossed it at 8.10. Our route can now be
followed upon the annexed outline. The arrow marked D points out the
direction Glacier de la Bonne Pierre. The ridge in front, that extends
right across, is the ridge that is partially shown on the of the map at
page 202, leading from Roche Faurio toward the W.N.W. We arrived upon
the plateau of the Glacier de l’Encula, behind this ridge, from the
direction of D, and then made a nearly straight track to the left hand
of the bergschrund at A.

[Illustration]

Thus far there was no trouble, but the nature of the work changed
immediately. If we regard the upper seven hundred feet alone of the
final peak of the Écrins, it may be described as a three-sided pyramid.
One face is toward the Glacier Noir, and forms one of the sheerest
precipices in the Alps. Another is toward the Glacier du Vallon, and is
less steep and less uniform in angle than the first. The third is
toward the Glacier de l’Encula, and it was by this one we approached
the summit. Imagine a triangular plane seven hundred or eight hundred
feet high, set at an angle exceeding 50°; let it be smooth, glassy; let
the uppermost edges be cut into spikes and teeth, and let them be bent,
some one way, some another. Let the glassy face be covered with minute
fragments of rock, scarcely attached, but varnished with ice: imagine
this, and then you will have a very faint idea of the face of the
Écrins on which we stood. It was not possible to avoid detaching
stones, which, as they fell, caused words unmentionable to rise. The
greatest friends would have reviled each other in such a situation. We
gained the eastern arête, and endeavored for half an hour to work
upward toward the summit, but it was useless (each yard of progress
cost an incredible time); and having no desire to form the acquaintance
of the Glacier Noir in a precipitate manner, we beat a retreat and
returned to the schrund. We again held a council, and it was
unanimously decided that we should be beaten if we could not cut along
the upper edge of the schrund, and, when nearly beneath the summit,
work up to it. So Croz took off his coat and went to work, on ice—not
that black ice so often mentioned and so seldom seen, but on ice as
hard as ice could be. Weary work for the guides. Croz cut for more than
half an hour, and we did not seem to have advanced at all. Some one
behind, seeing how great the labor was and how slow the progress,
suggested that after all we might do better on the arête. Croz’s blood
was up, and, indignant at this slight on his powers, he ceased working,
turned in his steps, and rushed toward me with a haste that made me
shudder: “By all means let us go there!—the sooner the better.” No
slight was intended, and he resumed his work, after a time being
relieved by Almer. Half-past ten came: an hour had passed—they were
still cutting. Dreary work for us, for there was no capering about to
be done here; hand as well as foot holes were necessary; the fingers
and toes got very cold; the ice, as it boomed in bounding down the
bergschrund, was very suggestive; conversation was very restricted,
separated as we were by our tether of twenty feet apiece. Another hour
passed. We were now almost immediately below the summit, and we stopped
to look up. We were nearly as far off it (vertically) as we had been
more than three hours before. The day seemed going against us. The only
rocks near at hand were scattered, no bigger than tea-cups, and most of
these we found afterward, were glazed with ice. Time forbade cutting
right up to the summit, even had it been possible, which it was not. We
decided to go up to the ridge again by means of the rocks, but had we
not had a certain confidence in each other, it unquestionably would not
have been done; for this, it must be understood, was a situation where
not only _might_ a slip have been fatal to every one, but it would have
been so beyond doubt: nothing, moreover, was easier than to make one.
It was a place where all had to work in unison, where there must be no
slackening of the rope and no unnecessary tension. For another hour we
were in this trying situation, and at 12.30 we gained the arête again,
but at a much higher point (B), close to the summit. Our men were, I am
afraid, wellnigh worn out: cutting up a couloir one thousand feet high
was not the right sort of preparation for work of this kind. Be it so
or not, we were all glad to rest for a short time, for we had not sat
down a minute since leaving the col, six hours before. Almer, however,
was restless, knowing that mid-day was past, and that much remained to
be accomplished, and untied himself and commenced working toward the
summit. Connecting the teeth of rock were beds of snow, and Almer, but
a few feet from me, was crossing the top of one of these, when
suddenly, without a moment’s warning, it broke away under him and
plunged down on to the glacier. As he staggered for a second, one foot
in the act of stepping and the other on the falling mass, I thought him
lost, but he happily fell on to the right side and stopped himself. Had
he taken the step with his right instead of his left foot, he would, in
all probability, have fallen several hundred feet without touching
anything, and would not have been arrested before reaching the glacier,
a vertical distance of at least three thousand feet.

Small, ridiculously small, as the distance was to the summit, we were
occupied nearly another hour before it was gained. Almer was a few feet
in front, and he, with characteristic modesty, hesitated to step on the
highest point, and drew back to allow us to pass. A cry was raised for
Croz, who had done the chief part of the work, but he declined the
honor, and we marched on to the top simultaneously—that is to say,
clustered round it, a yard or two below, for it was much too small to
get upon.

According to my custom, I bagged a piece from off the highest rock
(chlorite slate), and I found afterward that it had a striking
similarity to the final peak of the Écrins. I have noticed the same
thing on other occasions, and it is worthy of remark that not only do
fragments of such rock as limestone often present the characteristic
forms of the cliffs from which they have been broken, but that morsels
of mica slate will represent, in a wonderful manner, the identical
shape of the peaks of which they have formed part. Why should it not be
so if the mountain’s mass is more or less homogeneous? The same causes
which produce the small forms fashion the large ones: the same
influences are at work—the same frost and rain give shape to the mass
as well as to its parts.

[Illustration: FRAGMENT FROM THE SUMMIT OF THE POINTE DES ÉCRINS.]

Did space permit me, I could give but a sorry idea of the view, but it
will be readily imagined that a panorama extending over as much ground
as the whole of England is one worth taking some trouble to see, and
one which is not often to be seen even in the Alps. No clouds obscured
it, and a list of the summits that we saw would include nearly all the
highest peaks of the chain. I saw the Pelvoux now—as I had seen the
Écrins from it three years before—across the basin of the Glacier Noir.
It is a splendid mountain, although in height it is equaled, if not
surpassed, by its neighbor, the Aléfroide.

We could stay on the summit but a short time, and at a quarter to two
prepared for the descent. Now, as we looked down, and thought of what
we had passed over in coming up, we one and all hesitated about
returning the same way. Moore said, No. Walker said the same, and I
too—the guides were both of the same mind: this, be it remarked,
although we had considered that there was no chance whatever of getting
up any other way. But those “last rocks” were not to be forgotten. Had
they but protruded to a moderate extent, or had they been merely
glazed, we should doubtless still have tried; but they were not
reasonable rocks—they would neither allow us to hold nor would do it
themselves. So we turned to the western arête, trusting to luck that we
should find a way down to the schrund, and some means of getting over
it afterward. Our faces were a tolerable index to our thoughts, and
apparently the thoughts of the party were not happy ones. Had any one
then said to me, “You are a great fool for coming here,” I should have
answered with humility, “It is too true.” And had my monitor gone on to
say, “Swear you will never ascend another mountain if you get down
safely,” I am inclined to think I should have taken the oath. In fact,
the game here was not worth the risk. The guides felt it as well as
ourselves, and as Almer led off he remarked, with more piety than
logic, “The good God has brought us up, and he will take us down in
safety;” which showed pretty well what he was thinking about.

The ridge down which we now endeavored to make our way was not inferior
in difficulty to the other. Both were serrated to an extent that made
it impossible to keep strictly to them, and obliged us to descend
occasionally for some distance on the northern face and then mount
again. Both were so rotten that the most experienced of our party, as
well as the least, continually upset blocks large and small. Both
arêtes were so narrow, so thin, that it was often a matter for
speculation on which side an unstable block would fall.

[Illustration: DESCENDING THE WESTERN ARÊTE OF THE POINTE DES ÉCRINS.]

At one point it seemed that we should be obliged to return to the
summit and try the other way down. We were on the very edge of the
arête: on one side was the enormous precipice facing the Pelvoux, which
is not far from perpendicular—on the other a slope exceeding 50°. A
deep notch brought us to an abrupt halt. Almer, who was leading,
advanced cautiously to the edge on his hands and knees and peered over:
his care was by no means unnecessary, for the rocks had broken away
from under us unexpectedly several times. In this position he looked
down for some moments, and then without a word turned his head and
looked at us. His face _may_ have expressed apprehension or alarm, but
it certainly did not show hope or joy. We learned that there was no
means of getting down, and that we must, if we wanted to pass it, jump
across on to an unstable block on the other side. It was decided that
it should be done, and Almer, with a larger extent of rope than usual,
jumped: the rock swayed as he came down upon it, but he clutched a
large mass with both arms and brought himself to anchor. That which was
both difficult and dangerous for the first man was easy enough for the
others, and we got across with less trouble than I expected, stimulated
by Croz’s perfectly just observation, that if we couldn’t get across
there we were not likely to get down the other way.

We had now arrived at C, and could no longer continue on the arête, so
we commenced descending the face again. Before long we were close to
the schrund, but unable to see what it was like at this part, as the
upper edge bent over. Two hours had already passed since leaving the
summit, and it began to be highly probable that we should have to spend
a night on the Glacier Blanc. Almer, who yet led, cut steps tight down
to the edge, but still he could not see below: therefore, warning us to
hold tight, he made his whole body rigid, and (standing in the large
step which he had cut for the purpose) had the upper part of his person
lowered out until he saw what he wanted. He shouted that our work was
finished, made me come close to the edge and untie myself, advanced the
others until he had rope enough, and then with a loud _jödel_ jumped
down on to soft snow. Partly by skill and partly by luck he had hit the
crevasse at its easiest point, and we had only to make a downward jump
of eight or ten feet.

It was now 4.45 P.M.: we had been more than eight hours and a half
accomplishing the ascent of the final peak, which, according to an
observation by Mr. Bonney in 1862, is only 525 feet high.[20] During
this period we had not stopped for more than half an hour, and our
nerves and muscles had been kept at the highest degree of tension the
whole time. It may be imagined that we accepted the ordinary conditions
of glacier traveling as an agreeable relief, and that that which at
another time might have seemed formidable we treated as the veriest
bagatelle. Late in the day as it was, and soft as was the snow, we put
on such pace that we reached the Col des Écrins in less than forty
minutes. We lost no time in arranging our baggage, for we had still to
traverse a long glacier, and to get clear of two ice-falls before it
was dark; so at 5.35 we resumed the march, adjourning eating and
drinking, and put on a spurt which took us clear of the Glacier Blanc
by 7.45 P.M. We got clear of the moraine of the Glacier Noir at 8.45,
just as the last remnant of daylight vanished. Croz and myself were a
trifle in advance of the others, and fortunately so for us; for as they
were about to commence the descent of the snout of the glacier, the
whole of the moraine that rested on its face peeled off and came down
with a tremendous roar.

 [20] See vol. i., p. 73, of _Alpine Journal_. We considered the height
 assigned to the final peak by Mr. Bonney was too small, and thought it
 should have been 200 feet more.

We had now the pleasure of walking over a plain that is known by the
name of the Pré de Madame Carle, covered with pebbles of all sizes and
intersected by numerous small streams or torrents. Every hole looked
like a stone, every stone like a hole, and we tumbled about from side
to side until our limbs and our tempers became thoroughly jaded. My
companions, being both short-sighted, found the traveling especially
disagreeable; so there was little wonder that when we came upon a huge
mass of rock as big as a house, which had fallen from the flanks of
Pelvoux, a regular cube that offered no shelter whatever, Moore cried
out in ecstasy, “Oh, how delightful! the very thing I have been longing
for! Let us have a perfectly extemporaneous bivouac.” This, it should
be said, was when the night threatened thunder and lightning, rain and
all other delights.

The pleasures of a perfectly extemporaneous bivouac under these
circumstances not being novelties to Croz and myself, we thought we
would try for the miseries of a roof, but Walker and Almer, with their
usual good-nature, declared it was the very thing that they too were
longing for; so the trio resolved to stop. We generously left them all
the provisions (a dozen cubic inches or thereabouts of bacon fat and
half a candle), and pushed on for the châlets of Aléfroide, or at least
we thought we did, but could not be certain. In the course of half an
hour we got uncommonly close to the main torrent, and Croz all at once
disappeared. I stepped cautiously forward to peer down into the place
where I thought he was, and quietly tumbled head over heels into a big
rhododendron bush. Extricating myself with some trouble, I fell
backward over some rocks, and got wedged in a cleft so close to the
torrent that it splashed all over me.

The colloquy which then ensued amid the thundering of the stream was as
follows: “Hullo, Croz!” “Eh, monsieur?” “Where are you?” “Here,
monsieur.” “Where _is_ here?” “I don’t know: where are you?” “Here,
Croz;” and so on.

The fact was, from the intense darkness and the noise of the torrent,
we had no idea of each other’s situation: in the course of ten minutes,
however, we joined together again, agreed we had quite enough of that
kind of thing, and adjourned to a most eligible rock at 10.15. How well
I remember the night at that rock, and the jolly way in which Croz came
out! We were both very wet about the legs, and both uncommonly hungry,
but the time passed pleasantly enough round our fire of juniper, and
until long past midnight we sat up recounting, over our pipes,
wonderful stories of the most incredible description, in which, I must
admit, my companion beat me hollow. Then throwing ourselves on our beds
of rhododendron, we slept an untroubled sleep, and rose on a bright
Sunday morning as fresh as might be, intending to enjoy a day’s rest
and luxury with our friends at La Ville de Val Louise.

[Illustration: A NIGHT WITH CROZ]

I have failed to give the impression I wish if it has not been made
evident that the ascent of the Pointe des Écrins was not an ordinary
piece of work. There is an increasing disposition now-a-days, amongst
those who write on the Alps, to underrate the difficulties and dangers
which are met with, and this disposition is, I think, not less
mischievous than the old-fashioned style of making everything terrible.
Difficult as we found the peak, I believe we took it at the best,
perhaps the only possible, time of the year. The great slope on which
we spent so much time was, from being denuded by the avalanche of which
I have spoken, deprived of its greatest danger. Had it had the snow
still resting upon it, and had we persevered with the expedition, we
should almost without doubt have ended with calamity instead of
success. The ice of that slope is always below, its angle is severe,
and the rocks do not project sufficiently to afford the support that
snow requires to be stable when at a great angle. So far am I from
desiring to tempt any one to repeat the expedition, that I put it on
record as my belief, however sad and however miserable a man may have
been, if he is found on the summit of the Pointe des Écrins after a
fall of new snow, he is likely to experience misery far deeper than
anything with which he has hitherto been acquainted.




CHAPTER X.
FROM VAL LOUISE TO LA BÉRARDE BY THE COL DE PILATTE.


From Ailefroide to Claux, but for the path, travel would be scarcely
more easy than over the Pré de Madame Carle. The valley is strewn with
immense masses of gneiss, from the size of a large house downward, and
it is only occasionally that rock _in situ_ is seen, so covered up is
it by the débris, which seems to have been derived almost entirely from
the neighboring cliffs. It was Sunday, a day most calm and bright.
Golden sunlight had dispersed the clouds and was glorifying the
heights, and we forgot hunger through the brilliancy of the morning and
beauty of the mountains.

We meant the 26th to be a day of rest, but it was little that we found
in the _cabaret_ of Claude Giraud, and we fled before the babel of
sound which rose in intensity as men descended to a depth which is
unattainable by the beasts of the field, and found at the chalets of
Entraigues the peace that had been denied to us at Val Louise.

Again we were received with the most cordial hospitality. Everything
that was eatable or drinkable was brought out and pressed upon us; very
little curiosity was exhibited; all information that could be afforded
was given; and when we retired to our clean straw we again
congratulated each other that we had escaped from the foul den which is
where a good inn should be, and had cast in our lot with those who
dwell in châlets. Very luxurious that straw seemed after two nights
upon quartz pebbles and glacier mud, and I felt quite aggrieved
(expecting it was the summons for departure) when, about midnight, the
heavy wooden door creaked on its hinges, and a man hem’d and ha’d to
attract attention; but when it whispered, “Monsieur Edvard,” I
perceived my mistake: it was our Pelvoux companion, Monsieur Reynaud,
the excellent _agent-voyer_ of La Bessée.

Monsieur Reynaud had been invited to accompany us on the excursion that
is described in this chapter, but had arrived at Val Louise after we
had left, and had energetically pursued us during the night. Our idea
was, that a pass might be made over the high ridge called (on the
French map) Crête de Bœufs Rouges, near to the peak named Les Bans,
which might be the shortest route in time (as it certainly would be in
distance) from Val Louise across the central Dauphiné Alps. We had seen
the northern (or Pilatte) side from the Brèche de la Meije, and it
seemed to be practicable at one place near the above-mentioned
mountain. More than that could not be told at a distance of eleven
miles. We intended to try to hit a point on the ridge immediately above
the part where it seemed to be easiest.

We left Entraigues at 3.30 on the morning of June 27, and proceeded,
over very gently-inclined ground, toward the foot of the Pic de
Bonvoisin (following, in fact, the route of the Col de Sellar, which
leads from the Val Louise into the Val Godemar);[21] and at 5 A.M.
finding that there was no chance of obtaining a view from the bottom of
the valley of the ridge over which our route was to be taken, sent
Almer up the lower slopes of the Bonvoisin to reconnoitre. He
telegraphed that we might proceed, and at 5.45 we quitted the snow-beds
at the bottom of the valley for the slopes which rose toward the north.

 [21] The height of Col de Sellar (or de Celar) is 10,073 feet
 (Forbes). I was told by peasants at Entraigues that sheep and goats
 can be easily taken across it.

The course was north-north-west, and was prodigiously steep. _In less
than two miles’ difference of latitude we rose one mile of absolute
height._ But the route was so far from being an exceptionally difficult
one that at 10.45 we stood on the summit of the pass, having made an
ascent of more than five thousand feet in five hours, inclusive of
halts.

Upon the French map a glacier is laid down on the south of the Crête de
Bœufs Rouges, extending along the entire length of the ridge, at its
foot, from east to west. In 1864 this glacier did not exist as _one_
glacier, but in the place where it should have been there were several
small ones, all of which were, I believe, separated from each
other.[22] We commenced the ascent from the Val d’Entraigues to the
west of the most western of these small glaciers, and quitted the
valley by the first great gap in its cliffs after that glacier was
passed. We did not take to the ice until it afforded an easier route
than the rocks: then (at 8.30) Croz went to the front, and led with
admirable skill through a maze of crevasses up to the foot of a great
snow _couloir_, that rose from the head of the glacier to the summit of
the ridge over which we had to pass.

 [22] See map on p. 202. It is perhaps just possible, although
 improbable, that these little glaciers were united together at the
 time that the survey was made. Since then the glaciers of Dauphiné (as
 throughout the Alps generally) have shrunk very considerably. A
 notable diminution took place in their size in 1869, which was
 attributed by the natives to the very heavy rains of that year.

We had settled beforehand in London, without knowing anything whatever
about the place, that such a couloir as this should be in this angle;
but when we got into the Val d’Entraigues, and found that it was not
possible to see into the corner, our faith in its existence became less
and less, until the telegraphing of Almer, who was sent up the opposite
slopes to search for it, assured us that we were true prophets.

Snow _couloirs_ are nothing more or less than gullies partly filled by
snow. They are most useful institutions, and may be considered as
natural highways placed, by a kind Providence, in convenient situations
for getting over places which would otherwise be inaccessible. They are
a joy to the mountaineer, and, from afar, assure him of a path when all
besides is uncertain; but they are grief to novices, who, when upon
steep snow, are usually seized with two notions—first, that the snow
will slip, and, secondly, that those who are upon it must slip too.

[Illustration]

Nothing, perhaps, could look much more unpromising to those who do not
know the virtues of couloirs than such a place as the engraving
represents,[23] and if persons inexperienced in mountain-craft had
occasion to cross a ridge or to climb rocks in which there were such
couloirs, they would instinctively avoid them. But practiced
mountaineers would naturally look to them for a path, and would follow
them almost as a matter of course, unless they turned out to be filled
with ice or too much swept by falling stones, or the rock at the sides
proved to be of such an exceptional character as to afford an easier
path than the snow.

 [23] This drawing was made to illustrate the remarks which follow. It
 does not represent any particular couloir, but it would serve,
 tolerably well, as a portrait of the one which we ascended when
 crossing the Col de Pilatte.

Couloirs look prodigiously steep when seen from the front, and, so
viewed, it is impossible to be certain of their inclination within many
degrees. Snow, however, does actually lie at steeper angles in couloirs
than in any other situation: forty-five to fifty degrees is not an
uncommon inclination. Even at such angles, two men with proper axes can
mount on snow at the rate of seven hundred to eight hundred feet per
hour. The same amount can only be accomplished in the same time on
steep rocks when they are of the very easiest character, and four or
five hours may be readily spent upon an equal height of difficult
rocks. Snow-couloirs are therefore to be commended because they
economize time.

Of course, in all gullies one is liable to be encountered by falling
stones. Most of those which fall from the rocks of a couloir sooner or
later spin down the snow which fills the trough, and as their course
and pace are more clearly apparent when falling over snow than when
jumping from ledge to ledge, persons with lively imaginations are
readily impressed by them. The grooves which are usually seen wandering
down the length of snow-couloirs are deepened (and perhaps occasionally
originated) by falling stones, and they are sometimes pointed out by
cautious men as reasons why couloirs should not be followed. I think
they are very frequently only gutters, caused by water trickling off
the rocks. Whether this is so or not, one should always consider the
possibility of being struck by falling stones, and, in order to lessen
the risk as far as possible, should mount upon the sides of the snow
and not up its centre. Stones that come off the rocks then fly over
one’s head or bound down the middle of the trough at safe distance.

At 9.30 A.M. we commenced the ascent of the couloir leading from the
nameless glacier to a point in the ridge, just to the east of Mont
Bans. So far, the route had been nothing more than a steep grind in an
angle where little could be seen, but now views opened out in several
directions, and the way began to be interesting. It was more so,
perhaps, to us than to our companion, M. Reynaud, who had no rest in
the last night. He was, moreover, heavily laden. Science was to be
regarded—his pockets were stuffed with books; heights and angles were
to be observed—his knapsack was filled with instruments; hunger was to
be guarded against—his shoulders were ornamented with a huge nimbus of
bread, and a leg of mutton swung behind from his knapsack, looking like
an overgrown tail. Like a good-hearted fellow, he had brought this
food, thinking we might be in need of it. As it happened, we were well
provided for, and, having our own packs to carry, could not relieve him
of his superfluous burdens, which, naturally, he did not like to throw
away. As the angles steepened the strain on his strength became more
and more apparent. At last he began to groan. At first a most gentle
and mellow groan, but as we rose so did his groans, till at last the
cliffs were groaning in echo and we were moved to laughter.

Croz cut the way with unflagging energy throughout the whole of the
ascent, and at 10.45 we stood on the summit of our pass, intending to
refresh ourselves with a good halt; but just at that moment a mist,
which had been playing about the ridge, swooped down and blotted out
the whole of the view on the northern side. Croz was the only one who
caught a glimpse of the descent, and it was deemed advisable to push on
immediately while its recollection was fresh in his memory. We are
consequently unable to tell anything about the summit of the pass,
except that it lies immediately to the east of Mont Bans, and is
elevated about eleven thousand three hundred feet above the level of
the sea. It is the highest pass in Dauphiné. We called it the Col de
Pilatte.

We commenced to descend toward the Glacier de Pilatte by a slope of
smooth ice, the face of which, according to the measurement of Mr.
Moore, had an inclination of 54°! Croz still led, and the others
followed at intervals of about fifteen feet, all being tied together,
and Almer occupying the responsible position of last man: the two
guides were therefore about seventy feet apart. They were quite
invisible to each other from the mist, and looked spectral even to us.
But the strong man could be heard by all hewing out the steps below,
while every now and then the voice of the steady man pierced the cloud:
“Slip not, dear sirs: place well your feet: stir not until you are
certain.”

For three-quarters of an hour we progressed in this fashion. The axe of
Croz all at once stopped. “What is the matter, Croz?” “Bergschrund,
gentlemen.” “Can we get over?” “Upon my word, I don’t know: I think we
must jump.” The clouds rolled away right and left as he spoke. The
effect was dramatic. It was a _coup de théâtre_, preparatory to the
“great sensation leap” which was about to be executed by the entire
company.

Some unseen cause, some cliff or obstruction in the rocks underneath,
had caused our wall of ice to split into two portions, and the huge
fissure which had thus been formed extended on each hand as far as
could be seen. We, on the slope above, were separated from the slope
below by a mighty crevasse. No running up and down to look for an
easier place to cross could be done on an ice-slope of 54°: the chasm
had to be passed then and there.

A downward jump of fifteen or sixteen feet, and a forward leap of seven
or eight feet, had to be made at the same time. That is not much, you
will say. It was not much: it was not the quantity, but it was the
quality of the jump which gave to it its particular flavor. You had to
hit a narrow ridge of ice. If that was passed, it seemed as if you
might roll down for ever and ever. If it was not attained, you dropped
into the crevasse below, which although partly choked by icicles and
snow that had fallen from above, was still gaping in many places, ready
to receive an erratic body.

Croz untied Walker in order to get rope enough, and, warning us to hold
fast, sprang over the chasm. He alighted cleverly on his feet, untied
himself and sent up the rope to Walker, who followed his example. It
was then my turn, and I advanced to the edge of the ice. The second
which followed was what is called a supreme moment. That is to say, I
felt supremely ridiculous. The world seemed to revolve at a frightful
pace and my stomach to fly away. The next moment I found myself
sprawling in the snow, and then, of course, vowed that it was nothing,
and prepared to encourage my friend Reynaud.

He came to the edge and made declarations. I do not believe that he was
a whit more reluctant to pass the place than we others, but he was
infinitely more demonstrative: in a word, he was French. He wrung his
hands: “Oh what a _diable_ of a place!” “It is nothing, Reynaud,” I
said, “it is nothing.” “Jump!” cried the others, “jump!” But he turned
round, as far as one can do such a thing in an ice-step, and covered
his face with his hands, ejaculating, “Upon my word, it is not
possible. No, no, no! it is not possible.”

[Illustration: “WE SAW A TOE—IT SEEMED TO BELONG TO MOORE—WE SAW
REYNAULD A FLYING BODY.”]

How he came over I do not know. We saw a toe—it seemed to belong to
Moore; we saw Reynaud, a flying body, coming down as if taking a header
into water, with arms and legs all abroad, his leg of mutton flying in
the air, his baton escaped from his grasp; and then we heard a thud as
if a bundle of carpets had been pitched out of a window. When set upon
his feet he was a sorry spectacle: his head was a great snowball,
brandy was trickling out of one side of the knapsack, Chartreuse out of
the other. We bemoaned its loss, but we roared with laughter.

I cannot close this chapter without paying a tribute to the ability
with which Croz led us through a dense mist down the remainder of the
Glacier de Pilatte.

As an exhibition of strength and skill it has probably never been
surpassed in the Alps or elsewhere. On this almost unknown and very
steep glacier he was perfectly at home, even in the mists. Never able
to see fifty feet ahead, he still went on with the utmost certainty and
without having to retrace a single step, and displayed from first to
last consummate knowledge of the materials with which he was dealing.
Now he cut steps down one side of a _sérac_, went with a dash at the
other side, and hauled us up after him; then cut away along a ridge
until a point was gained from which we could jump on to another ridge;
then, doubling back, found a snow-bridge, across which he crawled on
hands and knees, towed us across by the legs, ridiculing our
apprehensions, mimicking our awkwardness, declining all help, bidding
us only to follow him.

About 1 P.M. we emerged from the mist, and found ourselves just arrived
upon the level portion of the glacier, having, as Reynaud properly
remarked, come down as quickly as if there had not been any mist at
all. Then we attacked the leg of mutton which my friend had so
thoughtfully brought with him, and afterward raced down, with renewed
energy, to La Bérarde.

Reynaud and I walked together to St. Christophe, where we parted. Since
then we have talked over the doings of this momentous day, and I know
that he would not, for a good deal, have missed the passage of the Col
de Pilatte, although we failed to make it an easier or a shorter route
than the Col du Selé. I rejoined Moore and Walker the same evening at
Venos, and on the next day went with them over the Lautaret road to the
hospice on its summit, where we slept.

So our little campaign in Dauphiné came to an end. It was remarkable
for the absence of failures, and for the ease and precision with which
all our plans were carried out. This was due very much to the spirit of
my companions, but it was also owing to the fine weather which we were
fortunate enough to enjoy, and to our making a very early start every
morning. By beginning our work at or before the break of day on the
longest days in the year, we were not only able to avoid hurrying when
deliberation was desirable, but could afford to spend several hours in
delightful ease whenever the fancy seized us.

I cannot too strongly recommend tourists in search of amusement to
avoid the inns of Dauphiné. Sleep in the châlets. Get what food you can
from the inns, but by no means attempt to pass a night in them. _Sleep_
in them you cannot. M. Joanne says that the inventor of the insecticide
powder was a native of Dauphiné. I can well believe it. He must have
often felt the necessity of such an invention in his infancy and
childhood.




CHAPTER XI.
PASSAGE OF THE COL DE TRIOLET, AND ASCENTS OF MONT DOLENT, AIGUILLE DE
TRÉLATÊTE AND AIGUILLE D’ARGENTIÈRE.


Ten years ago very few people knew from personal knowledge how
extremely inaccurately the chain of Mont Blanc was delineated. During
the previous half century thousands had made the tour of the chain, and
in that time at least _one_ thousand individuals had stood upon its
highest summit; but out of all this number there was not one capable,
willing or able to map the mountain which, until recently, was regarded
as the highest in Europe.

Many persons knew that great blunders had been perpetrated, and it was
notorious that even Mont Blanc itself was represented in a ludicrously
incorrect manner on all sides excepting the north; but there was not,
perhaps, a single individual who knew, at the time to which I refer,
that errors of no less than one thousand feet had been committed in the
determination of heights at each end of the chain, that some glaciers
were represented of double their real dimensions, and that ridges and
mountains were laid down which actually had no existence.

One portion alone of the entire chain had been surveyed, at the time of
which I speak, with anything like accuracy. It was not done (as one
would have expected) by a government, but by a private individual—by
the British De Saussure, the late J. D. Forbes. In the year 1842 he
“made a special survey of the Mer de Glace of Chamounix and its
tributaries, which in some of the following years he extended by
further observations, so as to include the Glacier des Bossons.” The
map produced fror this survey was worthy of its author, and subsequent
explorers of the region he investigated have been able to detect only
trivial inaccuracies in his work.

The district surveyed by Forbes remained a solitary bright spot in a
region where all besides was darkness until the year 1861. Praiseworthy
attempts were made by different hands to throw light upon the gloom,
but these efforts were ineffectual, and showed how labor may be thrown
away by a number of observers working independently without the
direction of a single head.

In 1861, Sheet xxii. of Dufour’s Map of Switzerland appeared. It
included the section of the chain of Mont Blanc that belonged to
Switzerland, and this portion of the sheet was executed with the
admirable fidelity and thoroughness which characterizes the whole of
Dufour’s unique map. The remainder of the chain (amounting to about
four-fifths of the whole) was laid down after the work of previous
topographers, and its wretchedness was made more apparent by contrast
with the finished work of the Swiss surveyors.

Strong hands were needed to complete the survey, and it was not long
before the right men appeared.

In 1863, Mr. Adams-Reilly, who had been traveling in the Alps during
several years, resolved to attempt a survey of the unsurveyed portions
of the chain of Mont Blanc. He provided himself with a good theodolite,
and, starting from a base-line measured by Forbes in the valley of
Chamounix, determined the positions of no less than two hundred points.
The accuracy of his work may be judged from the fact that, after having
turned many corners and carried his observations over a distance of
fifty miles, his Col Ferret “fell within two hundred yards of the
position assigned to it by General Dufour!”

In the winter of 1863 and the spring of 1864, Mr. Reilly constructed an
entirely original map from his newly-acquired data. The spaces between
his trigonometrically-determined points he filled in after photographs
and a series of panoramic sketches which he made from his different
stations. The map so produced was an immense advance upon those already
in existence, and it was the first which exhibited the great peaks in
their proper positions.

This extraordinary piece of work revealed Mr. Reilly to me as a man of
wonderful determination and perseverance. With very small hope that my
proposal would be accepted, I invited him to take part in renewed
attacks on the Matterhorn. He entered heartily into my plans, and met
me with a counter-proposition—namely, that I should accompany him on
some expeditions which he had projected in the chain of Mont Blanc. The
unwritten contract took this form: I will help you to carry out your
desires, and you shall assist me to carry out mine. I eagerly closed
with an arrangement in which all the advantages were upon my side.

Before I pass on to these expeditions it will be convenient to devote a
few paragraphs to the topography of the chain of Mont Blanc.

At the present time the chain is divided betwixt France, Switzerland
and Italy. France has the lion’s share, Switzerland the most fertile
portion, and Italy the steepest side. It has acquired a reputation
which is not extraordinary, but which is not wholly merited. It has
neither the beauty of the Oberland nor the sublimity of Dauphiné. But
it attracts the vulgar by the possession of the highest summit in the
Alps. If that is removed, the elevation of the chain is in nowise
remarkable. In fact, excluding Mont Blanc itself, the mountains of
which the chain is made up are _less_ important than those of the
Oberland and the central Pennine groups.

The ascent of Mont Blanc has been made from several directions, and
perhaps there is no single point of the compass from which the mountain
cannot be ascended. But there is not the least probability that any one
will discover easier ways to the summit than those already known.

I believe it is correct to say that the Aiguille du Midi and the
Aiguille de Miage were the only two summits in the chain of Mont Blanc
which had been ascended at the beginning of 1864.[24] The latter of
these two is a perfectly insignificant point, and the former is only a
portion of one of the ridges just now mentioned, and can hardly be
regarded as a mountain separate and distinct from Mont Blanc. The
really great peaks of the chain were considered inaccessible, and, I
think, with the exception of the Aiguille Verte, had never been
assailed.

 [24] Besides Mont Blanc itself.

The finest as well as the highest peak in the chain (after Mont Blanc
itself) is the Grandes Jorasses. The next, without a doubt, is the
Aiguille Verte. The Aiguille de Bionnassay, which in actual height
follows the Verte, should be considered as a part of Mont Blanc; and in
the same way the summit called Les Droites is only a part of the ridge
which culminates in the Verte. The Aiguille de Trélatête is the next on
the list that is entitled to be considered a separate mountain, and is
by far the most important peak (as well as the highest) at the
south-west end of the chain. Then comes the Aiguille d’Argentière,
which occupies the same rank at the north-east end as the
last-mentioned mountain does in the south-west. The rest of the
aiguilles are comparatively insignificant; and although some of them
(such as the Mont Dolent) look well from low elevations, and seem to
possess a certain importance, they sink into their proper places
directly one arrives at a considerable altitude.

The summit of the Aiguille Verte would have been one of the best
stations out of all these mountains for the purposes of my friend. Its
great height and its isolated and commanding position make it a most
admirable point for viewing the intricacies of the chain, but he
exercised a wise discretion in passing it by, and in selecting as our
first excursion the passage of the Col de Triolet.

We slept under some big rocks on the Couvercle on the night of July 7,
with the thermometer at 26.5° Fahr., and at 4.30 on the 8th made a
straight track to the north of the Jardin, and thence went in zigzags,
to break the ascent, over the upper slopes of the Glacier de Talèfre
toward the foot of the Aiguille de Triolet. Croz was still my guide;
Reilly was accompanied by one of the Michel Payots of Chamounix; and
Henri Charlet, of the same place, was our porter.

The way was over an undulating plain of glacier of moderate inclination
until the corner leading to the col, from whence a steep secondary
glacier led down into the basin of the Talèfre. We experienced no
difficulty in making the ascent of this secondary glacier with such
ice-men as Croz and Payot, and at 7.50 A.M. arrived on the top of the
so-called pass, at a height, according to Mieulet, of 12,162 feet, and
4530 above our camp on the Couvercle.

The descent was commenced by very steep, firm rocks, and then by a
branch of the Glacier de Triolet. Schrunds[25] were abundant: there
were no less than five extending completely across the glacier, all of
which had to be jumped. Not one was equal in dimensions to the
extraordinary chasm on the Col de Pilatte, but in the aggregate they
far surpassed it. “Our lives,” so Reilly expressed it, “were made a
burden to us with schrunds.”

 [25] Great crevasses. A bergschrund is a schrund, but something more.
 (See Chap. xiv.)

Several spurs run out toward the south-east from the ridge at the head
of the Glacier de Triolet, and divide it into a number of bays. We
descended the most northern of these, and when we emerged from it on to
the open glacier, just at the junction of our bay with the next one, we
came across a most beautiful ice-arch festooned with icicles, the
decaying remnant of an old sérac, which stood isolated full thirty feet
above the surface of the glacier! It was an accident, and I have not
seen its like elsewhere. When I passed the spot in 1865 no vestige of
it remained.

We flattered ourselves that we should arrive at the châlets of Pre du
Bar very early in the day, but, owing to much time being lost on the
slopes of Mont Rouge, it was nearly 4 P.M. before we got to them. There
were no bridges across the torrent nearer than Gruetta, and rather than
descend so far we preferred to round the base of Mont Rouge and to
cross the snout of the Glacier du Mont Dolent.

We occupied the 9th with the ascent of the Mont Dolent. This was a
miniature ascent. It contained a little of everything. First we went up
to the Col Ferret (No.1), and had a little grind over shaly banks; then
there was a little walk over grass; then a little tramp over a moraine
(which, strange to say, gave a pleasant path); then a little zigzagging
over the snow-covered glacier of Mont Dolent. Then there was a little
bergschrund; then a little wall of snow, which we mounted by the side
of a little buttress; and when we struck the ridge descending
south-east from the summit, we found a little arête of snow leading to
the highest point. The summit itself was little—very small indeed: it
was the loveliest little cone of snow that was ever piled up on
mountain-top; so soft, so pure, it seemed a crime to defile it. It was
a miniature Jungfrau, a toy summit: you could cover it with the hand.

But there was nothing little about the _view_ from the Mont Dolent.
[Situated at the junction of three mountain-ridges, it rises in a
positive steeple far above anything in its immediate neighborhood, and
certain gaps in the surrounding ridges, which seem contrived for that
especial purpose, extend the view in almost every direction. The
precipices which descend to the Glacier d’Argentiere I can only compare
to those of the Jungfrau, and the ridges on both sides of that glacier,
especially the steep rocks of Les Droites and Les Courtes, surmounted
by the sharp snow-peak of the Aiguille Verte, have almost the effect of
the Grandes Jorasses. Then, framed as it were between the massive tower
of the Aiguille de Triolet and the more distant Jorasses, lies, without
exception, the most delicately beautiful picture I have ever seen—the
whole _massif_ of Mont Blanc, raising its great head of snow far above
the tangled series of flying buttresses which uphold the Monts Maudits,
supported on the left by Mont Peuteret and by the mass of ragged
aiguilles which overhangs the Brenva. This aspect of Mont Blanc is not
new, but from this point its _pose_ is unrivaled, and it has all the
superiority of a picture grouped by the hand of a master…The view is as
extensive as, and far more lovely than, that from Mont Blanc
itself.][26]

 [26] The bracketed paragraphs in this chapter are extracted from the
 notes of Mr. Reilly.

We went down to Cormayeur, and on the afternoon of July 10 started from
that place to camp on Mont Sue, for the ascent of the Aiguille de
Trélatête, hopeful that the mists which were hanging about would clear
away. They did not, so we deposited ourselves and a vast load of straw
on the moraine of the Miage Glacier, just above the Lac de Combal, in a
charming little hole which some solitary shepherd had excavated beneath
a great slab of rock. We spent the night there and the whole of the
next day, unwilling to run away, and equally so to get into
difficulties by venturing into the mist. It was a dull time, and I grew
restless. Reilly read to me a lecture on the excellence of patience,
and composed himself in an easy attitude to pore over the pages of a
yellow-covered book. “Patience,” I said to him viciously, “comes very
easy to fellows who have shilling novels, but I have not got one. I
have picked all the mud out of the nails of my boots, and have skinned
my face: what shall I do?” “Go and study the moraine of the Miage,”
said he. I went, and came back after an hour. “What news?” cried
Reilly, raising himself on his elbow. “Very little: it’s a big moraine,
bigger than I thought, with ridge outside ridge, like a fortified camp;
and there are walls upon it which have been built and loopholed, as if
for defence.” “Try again,” he said as he threw himself on his back. But
I went to Croz, who was asleep, and tickled his nose with a straw until
he awoke; and then, as that amusement was played out, watched Reilly,
who was getting numbed, and shifted uneasily from side to side, and
threw himself on his stomach, and rested his head on his elbows, and
lighted his pipe and puffed at it savagely. When I looked again, how
was Reilly? An indistinguishable heap—arms, legs, head, stones and
straw, all mixed together, his hat flung on one side, his novel tossed
far away! Then I went to him and read him a lecture on the excellence
of patience.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Bah! it was a dull time. Our mountain, like a beautiful coquette, some
times unveiled herself for a moment and looked charming above, although
very mysterious below. It was not until eventide she allowed us to
approach her: then, as darkness came on, the curtains were withdrawn,
the light drapery was lifted, and we stole up on tiptoe through the
grand portal framed by Mont Suc. But night advanced rapidly, and we
found ourselves left out in the cold, without a hole to creep into or
shelter from overhanging rock. We might have fared badly except for our
good plaids. But when they were sewn together down their long edges,
and one end tossed over our rope (which was passed round some rocks),
and the other secured by stones, there was sufficient protection; and
we slept on this exposed ridge, ninety-seven hundred feet above the
level of the sea, more soundly perhaps than if we had been lying on
feather beds.

[Illustration: OUR CAMP ON MONT SUC]

We left our bivouac at 4.45 A.M.and at 9.40 arrived upon the highest of
the three summits of the Trélatête by passing over the lowest one. It
was well above everything at this end of the chain, and the view from
it was extraordinarily magnificent. The whole of the western face of
Mont Blanc was spread out before us: we were the first by whom it had
been ever seen. I cede the description of this view to my comrade, to
whom it rightfully belongs.

[For four years I had felt great interest in the geography of the
chain: the year before I had mapped, more or less successfully, all but
this spot, and this spot had always eluded my grasp. The praises,
undeserved as they were, which my map had received, were as gall and
wormwood to me when I thought of that great slope which I had been
obliged to leave a blank, speckled over with unmeaning dots of rock,
gathered from previous maps, for I had consulted them all without
meeting an intelligible representation of it. From the surface of the
Miage glacier I had gained nothing, for I could only see the feet of
magnificent ice-streams, but no more; but now, from the top of the dead
wall of rock which had so long closed my view, I saw those fine
glaciers from top to bottom, pouring down their streams, nearly as
large as the Bossons, from Mont Blanc, from the Bosse and from the
Dôme.

The head of Mont Blanc is supported on this side by two buttresses,
between which vast glaciers descend. Of these the most southern takes
its rise at the foot of the precipices which fall steeply down from the
Calotte,[27] and its stream, as it joins that of the Miage, is cut in
two by an enormous _rognon_ of rock. Next, to the left, comes the
largest of the buttresses of which I have spoken, almost forming an
aiguille in itself. The next glacier (Glacier du Dôme) descends from a
large basin which receives the snows of the summit-ridge between the
Bosse and the Dôme, and it is divided from the third and last glacier
by another buttress, which joins the summit-ridge at a point between
the Dôme and the Aiguille de Bionnassay.]

 [27] The Calotte is the name given to the dome of snow at the summit
 of Mont Blanc.

The great buttresses betwixt these magnificent ice-streams have
supplied a large portion of the enormous masses of débris which are
disposed in ridges round about, and are strewn over, the termination of
the Glacier de Miage in the Val Veni. These moraines[28] used to be
classed amongst the wonders of the world. They are very large for a
glacier of the size of the Miage.

 [28] An example is referred to on p. 161. Much more remarkable cases
 might be instanced.

The dimensions of moraines are not ruled by those of glaciers. _Many_
small glaciers have large moraines, and many large ones have small
moraines. The size of the moraines of any glacier depends mainly upon
the area of rock-surface that is exposed to atmospheric influences
within the basin drained by the glacier, upon the nature of such rock,
whether it is friable or resistant, and upon the dip of strata.
Moraines most likely will be small if little rock-surface is exposed;
but when large ones are seen, then, in all probability, large areas of
rock, uncovered by snow or ice, will be found in immediate contiguity
to the glacier. The Miage glacier has large ones, because it receives
detritus from many great cliffs and ridges. But if this glacier,
instead of lying, as it does, at the bottom of a trough, were to fill
that trough, if it were to completely envelop the Aiguille de Trélatête
and the other mountains which border it, and were to descend from Mont
Blanc unbroken by rock or ridge, it would be as destitute of morainic
matter as the great _Mer de Glace_ of Greenland. For if a country or
district is _completely_ covered up by glacier, the moraines may be of
the very smallest dimensions.

The contributions that are supplied to moraines by glaciers themselves,
from the abrasion of the rocks over which their ice passes, are minute
compared with the accumulations which are furnished from other sources.
These great rubbish-heaps are formed—one may say almost entirely—from
débris which falls or is washed down the flanks of mountains, or from
cliffs bordering glaciers; and are composed, to a very limited extent
only, of matter that is ground, rasped or filed off by the friction of
the ice.

If the contrary view were to be adopted, if it could be maintained that
“glaciers, _by their motion, break off masses of rock from the sides
and bottoms of their valley-courses_, and crowd along everything that
is movable, so as to form large accumulations of débris in front and
along their sides,”[29] the conclusion could not be resisted, the
greater the glacier the greater should be the moraine.

 [29] _Atlas of Physical Geography_, by Augustus Petermann and the Rev.
 T. Milner. The italics are not in the original.

This doctrine does not find much favor with those who have personal
knowledge of what glaciers do at the present time. From De Saussure[30]
downward it has been pointed out, time after time, that moraines are
chiefly formed from débris coming from rocks or soil _above_ the ice,
not from the bed over which it passes. But amongst the writings of
modern speculators upon glaciers and glacier-action in bygone times it
is not uncommon to find the notions entertained that moraines represent
the amount of _excavation_ (such is the term employed) performed by
glaciers, or at least are comprised of matter which has been excavated
by glaciers; that vast moraines have necessarily been produced by vast
glaciers; and that a great extension of glaciers—a glacial
period—necessarily causes the production of vast moraines. It is
needless to cite more than one or two examples to show that such
generalizations cannot be sustained. Innumerable illustrations might be
quoted.

 [30] “The stones that are found upon the upper extremities of glaciers
 are of the same nature as the mountains which rise above; but, as the
 ice carries them down into the valleys, they arrive between rocks of a
 totally different nature from their own.”—De Saussure, § 536.

In the chain of Mont Blanc one may compare the moraines of the Miage
with those of the Glacier d’Argentiere. The latter glacier drains a
basin equal to or exceeding that of the former, but its moraines are
small compared with those of the former. More notable still is the
disparity of the moraines of the Corner glacier (that which receives so
many branches from the neighborhood of Monte Rosa) and of the
Z’Muttgletscher. The area drained by the Corner greatly exceeds the
basin of the Z’Mutt, yet the moraines of the Z’Mutt are incomparably
larger than those of the Corner. No one is likely to say that the
Z’Mutt and Miage glaciers have existed for a far greater length of time
than the other pair: an explanation must be sought amongst the causes
to which reference has been made.

More striking still is it to see the great interior _Mer de Glace_ of
Greenland almost without moraines. This vast ice-plateau, although
smaller than it was in former times, is still so extensive that the
whole of the glaciers of the Alps might be merged into it without its
bulk being perceptibly increased. If the size of moraines bore any sort
of relation to the size of glaciers, the moraines of Greenland should
be far greater than those of the Alps.

This interior ice-reservoir of Greenland, enormous as it is, must be
considered as but the remnant of a mass which was incalculably greater,
and which is unparalleled at the present time outside the Antarctic
Circle. With the exception of localities where the rocks are easy of
disintegration, and the traces of glacier-action have been to a great
extent destroyed, the whole country bears the marks of the grinding and
polishing of ice; and, judging by the flatness of the curves of the
_roches moutonnées_, and by the perfection of the polish which still
remains upon the rocks after they have sustained (through many
centuries) extreme variations of temperature, the period during which
such effects were produced must have widely exceeded in duration the
“glacial period” of Europe. If moraines were built from matter
excavated by glaciers, the moraines of Greenland should be the greatest
in the world!

The absence of moraines upon and at the termination of this great _Mer
de Glace_ is due to the want of rocks rising above the ice.[31] On two
occasions in 1867 I saw, at a glance, at least six hundred square miles
of it from the summits of small mountains on its outskirts. Not a
single peak or ridge was to be seen rising above, nor a single rock
reposing upon, the ice. The country was _completely_ covered up by
glacier: all was ice as far as the eye could see.[32]

 [31] I refer to those portions of it which I have seen in the
 neighbourhood of Disco Bay. There are moraines in this district, but
 they were formed when the great _Mer de Glace_ stretched nearer to the
 sea,—when it sent arms down through the valleys in the belt of land
 which now intervenes between sea and glacier.

 [32] The interior of Greenland appears to be absolutely covered by
 glacier between 68° 30′—70° N. Lat. Others speak of peaks peeping
 through the ice to the N. and S. of this district; but I suspect that
 these peaks are upon the outskirts of the great _Mer de Glace_.

There is evidence, then, that considerable areas of exposed
rock-surface are essential to the production of large moraines, and
that glacial periods do not necessarily produce vast moraines—that
moraines are not built up of matter which is excavated by glaciers, but
simply illustrate the powers of glaciers for transportation and
arrangement.

We descended in our track to the Lac de Combal, and from thence went
over the Col de la Seigne to Les Motets, where we slept: on July 13
crossed the Col du Mont Tondu to Contamines (in a sharp thunderstorm),
and the Col de Voza to Chamounix. Two days only remained for excursions
in this neighborhood, and we resolved to employ them in another attempt
to ascend the Aiguille d’Argentiere, upon which mountain we had been
cruelly defeated just eight days before.

It happened in this way: Reilly had a notion that the ascent of the
aiguille could be accomplished by following the ridge leading to its
summit from the Col du Chardonnet. At half-past six on the morning of
the 6th we found ourselves accordingly on the top of that pass, which
is about eleven thousand or eleven thousand one hundred feet above the
level of the sea. The party consisted of our friend Moore and his guide
Almer, Reilly and his guide Francois Couttet, myself and Michel Croz.
So far, the weather had been calm and the way easy, but immediately we
arrived on the summit of the pass we got into a furious wind. Five
minutes earlier we were warm—now we were frozen. Fine snow, whirled up
into the air, penetrated every crack in our harness, and assailed our
skins as painfully as if it had been red hot instead of freezing cold.
The teeth chattered involuntarily; talking was laborious; the breath
froze instantaneously; eating was disagreeable; sitting was impossible.

We looked toward our mountain: its aspect was not encouraging. The
ridge that led upward had a spiked arête, palisaded with miniature
aiguilles, banked up at their bases by heavy snow-beds, which led down
at considerable angles, on one side toward the Glacier de Saleinoz, on
the other toward the Glacier du Chardonnet. Under any circumstances it
would have been a stiff piece of work to clamber up that way. Prudence
and comfort counseled, “Give it up.” Discretion overruled valor. Moore
and Almer crossed the Col du Chardonnet to go to Orsières, and we
others returned toward Chamounix.

But when we got some distance down the evil spirit which prompts men to
ascend mountains tempted us to stop and to look back at the Aiguille
d’Argentiere. The sky was cloudless; no wind could be felt, nor sign of
it perceived; it was only eight o’clock in the morning; and here, right
before us, we saw another branch of the glacier leading high up nto the
mountain—far above the Col du Chardonnet—and a little couloir rising
from its head almost to the top of the peak. This was clearly the right
route to take. We turned back and went at it.

The glacier was steep, and the snow-gully rising out of it was steeper.
Seven hundred steps were cut. Then the couloir became _too_ steep. We
took to the rocks on its left, and at last gained the ridge, at a point
about fifteen hundred feet above the col. We faced about to the right
and went along the ridge, keeping on some snow a little below its
crest, on the Saleinoz side. Then we got the wind again, but no one
thought of turning, for we were within two hundred and fifty feet of
the summit.

The axes of Croz and Couttet went to work once more, for the slope was
about as steep as snow could be. Its surface was covered with a loose,
granular crust, dry and utterly incoherent, which slipped away in
streaks directly it was meddled with. The men had to cut through this
into the old beds underneath, and to pause incessantly to rake away the
powdery stuff, which poured down in hissing streams over the hard
substratum. Ugh! how cold it was! How the wind blew! Couttet’s hat was
torn from its fastenings and went on a tour in Switzerland. The
flour-like snow, swept off the ridge above, was tossed spirally upward,
eddying in _tourmentes;_ then, dropped in lulls or caught by other
gusts, was flung far and wide to feed the Saleinoz.

“My feet are getting suspiciously numbed,” cried Reilly: “how about
frost-bites?” “Kick hard, sir,” shouted the men: “it’s the only way.”
_Their_ fingers were kept alive by their work, but it was cold for
their feet, and they kicked and hewed simultaneously. I followed their
example, but was too violent, and made a hole clean through my footing.
A clatter followed as if crockery had been thrown down a well.

I went down a step or two, and discovered in a second that all were
standing over a cavern (not a crevasse, speaking properly) that was
bridged over by a thin vault of ice, from which great icicles hung in
grooves. Almost in the same minute Reilly pushed one of his hands right
through the roof. The whole party might have tumbled through at any
moment. “Go ahead, Croz: we are over a chasm!” “We know it,” he
answered, “and we can’t find a firm place.”

In the blandest manner my comrade inquired if to persevere would not be
to do that which is called “tempting Providence.” My reply being in the
affirmative, he further observed, “Suppose we go down?” “Very
willingly.” “Ask the guides.” They had not the least objection; so we
went down, and slept that night at the Montanvert.

Off the ridge we were out of the wind. In fact, a hundred feet down _to
windward_, on the slope fronting the Glacier du Chardonnet, we were
broiling hot: there was not a suspicion of a breeze. Upon that side
there was nothing to tell that a hurricane was raging a hundred feet
higher; the cloudless sky looked tranquillity itself; whilst to leeward
the only sign of a disturbed atmosphere was the friskiness of the snow
upon the crests of the ridges.

We set out on the 14th, with Croz, Payot and Charlet, to finish off the
work which had been cut short so abruptly, and slept, as before, at the
Chalets de Lognan. On the 15th, about midday, we arrived upon the
summit of the aiguille, and found that we had actually been within one
hundred feet of it when we turned back upon the first attempt.

It was a triumph to Reilly. In this neighborhood he had performed the
feat (in 1863) of joining together “two mountains, each about thirteen
thousand feet high, standing on the map about a mile and a half apart.”
Long before we made the ascent he had procured evidence which could not
be impugned that the Pointe des Plines, a fictitious summit which had
figured on other maps as a distinct mountain, could be no other than
the Aiguille d’Argentiere, and he had accordingly obliterated it from
the preliminary draft of his map. We saw that it was right to do so.
The Pointe des Plines did not exist. We had ocular demonstration of the
accuracy of his previous observations.

I do not know which to admire most, the fidelity of Mr. Reilly’s map or
the indefatigable industry by which the materials were accumulated from
which it, was constructed. To men who are sound in limb it may be
amusing to arrive on a summit (as we did upon the top of Mont Dolent),
sitting astride a ridge too narrow to stand upon, or to do battle with
a ferocious wind (as we did on the top of the Aiguille de Trélatête),
or to feel half frozen in midsummer (as we did on the Aiguille
d’Argentiere). But there is extremely little amusement in making
sketches and notes under such conditions. Yet upon all these
expeditions, under the most adverse circumstances and in the most
trying situations, Mr. Reilly’s brain and fingers were always at work.
Throughout all he was ever alike—the same genial, equable-tempered
companion, whether victorious or whether defeated; always ready to
sacrifice his own desires to suit our comfort and convenience. By a
most happy union of audacity and prudence, combined with untiring
perseverance, he eventually completed his self-imposed task—a work
which would have been intolerable except as a labor of love, and which,
for a single individual, may wellnigh be termed herculean.

We separated upon the level part of the Glacier d’Argentiere, Reilly
going with Payot and Charlet _viâ_ the châlets of Lognan and de la
Pendant, whilst I, with Croz, followed the right bank of the glacier to
the village of Argentiere. At 7 P. M. we entered the humble inn, and
ten minutes afterward heard the echoes of the cannon which were fired
upon the arrival of our comrades at Chamounix.




CHAPTER XII.
THE MOMING PASS—ZERMATT.


On July 10, Croz and I went to Sierre, in the Valais, viâ the Col de
Balme, the Col de la Forclaz and Martigny. The Swiss side of the
Forclaz is not creditable to Switzerland. The path from Martigny to the
summit has undergone successive improvements in these latter years, but
mendicants permanently disfigure it.

We passed many tired pedestrians toiling up this oven, persecuted by
trains of parasitic children. These children swarm there like maggots
in a rotten cheese. They carry baskets of fruit with which to plague
the weary tourist. They flit around him like flies; they thrust the
fruit in his face; they pester him with their pertinacity. Beware of
them!—taste, touch not their fruit. In the eyes of these children each
peach, each grape, is worth a prince’s r ansom. It is of no use to be
angry: it is like flapping wasps—they only buzz the more. Whatever you
do or whatever you say, the end will be the same. “Give me something”
is the alpha and omega of all their addresses. They learn the phrase,
it is said, before they are taught the alphabet. It is in all their
mouths. From the tiny toddler up to the maiden of sixteen, there is
nothing heard but one universal chorus of “Give me something: will you
have the goodness to give me something?”

From Sierre we went up the Val d’Anniviers to Zinal, to join our former
companions, Moore and Almer. Moore was ambitious to discover a shorter
way from Zinal to Zermatt than the two passes which were known.[33] He
had shown to me, upon Dufour’s map, that a direct line connecting the
two places passed exactly over the depression between the
Zinal-Rothhorn and the Schallhorn. He was confident that a passage
could be effected over this depression, and was sanguine that it would
(in consequence of its directness) prove to be a quicker route than the
circuitous ones over the Triftjoch and the Col Durand.

 [33] The Col de Zinal or Triftjoch, between the Trifthorn and the Ober
 Gabelhorn; and the Col Durand between the last-mentioned mountain and
 the Dent Blanche.
    For our route from Zinal to Zermatt, see the map of the valley of
    Zermatt.

He was awaiting us, and we immediately proceeded up the valley and
across the foot of the Zinal glacier to the Arpitetta Alp, where a
châlet was supposed to exist in which we might pass the night. We found
it at length[34], but it was not equal to our expectations. It was not
one of those fine timbered châlets with huge overhanging eaves, covered
with pious sentences carved in unintelligible characters. It was a
hovel, growing, as it were, out of the hillside, roofed with rough
slabs of slaty stone, without door or window, surrounded by quagmires
of ordure and dirt of every description.

 [34] High above the Glacier de Moming at the foot of the Crête de
 Milton.

A foul native invited us to enter. The interior was dark, but when our
eyes became accustomed to the gloom we saw that our palace was in plan
about fifteen by twenty feet: on one side it was scarcely five feet
high, but on the other was nearly seven. On this side there was a
raised platform about six feet wide, littered with dirty straw and
still dirtier sheepskins. This was the bed-room. The remainder of the
width of the apartment was the parlor. The rest was the factory. Cheese
was the article which was being fabricated, and the foul native was
engaged in its manufacture. He was garnished behind with a regular
cowherd’s one-legged stool, which gave him a queer, uncanny look when
it was elevated in the air as he bent over into his tub, for the making
of his cheese required him to blow into a tub for ten minutes at a
time. He then squatted on his stool to gain breath, and took a few
whiffs at a short pipe, after which he blew away more vigorously than
before. We were told that this procedure was necessary: it appeared to
us to be nasty. It accounts, perhaps, for the flavor possessed by
certain Swiss cheeses.

Big black and leaden-colored clouds rolled up from Zinal, and met in
combat on the Morning glacier with others which descended from the
Rothhorn. Down came the rain in torrents and crash went the thunder.
The herd-boys hurried under shelter, for the frightened cattle needed
no driving, and tore spontaneously down the Alp as if running a
steeple-chase: Men, cows, pigs, sheep and goats forgot their mutual
animosities, and rushed to the only refuge on the mountain. The spell
was broken which had bound the elements for some weeks past, and the
cirque from the Weisshorn to Lo Besso was the theatre in which they
spent their fury.

A sullen morning succeeded an angry night. We were undecided in our
council whether to advance or to return down the valley. Good seemed
likely to overpower bad; so, at 5.40, we left the châlet _en route_ for
our pass [amidst the most encouraging assurances from all the people on
the Alp that we need not distress ourselves about the weather, as it
was not possible to get to the point at which we were aiming].[35]

 [35] Moore’s Journal.

Our course led us at first over ordinary mountain-slopes, and then over
a flat expanse of glacier. Before this was quitted it was needful to
determine the exact line which was to be taken. We were divided betwixt
two opinions. I advocated that a course should be steered due south,
and that the upper plateau of the Moming glacier should be attained by
making a great detour to our right. This was negatived without a
division. Almer declared in favor of making for some rocks to the
south-west of the Schallhorn, and attaining the upper plateau of the
glacier by mounting them. Croz advised a middle course, up some very
steep and broken glacier. Croz’s route seemed likely to turn out to be
impracticable, because much step-cutting would be required upon it.
Almer’s rocks did not look good: they were, possibly, unassailable. I
thought both routes were bad, and declined to vote for either of them.
Moore hesitated, Almer gave way, and Croz’s route was adopted.

He did not go very far, however, before he found that he had undertaken
too much, and after [glancing occasionally round at us, to see what we
thought about it, suggested that it might, after all, be wiser to take
to the rocks of the Schallhorn]. That is to say, he suggested the
abandonment of his own and the adoption of Almer’s route. No one
opposed the change of plan, and in the absence of instructions to the
contrary he proceeded to cut steps across an ice-slope toward the
rocks.

When we quitted the slopes of the Arpitetta Alp we took a
south-easterly course over the Morning glacier. We halted to settle the
plan of attack shortly after we got upon the ice. The rocks of the
Schallhorn, whose ascent Almer recommended, were then to our southeast.
Croz’s proposed route was to the south-west of the rocks, and led up
the southern side of a very steep and broken glacier.[36] The part he
intended to traverse was, in a sense, undoubtedly practicable. He gave
it up because it would have involved too much step-cutting. But the
part of this glacier which intervened between his route and Almer’s
rocks was, in the most complete sense of the word, impracticable. It
passed over a continuation of the rocks, and was broken in half by
them. The upper portion was separated from the lower portion by a long
slope of ice that had been built up from the débris of the glacier
which had fallen from above. The foot of this slope was surrounded by
immense quantities of the larger avalanche blocks. These we cautiously
skirted, and when Croz halted they had been left far below, and we were
halfway up the side of the great slope which led to the base of the
ice-wall above.

 [36] Through what is technically called an “ice-fall.”

Across this ice-slope Croz now proceeded to cut. It was executing a
flank movement in the face of an enemy by whom we might be attacked at
any moment. The peril was obvious. It was a monstrous folly. It was
foolhardiness. A retreat should have been sounded.[37]

 [37] The responsibility did not rest with Croz. His part was to
 advise, but not to direct.

“I am not ashamed to confess,” wrote Moore in his Journal, “that during
the whole time we were crossing this slope my heart was in my mouth,
and I never felt relieved from such a load of care as when, after, I
suppose, a passage of about twenty minutes, we got on to the rocks and
were in safety…I have never heard a positive oath come from Almer’s
mouth, but the language in which he kept up a running commentary, more
to himself than to me, as we went along, was stronger than I should
have given him credit for using. His prominent feeling seemed to be one
of _indignation_ that we should be in such a position, and
self-reproach at being a party to the proceeding; while the emphatic
way in which, at intervals, he exclaimed, ‘Quick! be quick!’
sufficiently betokened his alarm.”

It was not necessary to admonish Croz to be quick. He was as fully
alive to the risk as any of the others. He told me afterward that this
place was not only the most dangerous he had ever crossed, but that no
consideration whatever would tempt him to cross it again. Manfully did
he exert himself to escape from the impending destruction. His head,
bent down to his work, never turned to the right or to the left. One,
two, three, went his axe, and then he stepped on to the spot where he
had been cutting. How painfully insecure should we have considered
those steps at any other time! But now we thought of nothing but the
rocks in front, and of the hideous _séracs_, lurching over above us,
apparently in the act of falling.

We got to the rocks in safety, and if they had been doubly as difficult
as they were, we should still have been well content. We sat down and
refreshed the inner man, keeping our eyes on the towering pinnacles of
ice under which we had passed, but which now were almost beneath us.
Without a preliminary warning sound one of the largest—as high as the
Monument at London Bridge—fell upon the slope below. The stately mass
heeled over as if upon a hinge (holding together until it bent thirty
degrees forward), then it crushed out its base, and, rent into a
thousand fragments, plunged vertically down upon the slope that we had
crossed! Every atom of our track that was in its course was
obliterated: all the new snow was swept away, and a broad sheet of
smooth, glassy ice showed the resistless force with which it had
fallen.

[Illustration: ICE-AVALANCHE ON THE MOMING PASS]

It was inexcusable to follow such a perilous path, but it is easy to
understand why it was taken. To have retreated from the place where
Croz suggested a change of plan, to have descended below the reach of
danger, and to have mounted again by the route which Almer suggested,
would have been equivalent to abandoning the excursion, for no one
would have passed another night in the châlet on the Arpitetta Alp.
“Many,” says Thucydides, “though seeing well the perils ahead, are
forced along by fear of dishonor, as the world calls it, so that,
vanquished by a mere word, they fall into irremediable calamities.”
Such was nearly the case here. No one could say a word in justification
of the course which was adopted; all were alive to the danger that was
being encountered; yet a grave risk was deliberately, although
unwillingly incurred, in preference to admitting, by withdrawal from an
untenable position, that an error of judgment had been committed.

[Illustration: THE SUMMIT OF THE MOMING PASS IN 1861.]

After a laborious trudge over many species of snow, and through many
varieties of vapor—from the quality of a Scotch mist to that of a
London fog—we at length stood on the depression between the Rothhorn
and the Schallhorn.[38] A steep wall of snow was upon the Zinal side of
the summit, but what the descent was like on the other side we could
not tell, for a billow of snow tossed over its crest by the western
winds, suspended over Zermatt with motion arrested, resembling an ocean
wave frozen in the act of breaking, cut off the view.[39] Croz, held
hard in by the others, who kept down the Zinal side, opened his
shoulders, flogged down the foam, and cut away the cornice to its
junction with the summit; then boldly leaped down, and called on us to
follow him.

 [38] The summit of the pass has been marked on Dufour’s map 3793
 mètres, or 12,444 feet.

 [39] These snow-cornices are common on the crests of high mountain
 ridges, and it is always prudent (just before arriving upon the summit
 of a mountain or ridge) to _sound_ with the alpenstock, that is to
 say, drive it in, to discover whether there is one or not. Men have
 often narrowly escaped losing their lives from neglecting this
 precaution.
    These cornices are frequently rolled round in a volute, and
    sometimes take most extravagant forms. See page 34.

It was well for us now that we had such a man as leader. An inferior or
less daring guide would have hesitated to enter upon the descent in a
dense mist, and Croz himself would have done right to pause had he been
less magnificent in _physique_. He acted rather than said, “Where snow
lies fast, there man can go; where ice exists, a way may be cut; it is
a question of power: I have the power—all you have to do is to follow
me.” Truly, he did not spare himself, and could he have performed the
feats upon the boards of a theatre that he did upon this occasion, he
would have brought down the house with thunders of applause. Here is
what Moore wrote in _his_ Journal:

[The descent bore a strong resemblance to the Col de Pilatte, but was
very much steeper and altogether more difficult, which is saying a good
deal. Croz was in his element, and selected his way with marvelous
sagacity, while Almer had an equally honorable, and perhaps more
responsible, post in the rear, which he kept with his usual steadiness…
One particular passage has impressed itself on my mind as one of the
most nervous I have ever made. We had to pass along a crest of ice, a
mere knife-edge—on our left a broad crevasse, whose bottom was lost in
blue haze, and on our right, at an angle of seventy degrees or more, a
slope falling to a similar gulf below. Croz, as he went along the edge,
chipped small notches in the ice, in which we placed our feet, with the
toes well turned out, doing all we knew to preserve our balance. While
stepping from one of these precarious footholds to another, I staggered
for a moment. I had not really lost my footing, but the agonized tone
in which Almer, who was behind me, on seeing me waver, exclaimed, “Slip
not, sir!” gave us an even livelier impression than we already had of
the insecurity of the position…One huge chasm, whose upper edge was far
above the lower one, could neither be leaped nor turned, and threatened
to prove an insuperable barrier. But Croz showed himself equal to the
emergency. Held up by the rest of the party, he cut a series of holes
for the hands and feet, down and along the almost perpendicular wall of
ice forming the upper side of the _schrund_. Down this slippery
staircase we crept, with our faces to the wall, until a point was
reached where the width of the chasm was not too great, for us to drop
across. Before we had done we got quite accustomed to taking flying
leaps over the _schrunds_.... To make a long story short: after a most
desperate and exciting struggle, and as bad a piece of ice-work as it
is possible to imagine, we emerged on to the upper plateau of the
Hohlicht glacier.]

The glimpses which had been caught of the lower part of the Hohlicht
glacier were discouraging, so it was now determined to cross over the
ridge between it and the Rothhorn glacier. This was not done without
great trouble. Again we rose to a height exceeding twelve thousand
feet. Eventually we took to the track of the despised Triftjoch, and
descended by the well-known but rough path which leads to that pass,
arriving at the Monte Rosa hotel at Zermatt at 7.20 P.M. We occupied
nearly twelve hours of actual walking in coming from the châlet on the
Arpitetta Alp (which was two and a half hours above Zinal), and we
consequently found that the Moming pass was not the shortest route from
Zinal to Zermatt, although it was the most direct.

Two dozen guides—good, bad and indifferent, French, Swiss and
Italian—can commonly be seen sitting on the wall in front of the Monte
Rosa hotel, waiting on their employers and looking for employers,
watching new arrivals, and speculating on the number of francs which
may be extracted from their pockets. The _Messieurs_—sometimes
strangely and wonderfully dressed—stand about in groups, or lean back
in chairs, or lounge on the benches which are placed by the door. They
wear extraordinary boots, and still more remarkable head-dresses. Their
peeled, blistered and swollen faces are worth studying. Some, by the
exercise of watchfulness and unremitting care, have been fortunate
enough to acquire a fine raw sienna complexion. But most of them have
not been so happy. They have been scorched on rocks and roasted on
glaciers. Their cheeks—first puffed, then cracked—have exuded a
turpentine-like matter, which has coursed down their faces, and has
dried in patches like the resin on the trunks of pines. They have
removed it, and at the same time have pulled off large flakes of their
skin. They have gone from bad to worse—their case has be come
hopeless—knives and scissors have been called into play: tenderly and
daintily they have endeavored to reduce their cheeks to one uniform
hue. It is not to be done. But they have gone on, fascinated, and at
last have brought their unhappy countenances to a state of helpless and
complete ruin. Their lips are cracked, their cheeks are swollen, their
eyes are bloodshot, their noses are peeled and indescribable.

Such are the pleasures of the mountaineer! Scornfully and derisively
the last-comer compares the sight with his own flaccid face and dainty
hands, unconscious that he too, perhaps, will be numbered with those
whom he now ridicules.

There is a frankness of manner about these strangely-appareled and
queer-faced men which does not remind one of drawing-room or city life;
and it is good to see—in this club-room of Zermatt—those cold bodies,
our too-frigid countrymen, melt together when they are brought into
contact; and it is pleasant to witness the hearty welcome given to the
new-comers by the host and his excellent wife.[40]

 [40] This opportunity has been taken to introduce to the reader some
 of the most expert amateur mountaineers of the time; and a few of the
 guides who have been, or will be, mentioned in the course of the book.
    Peter Perrn is on the extreme right. Then come young Peter
    Taugwalder (upon the bench); and J. J. Maquignaz (leaning against
    the door-post). Franz Andermatten occupies the steps, and Ulrich
    Lauener towers in the background.

[Illustration: THE CLUB-ROOM OF ZERMATT, IN 1864]

I left this agreeable society to seek letters at the post. They yielded
disastrous intelligence. My holiday was brought to an abrupt
termination, and I awaited the arrival of Reilly (who was convoying the
stores for the attack on the Matterhorn) only to inform him that our
arrangements were upset; then traveled home, day and night, as fast as
express-trains would carry me.




CHAPTER XIII.
THE ASCENT OF THE GRAND CORNIER.


Our career in 1864 had been one of unbroken success, but the great
ascent upon which I had set my heart was not attempted, and until it
was accomplished I was unsatisfied. Other things, too, influenced me to
visit the Alps once more. I wished to travel elsewhere, in places where
the responsibility of direction would rest with myself alone. It was
well to know how far my judgment in the choice of routes could be
relied upon.

The journey of 1865 was chiefly undertaken, then, to find out to what
extent I was capable of selecting paths over mountainous country. The
programme which was drawn up for this journey was rather ambitious,
since it included almost all of the great peaks which had not then been
ascended, but it was neither lightly undertaken nor hastily executed.
All pains were taken to secure success. Information was sought from
those who could give it, and the defeats of others were studied, that
their errors might be avoided. The results which followed came not so
much, perhaps, from luck, as from forethought and careful calculation.

For success does not, as a rule, come by chance, and when one fails
there is a reason for it. But when any notable or so-called brilliant
thing is done, we are too apt to look upon the success alone, without
considering how it was accomplished, whilst when men fail we inquire
why they have not succeeded. So failures are oftentimes more
instructive than successes, and the disappointments of some become
profitable to others.

Up to a certain point the programme was completely and happily carried
out. Nothing but success attended our efforts so long as the excursions
were executed as they had been planned. Most of them were made upon the
very days which had been fixed for them months beforehand; and all were
accomplished, comparatively speaking, so easily that their descriptions
must be, in the absence af difficulty and danger, less interesting to
the general reader than they would have been if our course had been
marked by blunders and want of judgment. Before proceeding to speak of
these excursions, it will not be entirely useless to explain the
reasons which influenced the selection of the routes which were adopted
upon them.

In the course of the past five seasons my early practices were
revolutionized. My antipathy to snow was overcome, and my predilection
for rocks was modified. Like all those who are not mountaineers born, I
was, at the first, extremely nervous upon steep snow. The snow seemed
bound to slip, and all those who were upon it to go along with it. Snow
of a certain quality is undoubtedly liable to slip when it is at a
certain inclination. The exact states which are dangerous or safe it is
not possible to describe in writing. That is only learnt by experience,
and confidence upon snow is not really felt until one has gained
experience. Confidence gradually came to me, and as it came so did my
partiality for rocks diminish. For it was evident, to use a common
expression, that it paid better to travel upon snow than upon rocks.
This applies to snow-beds pure and simple, or to snow which is lying
over glacier; and in the selection of routes it has latterly always
been my practice to look for the places where snow-slopes or
snow-covered glaciers reach highest into mountains.

It is comparatively seldom, however, that an ascent of a great mountain
can be executed exclusively upon snow and glacier. Ridges peep through
which have to be surmounted. In my earlier scramblings I usually took
to, or was taken upon, the summits (or arêtes) of the ridges, and a
good many mountaineers habitually take to them on principle, as the
natural and proper way. According to my experience, it is seldom well
to do so when any other course is open. As I have already said, and
presently shall repeat more particularly the crests of all the main
ridges of the great peaks of the Alps are shattered and cleft by frost;
and it not unfrequently happens that a notch in a ridge, which appears
perfectly insignificant from a distance, is found to be an insuperable
barrier to farther progress, and a great detour or a long descent has
to be made to avoid the obstacle. When committed to an arête, one is
tied, almost always, to a particular course, from which it is difficult
to deviate. Much loss of time must result if any serious obstruction
occurs, and total defeat is not at all improbable.

But it seldom happens that a great Alpine peak is seen that is cut off
abruptly, in all directions, from the snows and glaciers which surround
it. In its gullies snow will cling, although its faces may be too steep
for the formation of permanent snow-beds. The merits of these
snow-gullies (or _couloirs_) have been already pointed out, and it is
hardly necessary to observe, after that which was just now said about
snow, that ascents of snow-gullies (with proper precautions) are very
much to be preferred to ascents of rocky arêtes.

By following the glaciers, the snow-slopes above, and the couloirs
rising out of them, it is usually possible to get very close to the
summits of the great peaks in the Alps. The final climb will, perhaps,
necessarily be by an arête. The less of it the better.

It occasionally occurs that considerable mountain-slopes or faces are
destitute of snow-gullies. In that case it will, very likely, be best
to adhere to the faces (or to the gullies or minor ridges upon them),
rather than take to the great ridges. Upon a face one can move to the
right or to the left with more facility than upon the crest of a ridge,
and when a difficulty is arrived at, it is, consequently, less
troublesome to circumvent.

In selecting the routes which were taken in 1865, I looked, first, for
places where glaciers and snow extended highest up into the mountains
which were to be ascended or the ridges which were to be crossed; next,
for gullies filled with snow leading still higher; and finally, from
the heads of the gullies we completed the ascents, whenever it was
practicable, by faces instead of by arêtes. The ascent of the Grand
Cornier (13,022), of the Dent Blanche (14,318), Grandes Jorasses
(13,700), Aiguille Verte (13,540), Ruinette (12,727), and the
Matterhorn (14,780), were all accomplished in this way, besides the
other excursions which will be referred to by and by. The route
selected before the start was made was in every case strictly followed
out.

We inspected all of these mountains from neighboring heights before
entering upon their ascents. I explained to the guides the routes I
proposed to be taken, and (when the courses were at all complicated)
sketched them out on paper to prevent misunderstanding. In some few
cases they suggested variations, and in every case the route was well
discussed. The _execution_ of the work was done by the guides, and I
seldom interfered with or attempted to assist in it.

The 13th of June, 1865, I spent in the valley of Lauterbrunnen with the
Rev. W. H. Hawker and the guides Christian and Ulrich Lauener, and on
the 14th crossed the Petersgrat with Christian Almer and Johann Tännler
to Turtman (Tourtemagne) in the Valais. Tännler was then paid off, as
Michel Croz and Franz Biener were awaiting me.

It was not possible to find two leading guides who worked together more
harmoniously than Croz and Almer. Biener’s part was subordinate to
theirs, and he was added as a convenience rather than as a necessity.
Croz spoke French alone, Almer little else than German. Biener spoke
both languages, and was useful on that account; but he seldom went to
the front, excepting during the early part of the day, when the work
was easy, and he acted throughout more as a porter than as a guide.

The importance of having a reserve of power on mountain expeditions
cannot be too strongly insisted upon. We always had some in hand, and
were never pressed or overworked so long as we were together. Come what
might, we were ready for it. But by a series of chances, which I shall
never cease to regret, I was first obliged to part with Croz, and then
to dismiss the others;[41] and so, deviating from the course that I had
deliberately adopted, which was successful in practice because it was
sound in principle, became fortuitously a member of an expedition that
ended with the catastrophe which brought my scrambles amongst the Alps
to a close.

 [41] See Chapter xx.

On June 15 we went from Turtman to Z’meiden, and thence over the
Forcletta pass to Zinal. We diverged from the summit of the pass up
some neighboring heights to inspect the Grand Cornier, and I decided to
have nothing to do with its northern side. The mountain was more than
seven miles away, but it was quite safe to pronounce it inaccessible
from our direction.

On the 16th we left Zinal at 2.05 A.M. having been for a moment greatly
surprised by an entry in the hotel-book,[42] and ascending by the Zinal
glacier, and giving the base of our mountain a wide berth in order that
it might the better be examined, passed gradually right round to its
south before a way up it was seen. At 8.30 we arrived upon the plateau
of the glacier that descends toward the east, between the Grand Cornier
and the Dent Blanche, and from this place a route was readily traced.
We steered to the north over the glacier, toward the ridge that
descends to the east, gained it by mounting snow-slopes, and followed
it to the summit, which was arrived at before half-past twelve. From
first to last the route was almost entirely over snow. The ridges
leading to the north and to the south from the summit of the Grand
Cornier exhibited in a most striking manner the extraordinary effects
that may be produced by violent alternations of heat and cold. The
southern one was hacked and split into the wildest forms, and the
northern one was not less cleft and impracticable, and offered the
droll piece of rock-carving which is represented upon. Some small
blocks actually tottered and fell before our eyes, and starting others
in their downward course, grew into a perfect avalanche, which
descended with a solemn roar on the glaciers beneath.

 [42] It was an entry describing an ascent of the Grand Cornier (which
 we supposed had never been ascended) from the very direction which we
 had just pronounced to be hopeless! It was especially startling,
 because Franz Biener was spoken of in it as having been concerned in
 the ascent. On examining Biener it was found that he had made the
 excursion, and had supposed at the time he was upon his summit that it
 was the Grand Cornier. He saw afterwards that they had only ascended
 one of the several points upon the ridge running northwards from the
 Grand Cornier—I believe, the Pigne de l’Allée (11,168 feet)!

[Illustration: PART OF THE SOUTHERN RIDGE OF THE GRAND CORNIER.]

It is natural that the great ridges should present the wildest
forms—not on account of their dimensions, but by reason of their
positions. They are exposed to the fiercest heat of the sun, and are
seldom in shadow as long as it is above the horizon. They are entirely
unprotected, and are attacked by the strongest blasts and by the most
intense cold. The most durable rocks are not proof against such
assaults. These grand, apparently solid, eternal mountains, seeming so
firm, so immutable, are yet ever changing and crumbling into dust.
These shattered ridges are evidence of their sufferings. Let me repeat
that every principal ridge of every great peak in the Alps amongst
those I have seen has been shattered in this way, and that every summit
amongst the rock-summits upon which I have stood has been nothing but a
piled-up heap of fragments.

The minor ridges do not usually present such extraordinary forms as the
principal ones. They are less exposed, and they are less broken up, and
it is reasonable to assume that their annual degradation is less than
that of the summit-ridges.

[Illustration: PART OF THE NORTHERN RIDGE OF THE GRAND CORNIER.]

The wear and tear does not cease even in winter, for these great ridges
are never completely covered up by snow,[43] and the sun has still
power. The destruction is incessant, and increases as time goes on; for
the greater the surfaces which are exposed to the practically
inexhaustible powers of sun and frost, the greater ruin will be
effected.

 [43] I wrote in the _Athenæum_, August 29, 1863, to the same effect.
 “This action of the frost does not cease in winter, inasmuch as it is
 impossible for the Matterhorn to be entirely covered by snow. Less
 precipitous mountains may be entirely covered up during winter, and if
 they do not then actually gain height, the wear and tear is, at least,
 suspended. . . . We arrive, therefore, at the conclusion that,
 although such snow-peaks as Mont Blanc _may_ in the course of ages
 grow higher, the Matterhorn must decrease in height.” These remarks
 have received confirmation.
    The men who were left by M. Dollfus-Ausset in his observatory upon
    the summit of the Col Theodule, during the winter of 1865, remarked
    that the snow was partially melted upon the rocks in their vicinity
    upon 19th, 20th, 21st, 22d, 23d, 26th, 27th December of that year,
    and upon the 22d of December they entered in their Journal, “_Nous
    avons vu au Matterhorn que la neige se fondait sur roches et qu’il
    s’en écoulait de l’eau.”—Matériaux pour l’étude des Glaciers_, vol.
    viii. part i, p. 246, 1868; and vol. viii. part ii. p. 77, 1869.

The rock-falls which are continually occurring upon all rock-mountains
are, of course, caused by these powers. No one doubts it, but one never
believes it so thoroughly as when the quarries are seen from which
their materials have been hewn, and when the germs, so to speak, of
these avalanches have been seen actually starting from above.

These falls of rock take place from two causes: first, from the heat of
the sun detaching small stones or rocks which have been arrested on
ledges or slopes and bound together by snow or ice. I have seen such
released many times when the sun has risen high: they fall gently at
first, gather strength, grow in volume, and at last rush down with a
cloud trailing behind, like the dust after an express-train. Secondly,
from the freezing of the water which trickles during the day into the
clefts, fissures and crannies. This agency is naturally most active in
the night, and then, or during very cold weather, the greatest falls
take place.[44]

 [44] In each of the seven nights I passed upon the south-west ridge of
 the Matterhorn in 1861-3 (at heights varying from 11,844 to 12,992
 feet above the level of the sea), the rocks fell incessantly in
 showers and avalanches. See p. 175.

When one has continually seen and heard these falls, it is easily
understood why the glaciers are laden with moraines. The wonder is, not
that they are sometimes so great, but that they are not always greater.
Irrespective of lithological considerations, one knows that this débris
cannot have been excavated by the glaciers. The moraines are _borne_ by
glaciers, but they are _born_ from the ridges. They are generated by
the sun and delivered by the frost. “Fire,” it is well said in
Plutarch’s life of Camillus, “is the most active thing in nature, and
all generation is motion, or at least with motion: all other parts of
matter without warmth lie sluggish and dead, and crave the influence of
heat as their life, and when that comes upon them they immediately
acquire some active or passive qualities.”[45]

 [45] Tonson’s Ed. of 1758. Bacon may have had this passage in mind
 when he wrote, “It must not be thought that heat generates motion, or
 motion heat (though in some respects this be true), but that the very
 essence of heat, or the substantial self of heat, is motion and
 nothing else.”—_Novum Organum_, book ii. Devey’s Translation.

If the Alps were granted a perfectly invariable temperature, if they
were no longer subjected alternately to freezing blasts and to
scorching heat, they might more correctly be termed “eternal.” They
might continue to decay, but their abasement would be much less rapid.

When rocks are covered by a sheet of glacier they do enjoy an almost
invariable temperature. The extremes of summer and winter are unknown
to rocks which are so covered up: a range of a very few degrees is the
most that is possible underneath the ice.[46] There is _then_ little or
no disintegration from unequal expansion and contraction. Frost _then_
does not penetrate into the heart of the rock and cleave off vast
masses. The rocks _then_ sustain grinding instead of cleaving. Atoms
_then_ come away instead of masses. Fissures and overhanging surfaces
are bridged, for the ice cannot get at them; and after many centuries
of grinding have been sustained, we still find numberless angular
surfaces (in the _lee-sides_) which were fashioned before the ice began
to work.

The points of difference which are so evident between the operations of
heat, cold and water, and the action of glaciers upon rocks, are as
follow. The former take advantage of cracks, fissures, joints and soft
places—the latter does not. The former can work _underneath_
overhanging masses—the latter cannot. The effects produced by the
former continually increase, because they continually expose fresh
surfaces by forming new cracks, fissures and holes. The effects which
the latter produces constantly diminish, because the area of the
surfaces operated upon becomes less and less as they become smoother
and flatter.

 [46] Doubtless, _at the sides_ of glacier-beds, the range of
 temperature is greater. But there is evidence that the winter cold
 does not penetrate to the innermost recesses of glacier-beds in the
 fact that streams continue to flow underneath the ice all the year
 round, winter as well as summer, in the Alps and (I was informed in
 Greenland) in Greenland. Experimental proof can be readily obtained
 that even in midsummer the bottom temperature is close to 32° Faht.

What can one conclude, then, but that sun, frost and water have had
infinitely more to do than glaciers with the fashioning of
mountain-forms and valley-slopes? Who can refuse to believe that powers
which are at work everywhere, which have been at work always, which are
so incomparably active, capable and enduring, must have produced
greater effects than a solitary power which is always local in its
influence, which has worked _comparatively_ but for a short time, which
is always slow and feeble in its operations, and which constantly
diminishes in intensity?

Yet there are some who refuse to believe that sun, frost and water have
played an important part in modeling the Alps, and hold it as an
article of their faith that the Alpine region “owes its present
conformation mainly to the action of its ancient glaciers”![47]

 [47] Professor Tyndall “On the conformation of the Alps,” _Phil.
 Mag._, Sept. 1862.

My reverie was interrupted by Croz observing that it was time to be
off. Less than two hours sufficed to take us to the glacier plateau
below (where we had left our baggage): three-quarters of an hour more
placed us upon the depression between the Grand Cornier and the Dent
Blanche (Col du Grand Cornier), and at 6 P.M. we arrived at Albricolla.
Croz and Biener hankered after milk, and descended to a village lower
down the valley, but Almer and I stayed where we were, and passed a
chilly night on some planks in a halt-burnt châlet.




CHAPTER XIV.
THE ASCENT OF THE DENT BLANCHE


Croz and Biener did not return until past 5 A.M. on June 17, and we
then set out at once for Zermatt, intending to cross the Col d’Hérens.
But we did not proceed far before the attractions of the Dent Blanche
were felt to be irresistible, and we turned aside up the steep lateral
glacier which descends along its south-western face.

The Dent Blanche is a mountain little known except to the climbing
fraternity. It was, and is, reputed to be one of the most difficult
mountains in the Alps. Many attempts were made to scale it before its
ascent was accomplished. Even Leslie Stephen himself, fleetest of foot
of the whole Alpine brotherhood, once upon a time returned discomfited
from it.

[Illustration: LESLIE STEPHEN]

It was not climbed until 1862, but in that year Mr. T. S. Kennedy, with
Mr. Wigram and the guides Jean B. Croz and Kronig, managed to conquer
it.

They had a hard fight, though, before they gained the victory: a
furious wind and driving snow, added to the natural difficulties,
nearly turned the scale against them.

Mr. Kennedy described his expedition in a very interesting paper in the
_Alpine Journal_. His account bore the impress of truth, but
unbelievers said that it was impossible to have told (in weather such
as was then experienced) whether the summit had actually been attained,
and sometimes roundly asserted that the mountain, as the saying is, yet
remained virgin.

I did not share these doubts, although they influenced me to make the
ascent. I thought it might be possible to find an easier route than
that taken by Mr. Kennedy, and that if we succeeded in discovering one
we should be able at once to refute his traducers and to vaunt our
superior wisdom. Actuated by these elevated motives, I halted my little
army at the foot of the glacier, and inquired, “Which is best for us to
do?—to ascend the Dent Blanche, or to cross to Zermatt?” They answered,
with befitting solemnity, “We think Dent Blanche is best.”

From the châlets of Abricolla the southwest face of the Dent Blanche is
regarded almost exactly in profile. From thence it is seen that the
angle of the face scarcely exceeds thirty degrees, and after observing
this I concluded that the face would, in all probability, give an
easier path to the summit than the crest of the very jagged ridge which
was followed by Mr. Kennedy.

[Illustration: THE BERGSCHRUND ON THE DENT BLANCHE IN 1865]

We zigzagged up the glacier along the foot of the face, and looked for
a way on to it. We looked for some time in vain, for a mighty
_bergschrund_ effectually prevented approach, and, like a fortress’
moat, protected the wall from assault. We went up and up, until, I
suppose, we were not more than a thousand feet below the point marked
3912 metres: then a bridge was discovered, and we dropped down on hands
and knees to cross it.

A bergschrund, it has been said, is a schrund and something more than a
schrund. A schrund is simply a big crevasse: a bergschrund is
frequently, but not always, a big crevasse. The term is applied to the
last of the crevasses one finds, in ascending, before quitting the
glacier and taking to the rocks which bound it. It is the mountains’
schrund. Sometimes it is _very_ large, but early in the season (that is
to say, in the month of June or before) bergschrunds are usually snowed
up or well bridged over, and do not give much trouble. Later in the
year, say in August, they are frequently very great hindrances, and
occasionally are completely impassable.

We crossed the bergschrund of the Dent Blanche, I suppose, at a height
of about twelve thousand feet above the level of the sea. Our work may
be said to have commenced at that point. The face, although not steep
in its general inclination, was so cut up by little ridges and cliffs,
and so seamed with incipient couloirs, that it had all the difficulty
of a much more precipitous slope. The difficulties were never great,
but they were numerous, and made a very respectable total when put
together. We passed the bergschrund soon after nine in the morning, and
during the next eleven hours halted only five and forty minutes. The
whole of the remainder of the time was occupied in ascending and
descending the twenty-four hundred feet which compose this
south-western face; and inasmuch as one thousand feet per hour (taking
the mean of ascent and descent) is an ordinary rate of progression, it
is tolerably certain that the Dent Blanche is a mountain of exceptional
difficulty.

The hindrances opposed to us by the mountain itself were, however, as
nothing compared with the atmospheric obstructions. It is true there
was plenty of—“Are you fast, Almer?” “Yes.” “Go ahead, Biener.” Biener,
made secure, cried, “Come on, sir,” and _Monsieur_ endeavoured. “No,
no,” said Almer, “not there—_here_” pointing with his bàton to the
right place to clutch. Then ’twas Croz’s turn, and we all drew in the
rope as the great man followed. “Forward” once more—and so on.

Five hundred feet of this kind of work had been accomplished when we
were saluted (not entirely unexpectedly) by the first gust of a
hurricane which was raging above. The day was a lovely one for dwellers
in the valleys, but we had long ago noted some light, gossamer clouds
that were hovering round our summit, being drawn out in a suspicious
manner into long, silky threads. Croz, indeed, prophesied before we had
crossed the schrund that we should be beaten by the wind, and had
advised that we should return. But I had retorted, “No, my good Croz,
you said just now, ‘Dent Blanche is best:’ we must go up the Dent
Blanche.”

I have a very lively and disagreeable recollection of this wind. Upon
the outskirts of the disturbed region it was only felt occasionally. It
then seemed to make rushes at one particular man, and when it had
discomfited him, it whisked itself away to some far-off spot, only to
return presently in greater force than before.

My old enemy, the Matterhorn, seen across the basin of the
Z’Muttgletscher, looked totally unassailable. “Do you think,” the men
asked, “that you or any one else will ever get up _that_ mountain?” And
when, undismayed by their ridicule, I stoutly answered, “Yes, but not
upon that side,” they burst into derisive chuckles. I must confess that
my hopes sank, for nothing can look, or be, more completely
inaccessible than the Matterhorn on its northern and north-west sides.

“Forward” once again. We overtopped the Dent d’Hérens. “Not a thousand
feet more: in three hours we shall be on the summit.” “You mean _ten_,”
echoed Croz, so slow had been the progress. But I was not far wrong in
the estimate. At 3.15 we struck the great ridge followed by Mr.
Kennedy, close to the top of the mountain. The wind and cold were
terrible there. Progress was oftentimes impossible, and we waited,
crouching under the lee of rocks, listening to “the shrieking of the
mindless wind,” while the blasts swept across, tearing off the upper
snow and blowing it away in streamers over the Schönbühl
glacier—“nothing seen except an indescribable writhing in the air, like
the wind made visible.”

Our goal was concealed by the mist, though it was only a few yards
away, and Croz’s prophecy that we should stay all night upon the summit
seemed likely to come true. The men rose with the occasion, although
even their fingers had nearly lost sensation. There were no murmurings
nor suggestions of return, and they pressed on for the little white
cone which they knew must be near at hand. Stopped again—a big mass
perched loosely on the ridge barred the way: we could not crawl over
and scarcely dared creep round it. The wine went round for the last
time. The liquor was half frozen—still we would more of it. It was all
gone: the bottle was left behind, and we pushed on, for there was a
lull.

The end came almost before it was expected. The clouds opened, and I
saw that we were all but upon the highest point, and that between us
and it, about twenty yards off, there was a little artificial pile of
stones. Kennedy was a true man—it was a cairn which he had erected.
“What is that, Croz?” “_Homme de pierres_,” he bawled. It was needless
to proceed farther: I jerked the rope from Biener, and motioned that we
would go back. He did the same to Almer, and we turned immediately.
_They_ did not see the stones (they were cutting footsteps), and
misinterpreted the reason of the retreat. Voices were inaudible and
explanations impossible.

We commenced the descent of the face. It was hideous work. The men
looked like impersonations of Winter, with their hair all frosted and
their beards matted with ice. My hands were numbed—dead. I begged the
others to stop. “_We cannot afford to stop; we must continue to move_,”
was their reply. They were right: to stop was to be entirely frozen. So
we went down, gripping rocks varnished with ice, which pulled the skin
from the fingers. Gloves were useless: they became iced too, and the
bàtons slid through them as slippery as eels. The iron of the axes
stuck to the fingers—it felt red hot; but it was useless to shrink: the
rocks and the axes had to be firmly grasped—no faltering would do here.

We turned back at 4.12 P.M. and at 8.15 crossed the bergschrund, again,
not having halted for a minute upon the entire descent. During the last
two hours it was windless, but time was of such vital importance that
we pressed on incessantly, and did not stop until we were fairly upon
the glacier. Then we took stock of what remained of the tips of our
fingers. There was not much skin left: they were perfectly raw, and for
weeks afterward I was reminded of the ascent of the Dent Blanche by the
twinges which I felt when I pulled on my boots. The others escaped with
some slight frost-bites, and altogether we had reason to congratulate
ourselves that we got off so lightly. The men complimented me upon the
descent, and I could do the same honestly by them. If they had worked
less vigorously or harmoniously, we should have been benighted upon the
face, where there was not a single spot upon which it was possible to
sit; and if that had happened, I do not think that one would have
survived to tell the tale.

We made the descent of the glacier in a mist, and of the moraine at its
base and of the slopes below in total darkness, and regained the
châlets of Abricolla at 11.45 P. M. We had been absent eighteen and a
half hours, and out of that time had been going not less than
seventeen. That night we slept the sleep of those who are thoroughly
tired.[48]

 [48] The ascent of the Dent Blanche is the hardest that I have made.
 There was nothing upon it so difficult as the last 500 feet of the
 Pointe des Ecrins; but, on the other hand, there was hardly a step
 upon it which was positively easy. The whole of the face required
 actual climbing. There was, probably, very little difference in
 difficulty between the route we took in 1865, and that followed by Mr.
 Kennedy in 1862.

Two days afterward, when walking into Zermatt, whom should we meet but
Mr. Kennedy! “Hullo!” we said, “we have just seen your cairn on the top
of the Dent Blanche.” “No, you haven’t,” he answered very positively.
“What do you mean?” “Why, that you cannot have seen my cairn, because I
didn’t make one!” “Well, but we saw _a_ cairn.” “No doubt: it was made
by a man who went up the mountain last year with Lauener and Zurfluh.”
“O-o-h!” we said, rather disgusted at hearing news when we expected to
communicate some—“O-o-h! Good-morning, Kennedy.” Before this happened
we managed to lose our way upon the Col d’Hérens, but an account of
that must be reserved for the next chapter.

[Illustration: T. S. KENNEDY]




CHAPTER XV.
LOST ON THE COL D’HÉRENS—MY SEVENTH ATTEMPT TO ASCEND THE MATTERHORN


We should have started for Zermatt about 7 A.M. on the 18th, had not
Biener asked to be allowed to go to mass at Evolène, a village about
two and a half hours from Abricolla. He received permission, on the
condition that he returned not later than mid-day, but he did not come
back until 2.30 P.M. and we thereby got into a pretty little mess.

The pass which we were about to traverse to Zermatt—the Col d’Hérens—is
one of the few glacier-passes in this district which have been known
almost from time immemorial. It is frequently crossed in the summer
season, and is a very easy route, notwithstanding that the summit of
the pass is 11,417 feet above the level of the sea.

From Abricolla to the summit the way lies chiefly over the flat Glacier
de Ferpècle. The walk is of the most straightforward kind. The glacier
rises in gentle undulations, its crevasses are small and easily
avoided, and all you have to do, after once getting upon the ice, is to
proceed due south in the most direct manner possible. If you do so, in
two hours you should be upon the summit of the pass.

We tied ourselves in line, of course, when we entered upon the glacier,
and placed Biener to lead, as he had frequently crossed the pass,
supposing that his local knowledge might save us some time upon the
other side. We had proceeded, I suppose, about halfway up, when a
little thin cloud dropped down upon us from above, but it was so light,
so gauzy, that we did not for a moment suppose that it would become
embarrassing, and hence I neglected to note at the proper moment the
course which we should steer—that is to say, to observe our precise
situation in regard to the summit of the pass.

For some little time Biener progressed steadily, making a tolerably
straight track, but at length he wavered, and deviated sometimes to the
right and sometimes to the left. Croz rushed forward directly he saw
this, and, taking the poor young man by his shoulders, gave him a good
shaking, told him that he was an imbecile, to untie himself at once,
and go to the rear. Biener looked half frightened, and obeyed without a
murmur. Croz led off briskly, and made a good straight track for a few
minutes, but then, it seemed to me, began to move steadily round to the
left. I looked back, but the mist was now too thick to see our traces,
and so we continued to follow our leader. At last the others (who were
behind, and in a better position to judge) thought the same as I did,
and we pulled up Croz to deliver our opinion. He took our criticism in
good part, but when Biener opened his mouth, that was too much for him
to stand, and he told the young man again, “You are imbecile: I bet you
twenty francs to one that _my_ track is better than _yours;_ twenty
francs, now then, imbecile!”

Almer went to the front. He commenced by returning in the track for a
hundred yards or so, and then started off at a tangent from Croz’s
curve. We kept this course for half an hour, and then were certain that
we were not on the right route, because the snow became decidedly
steep. We bore away more and more to the right to avoid this steep
bank, but at last I rebelled, as we had for some time been going almost
south-west, which was altogether the wrong direction. After a long
discussion we returned some distance in our track, and then steered a
little east of south, but we continually met steep snow-slopes, and to
avoid them went right or left as the case might require.

We were greatly puzzled, and could not in the least tell whether we
were too near the Dent Blanche or too close to the Tête Blanche. The
mists had thickened, and were now as dense as a moderate London fog.
There were no rocks or echoes to direct us, and the guidance of the
compass brought us invariably against these steep snow-banks. The men
were fairly beaten: they had all had a try, or more than one, and at
last gave it up as a bad job, and asked what was to be done. It was
7.30 P.M. and only an hour of daylight was left. We were beginning to
feel used up, for we had wandered about at tiptop speed for the last
three hours and a half; so I said, “This is my advice: let us turn in
our track, and go back as hard as ever we can, not quitting the track
for an instant.” They were well content, but just as we were starting
off the clouds lifted a little, and we thought we saw the col. It was
then to our right, and we went at it with a dash, but before we had
gone a hundred paces down came the mist again. We kept on nevertheless
for twenty minutes, and then, as darkness was perceptibly coming on,
and the snow was yet rising in front, we turned back, and by running
down the entire distance managed to get clear of the Ferpècle glacier
just as it became pitch-dark. We arrived at our cheerless châlet in due
course, and went to bed supper-less, for our food was gone —all very
sulky, not to say savage, agreeing in nothing except in bullying
Biener.

At 7 A.M. on the 19th we set out, for the third time, for the Col
d’Hérens. It was a fine day, and we gradually recovered our tempers as
we saw the follies which had been committed on the previous evening.
Biener’s wavering track was not so bad, but Croz had swerved from the
right route from the first, and had traced a complete semicircle, so
that when we stopped him we were facing Abricolla, whence we had
started. Almer had commenced with great discretion, but he kept on too
long, and crossed the proper route. When I stopped them (because we
were going south-west) we were a long way up the Tête Blanche! Our last
attempt was in the right direction: we were actually upon the summit of
the pass, and in another ten yards we should have commenced to go down
hill! It is needless to point out that if the compass had been looked
to at the proper moment—that is, immediately the mist came down—we
should have avoided all our troubles. It was of little use afterward,
except to tell us when we were going _wrong._

We arrived at Zermatt in six and a half hours’ walking from Abricolla,
and Seiler’s hospitable reception set us all right again. On the 20th
we crossed the Théodule pass, and diverged from its summit up the
Theodulhorn (11,391) to examine a route which I suggested for the
ascent of the Matterhorn; but before continuing an account of our
proceedings, I must stop for a minute to explain why this new route was
proposed, in place of that up the south-western ridge.

The Matterhorn may be divided into three sections—the first facing the
Z’Muttgletscher, which looks, and is, completely unassailable; the
second facing the east, which seems inaccessibility itself; the third
facing Breuil, which does not look entirely hopeless. It was from this
last direction that all my previous attempts were made. It was by the
southwestern ridge, it will be remembered, that not only I, but Mr.
Hawkins, Professor Tyndall and the chasseurs of Val Tournanche, essayed
to climb the mountain. Why, then, abandon a route which had been shown
to be feasible up to a certain point?

[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE RIFFELBERG]

I gave it up for four reasons: 1. On account of my growing
disinclination for arêtes, and preference for snow and rock faces. 2.
Because I was persuaded that meteorological disturbances (by which we
had been baffled several times) might be expected to occur again and
again. 3. Because I found that the east face was a gross imposition: it
looked not far from perpendicular, while its angle was, in fact,
scarcely more than 40°. 4. Because I observed for myself that the
strata of the mountain dipped to the west-south-west. It is not
necessary to say anything more than has been already said upon the
first two of these four points, but upon the latter two a few words are
indispensable. Let us consider, first, why most persons receive such an
exaggerated impression of the steepness of the eastern face.

When one looks at the Matterhorn from Zermatt, the mountain is regarded
(nearly) from the north-east. The face that fronts the east is
consequently neither seen in profile nor in full front, but almost
halfway between the two: it looks, therefore, more steep than it really
is. The majority of those who visit Zermatt go up to the Riffelberg or
to the Görnergrat, and from these places the mountain naturally looks
still more precipitous, because its eastern face (which is almost all
that is seen of it) is viewed more directly in front. From the Riffel
hotel the slope seems to be set at an angle of seventy degrees. If the
tourist continues to go southward, and crosses the Théodule pass, he
gets, at one point, immediately in front of the eastern face, which
then seems to be absolutely perpendicular. Comparatively few persons
correct the erroneous impressions they receive in these quarters by
studying the face in profile, and most go away with a very incorrect
and exaggerated idea of the precipitousness of this side of the
mountain, because they have considered the question from one point of
view alone. Several years passed away before I shook myself clear of my
early and false impressions regarding the steepness of this side of the
Matterhorn. First of all, I noticed that there were places on this
eastern face where snow remained permanently all the year round. I do
not speak of snow in gullies, but of the considerable slopes which are
seen in the accompanying engraving about halfway up the face. Such beds
as these could not continue to remain throughout the summer unless the
snow had been able to accumulate in the winter in large masses; and
snow cannot accumulate and remain in large masses, in a situation such
as this, at angles much exceeding 45°.[49] Hence I was bound to
conclude that the eastern face was many degrees removed from
perpendicularity; and to be sure on this point, I went to the slopes
between the Z’Muttgletscher and the Matterhorngletscher, above the
châlets of Staffel, whence the face could be seen in profile. Its
appearance from this direction would be amazing to one who had seen it
only from the east. It looks so totally different from the apparently
sheer and perfectly unclimbable cliff one sees from the Riffelberg that
it is hard to believe the two slopes are one and the same thing. Its
angle scarcely exceeds 40°.

 [49] I prefer to be on the safe side. My impression is that snow
 cannot accumulate in large masses _at_ 45°.

A great step was made when this was learned. This knowledge alone would
not, however, have caused me to try an ascent by the eastern face
instead of by the south-west ridge. Forty degrees may not seem a
formidable inclination to the reader, nor is it for only a small cliff.
But it is very unusual to find so steep a gradient maintained
continuously as the general angle of a great mountain-slope, and very
few instances can be quoted from the High Alps of such an angle being
preserved over a rise of three thousand feet.

1 do not think that the steepness or the height of this cliff would
have deterred climbers from attempting to ascend it, if it had not, in
addition, looked so repulsively smooth. Men despaired of finding
anything to grasp. Now, some of the difficulties of the south-west
ridge came from the smoothness of the rocks, although that ridge, even
from a distance, seemed to be well broken up. How much greater, then,
might not have been the difficulty of climbing a face which looked
smooth and unbroken close at hand?

A more serious hindrance to mounting the south-west ridge is found in
the dip of its rocks to the west-south-west. The great mass of the
Matterhorn, it is now well ascertained, is composed of regularly
stratified rocks, which rise toward the east. It has been mentioned in
the text, more than once, that the rocks on some portions of the ridge
leading from the Col du Lion to the summit dip outward, and that
fractured edges overhang. This is shown very clearly in the annexed
diagram, Fig. 1. It will be readily understood that such an arrangement
is not favorable for climbers, and that the degree of facility with
which rocks can be ascended that are so disposed must depend very much
upon the frequency or paucity of fissures and joints. The rocks of the
south-west ridge are sufficiently provided with cracks, but if it were
otherwise, their texture and arrangement would render them
unassailable.[50]

 [50] Weathered granite is an admirable rock to climb; its gritty
 texture giving excellent hold to the nails in one’s boots. But upon
 such metamorphic schists as compose the mass of the great peak of the
 Matterhorn, the texture of the rock itself is of no value.

[Illustration: Fig. 1.]

It is not possible to go a single time upon the rocks of the south-west
ridge, from the Col du Lion to the foot of the Great Tower, without
observing the prevalence of their outward dip, and that their fractured
edges have a tendency to overhang; nor can one fail to notice that it
is upon this account the débris which is rent off by frost does not
remain _in situ_, but pours down in showers over the surrounding
cliffs. Each day’s work, so to speak, is cleared away—the ridge is
swept clean: there is scarcely anything seen but firm rock.[51]

 [51] I refer here only to that portion of the ridge which is between
 the Col du Lion and the Great Tower. The remarks would not apply to
 the rocks higher up (see p. 118); higher still the rocks are firm
 again; yet higher (upon the “Shoulder”) they are much disintegrated;
 and then, upon the final peak, they are again firm.

The fact that the mountain is composed of a series of stratified beds
was pointed out long ago. De Saussure remarked it, and recorded
explicitly in his _Travels_ (§ 2243) that they “rose to the north-east
at an angle of about forty-five degrees.” Forbes noticed it also, but
gave it as his opinion that the beds were “less inclined, or nearly
horizontal.” He added, “De Saussure is no doubt correct.” The truth, I
think, lies between the two.

I was acquainted with both of the above-quoted passages, but did not
turn the knowledge to any practical account until I re-observed the
same fact for myself. It was not until after my repulse in 1863 that I
referred the peculiar difficulties of the south-west ridge to the dip
of the strata, but when once persuaded that structure and not texture
was the real impediment, it was reasonable to infer that the opposite
side—that is to say, the eastern face—might be comparatively easy; in
brief, that an arrangement should be found like Fig. 2, instead of like
Fig. 1. This trivial deduction was the key to the ascent of the
Matterhorn.

[Illustration: Fig. 2.]

The point was, Did the strata continue with a similar dip throughout
the mountain? If they did, then this great eastern face, instead of
being hopelessly impracticable, should be quite the reverse. In fact,
it should be a great natural staircase, with steps inclining inward;
and if it were so, its smooth aspect might be of no account, for the
smallest steps, inclined in this fashion, would afford good footing.

They did so, so far as one could judge from a distance. When snow fell
in the summer-time, it brought out long terraced lines upon the
mountain, rudely parallel to each other; and the eastern face on those
occasions was often whitened almost completely over; while the other
sides, with the exception of the powdered terraces, remained black, for
the snow could not rest upon them.

The very outline of the mountain, too, confirmed the conjecture that
its structure would assist an ascent on the eastern face, although it
opposed one on all other sides. Look at any photograph of the peak from
the north-east, and you will see that upon the right-hand side (that
facing the Z’Muttgletscher) there is an incessant repetition of
overhanging cliffs and of slopes, all trending downward; in short, that
the character of the whole of that side is similar to Fig. 1; and that
upon the left hand (or south-east) ridge the forms, so far as they go,
are suggestive of the structure shown by Fig. 2, above. There is no
doubt that the contours of the mountain, seen from this direction, have
been largely influenced by the direction of its beds.

It was not therefore from a freak that I invited Mr. Reilly to join in
an attack upon the eastern face, but from a gradually-acquired
conviction that it would prove to give the easiest path to the summit;
and if we had not been obliged to part the mountain would doubtless
have been ascended in 1864.

My guides readily admitted that they had been greatly deceived as to
the steepness of the eastern face, when they were halted to look at it
in profile as we came down the Z’Muttgletscher on our way to Zermatt,
but they were far from being satisfied that it would turn out to be
easy to climb, and Almer and Biener expressed themselves decidedly
averse to making an attempt upon it. I gave way temporarily before
their evident reluctance, and we made the ascent of the Théodulhorn to
examine an alternative route, which I expected would commend itself to
them in preference to the other, as a great part of it led over snow.

There is an immense gully in the Matterhorn which leads up from the
Glacier du Mont Cervin to a point high up on the south-eastern ridge. I
proposed to ascend this to its head, and to cross over the south-east
ridge on to the eastern face. This would have brought us on a level
with the bottom of the great snow-slope shown upon the centre of the
eastern face in the engraving. This snow-slope was to be crossed
diagonally, with the view of arriving at the snow upon the north-east
ridge, which is shown upon the same engraving about half an inch from
the summit. The remainder of the ascent was to be made by the broken
rocks, mixed with snow, upon the north side of the mountain. Croz
caught the idea immediately, and thought the plan feasible: details
were settled, and we descended to Breuil. Luc Meynet the hunchback was
summoned, and expressed himself delighted to resume his old vocation of
tent-bearer; and Favre’s kitchen was soon in commotion preparing three
days’ rations, for I intended to take that amount of time over the
affair—to sleep on the first night upon the rocks at the top of the
gully, to make a push for the summit, and to return to the tent on the
second day; and upon the third to come back to Breuil.

We started at 5.45 A.M. on June 21, and followed the route of the
Breuiljoch for three hours. We were then in full view of our gully, and
turned off at right angles for it. The closer we approached the more
favorable did it look. There was a good deal of snow in it, which was
evidently at a small angle, and it seemed as if one-third of the
ascent, at least, would be a very simple matter. Some suspicious marks
in the snow at its base suggested that it was not free from falling
stones, and as a measure of precaution we turned off on one side,
worked up under cover of the cliffs, and waited to see if anything
should descend. Nothing fell, so we proceeded up its right or northern
side, sometimes cutting steps up the snow, and sometimes mounting by
the rocks. Shortly before 10 A.M. we arrived at a convenient place for
a halt, and stopped to rest upon some rocks close to the snow which
commanded an excellent view of the gully.

While the men were unpacking the food I went to a little promontory to
examine our proposed route more narrowly, and to admire our noble
couloir, which led straight up into the heart of the mountain for fully
one thousand feet. It then bent toward the north, and ran up to the
crest of the south-eastern ridge. My curiosity was piqued to know what
was round this corner, and whilst I was gazing up at it, and following
with the eye the exquisitely drawn curves which wandered down the snow
in the gully, all converging to a large rut in its centre, I saw a few
little stones skidding down. I consoled myself with thinking that they
would not interfere with us if we adhered to the side. But then a
larger one came down, a solitary fellow, rushing at the rate of sixty
miles an hour—and another—and another. I was unwilling to raise the
fears of the men unnecessarily, and said nothing to them. They did not
hear the stones. Almer was seated on a rock, carving large slices from
a leg of mutton, the others were chatting, and the first intimation
they had of danger was from a crash, a sudden roar, which reverberated
awfully amongst the cliffs; and looking up they saw rocks, boulders and
stones, big and little, dart round the corner eight hundred feet or so
above us, fly with fearful fury against the opposite cliffs, rebound
from them against the walls on our side, and descend; some ricochetting
from side to side in a frantic manner, some bounding down in leaps of a
hundred feet or more over the snow, and more trailing down in a
jumbled, confused mass, mixed with snow and ice, deepening the grooves
which a moment before had excited my admiration.

The men looked wildly around for protection, and, dropping the food,
dashed under cover in all directions. The precious mutton was pitched
on one side, the wine-bag was let fall, and its contents gushed out
from the unclosed neck, while all four cowered under defending rocks,
endeavoring to make themselves as small as possible. Let it not be
supposed that their fright was unreasonable or that I was free from it.
I took good care to make myself safe, and went and cringed in a cleft
until the storm had passed. But their scramble to get under shelter was
indescribably ludicrous. Such a panic I have never witnessed, before or
since, upon a mountain-side.

This ricochet practice was a novelty to me. It arose, of course, from
the couloir being bent, and from the falling rocks having acquired
great pace before they passed the angle. In straight gullies it will
probably never be experienced. The rule is, as I have already remarked,
that falling stones keep down the centres of gullies, and you are out
of harm’s way if you follow the sides.

[Illustration: MY TENT-BEARER—THE HUNCHBACK.]

There would have been singularly little amusement and very great risk
in mounting this gully, and we turned our backs upon it with perfect
unanimity. The question then arose, “What is to be done?” I suggested
climbing the rocks above us, but this was voted impossible. I thought
the men were right, but would not give in without being assured of the
fact, and clambered up to settle the question. In a few minutes I was
brought to a halt. My forces were scattered: the little hunchback alone
was closely following me, with a broad grin upon his face and the tent
upon his shoulder; Croz, more behind, was still keeping an eye upon his
_Monsieur;_ Almer, a hundred feet below, sat on a rock with his face
buried in his hands; Biener was nowhere, out of sight. “Come down, come
down,” shouted Croz, “it is useless;” and I turned at length, convinced
that it was even as he said. Thus my little plan was knocked on the
head, and we were thrown back upon the original scheme.

We at once made a straight track for Mr. Morshead’s Breuiljoch (which
was the most direct route to take in order to get to the Hörnli, where
we intended to sleep, preparatory to attacking the eastern face), and
arrived upon its summit at 12.30 P.M. We were then unexpectedly
checked. The pass, as one, had vanished! and we found ourselves cut off
from the Furggengletscher by a small but precipitous wall of rock: the
glacier had shrunk so much that descent was impracticable. During the
last hour clouds had been coming up from the south: they now surrounded
us, and il began to blow hard. The men clustered together, and
advocated leaving the mountain alone. Almer asked, with more point than
politeness, “Why don’t you try to go up a mountain which _can_ be
ascended?” “It is impossible,” chimed in Biener. “Sir,” said Croz, “if
we cross to the other side we shall lose three days, and very likely
shall not succeed. You want to make ascents in the chain of Mont Blanc,
and I believe they can be made. But I shall not be able to make them
with you if I spend these days here, for I must be at Chamounix on the
27th.” There was force in what he said, and his words made me hesitate.
I relied upon his strong arms for some work which it was expected would
be unusually difficult. Snow began to fall: that settled the matter,
and I gave the word to retreat. We went back to Breuil, and on to Val
Tournanche, where we slept; and the next day proceeded to Chatillon,
and thence up the valley of Aosto to Cormayeur.

I cannot but regret that the counsels of the guides prevailed. If Croz
had not uttered his well-intentioned words he might still have been
living. He parted from us at Chamounix at the appointed time, but by a
strange chance we met again at Zermatt three weeks later; and two days
afterward he perished before my eyes on the very mountain from which we
turned away, at his advice on the 21st of June.




CHAPTER XVI.
VALLEY OF AOSTA, AND ASCENT OF THE GRANDES JORASSES.


The valley of Aosta is famous for its bouquetins and infamous for its
crétins. The bouquetin, steinbock, or ibex, was formerly widely
distributed throughout the Alps. It is now confined almost entirely, or
absolutely, to a small district in the south of the valley of Aosta,
and fears have been repeatedly expressed in late years that it will
speedily become extinct.

But the most sanguine person does not imagine that crétinism will be
eradicated for many generations. It is widely spread throughout the
Alps, it is by no means peculiar to the valley of Aosta, but nowhere
does it thrust itself more frequently upon the attention of the
traveler, and in no valley where “every prospect pleases” is one so
often and so painfully reminded that “only man is vile.”

It seems premature to fear that the bouquetins will soon become
extinct. It is not easy to take a census of them, for, although they
have local habitations, it is extremely difficult to find them at home.
But there is good reason to believe that there are at least six hundred
still roaming over the mountains in the neighborhood of the valleys of
Grisanche, Rhèmes, Savaranche and Cogne.

It would be a pity if it were otherwise. They appeal to the sympathies
of all as the remnants of a diminishing race, and no mountaineer or
athletic person could witness without sorrow the extinction of an
animal possessing such noble qualities; which a few months after birth
can jump over a man’s head at a bound, without taking a run; which
passes its whole life in a constant fight for existence; which has such
a keen appreciation of the beauties of Nature, and such disregard of
pain, that it will “stand for hours like a statue in the midst of the
bitterest storm, until the tips of its ears are frozen”! and which,
when its last hour arrives, “climbs to the highest mountain-peaks,
hangs on a rock with its horns, twists itself round and round upon them
until they are worn off, and then falls down and expires”!![52] Even
Tschudi himself calls this story wonderful. He may well do so. I
disclaim belief in it,—the bouquetin is too fine a beast to indulge in
such antics.

 [52] Tschudi’s _Sketches of Nature in the Alps._

Forty-five keepers, selected from the most able chasseurs of the
district, guard its haunts. Their task is not a light one, although
they are naturally acquainted with those who are most likely to attempt
poaching. If they were withdrawn, it would not be long before the ibex
would be an extinct wild animal, so far as the Alps are concerned. The
passion for killing something, and the present value of the beast
itself, would soon lead to its extermination. For as meat alone the
bouquetin is valuable, the gross weight of one that is full grown
amounting to from one hundred and sixty to two hundred pounds, while
its skin and horns are worth ten pounds and upward, according to
condition and dimensions.

In spite of the keepers, and of the severe penalties which may be
inflicted for killing a bouquetin, poaching occurs constantly. Knowing
that this was the case, I inquired at Aosta, upon my last visit, if any
skins or horns were for sale, and in ten minutes was taken into a
garret where the remains of a splendid beast were concealed—a
magnificent male, presumed to be more than twenty years old, as its
massive horns had twenty-two more or less strongly-marked knobby rings.
The extreme length of the skin, from the tip of the nose to the end of
the tail, was one metre sixty-nine centimetres (about five feet seven
inches), and from the ground to the top of its back had been,
apparently, about seventy-seven centimetres. It is rare to meet with a
bouquetin of these dimensions, and the owner of this skin might have
been visited with several years’ imprisonment if it had been known that
it was in his possession.

[Illustration: THE BOUQUETIN]

The chase of the bouquetin is properly considered a sport fit for a
king, and His Majesty Victor Emmanuel, for whom it is reserved, is too
good a sportsman to slaughter indiscriminately an animal which is an
ornament to his domains. Last year (1869) seventeen fell to his gun at
one hundred yards and upward. In 1868, His Majesty presented a fine
specimen to the Italian Alpine Club. The members banqueted, I believe,
upon its flesh, and they have had the skin stuffed and set up in their
rooms at Aosta. It is said by connoisseurs to be badly stuffed—that it
is not broad enough in the chest and is too large behind. Still, it
looks well-proportioned, although it seems made for hard work rather
than for feats of agility. From this specimen the accompanying
engraving has been made.

It is a full-grown male about twelve years old, and if it stood upright
would measure three feet three and a half inches from the ground to the
base of its horns. Its extreme length is four, feet seven inches. Its
horns have eleven well-marked rings, besides one or two faintly-marked
ones, and are (measured round their curvature) fifty-four and a half
centimetres in length. The horns of the first-mentioned specimen
(measured in the same way) had a length of only fifty-three and a half
centimetres, although they were ornamented with nearly double the
number of rings, and were presumably of double the age of the
former.[53]

 [53] Mr. King, in his _Italian Valleys of the Alps_, says, “In the
 pair (of horns) I possess, which are _two feet_ long, there are eight
 of these yearly rings.” It would seem, therefore (if the rings are
 annual ones), that the maximum length of horn is attained at a
 comparatively early age.

The keepers and the chasseurs of this district not only say that the
rings upon the horns of the ibex tell its age (each one reckoning as a
year), but that the half-developed ones, which sometimes are very
feebly marked indeed, show that the animal has suffered from hunger
during the winter. Naturalists are skeptical upon this point, but
inasmuch as they offer no better reason against the reputed fact than
the natives do in its favor (one saying that it is not so, and the
other saying that it is so), we may perhaps be permitted to consider it
an open question. I can only say that if the faintly-marked rings do
denote years of famine, the times for the bouquetin are very hard
indeed; since in most of the horns which I have seen the lesser rings
have been very numerous, and sometimes more plentiful than the
prominent ones.

The chef of the keepers (who judges by the above-mentioned indications)
tells me that the ibex not unfrequently arrives at the age of thirty
years, and sometimes to forty or forty-five. He says, too, that it is
not fond of traversing steep snow, and in descending a couloir that is
filled with it will zig-zag down, by springing from one side to the
other in leaps of fifty feet at a time! Jean Tairraz, the worthy
landlord of the Hotel du Mont Blanc at Aosta (who has had opportunities
of observing the animal closely), assures me that at the age of four or
five months it can easily clear a height of nine or ten feet at a
bound!

Long live the bouquetin! and long may its chase preserve the health of
the mountaineering king, Victor Emmanuel! Long life to the bouquetin!
but down with the crétin!

The peculiar form of idiocy which is called crétinism is so highly
developed in the valley of Aosta, and the natives are so familiarized
with it, that they are almost indignant when the surprised traveler
remarks its frequency. One is continually reminded that it is not
peculiar to the valley, and that there are crétins elsewhere. It is too
true that this terrible scourge is widespread throughout the Alps and
over the world, and that there are places where the proportion of
crétins to population is, or has been, even greater than in the valley
of Aosta; but I have never seen or heard of a valley so fertile and so
charming—of one which, apart from crétinism, leaves so agreeable an
impression upon the wayfarer—where equal numbers are reduced to a
condition which any respectable ape might despise.

The whole subject of crétinism is surrounded with difficulty. The
number of those who are afflicted by it is unknown, its cure is
doubtful, and its origin is mysterious. It has puzzled the most acute
observers, and every general statement in regard to it must be fenced
by qualifications.

It is tolerably certain, however, that the centre of its distribution
in the valley of Aosta is about the centre of the valley. The city of
Aosta itself may be regarded as its head-quarters. It is there, and in
the neighboring towns of Gignod, Villeneuve, St. Vincent and Verrex,
and in the villages and upon the high-road between those places, that
these distorted, mindless beings, more like brutes than men, commonly
excite one’s disgust by their hideous, loathsome and uncouth
appearance, by their obscene gestures and by their senseless gabbling.
The accompanying portrait of one is by no means overdrawn: some are too
frightful for representation.

[Illustration: A CRÉTIN OF AOSTA]

How can we account for this particular intensity toward the middle of
the valley? Why is it that crétins become more and more numerous after
Ivrea is passed, attain their highest ratio and lowest degradation at
or about the chief town of the valley, and then diminish in numbers as
its upper termination is approached? This maximum of intensity must
certainly point to a cause, or to a combination of causes, operating
about Aosta, which are less powerful at the two extremities of the
valley; and if the reason for it could be determined, the springs of
crétinism would be exposed. The disease would be even more puzzling
than it is if it were confined to this single locality, and the
inquirer were to find not merely that it was almost unknown upon the
plains to the east and in the districts to the west, but that the
valleys radiating north and south from the main valley were practically
unaffected by it. For it is a remarkable circumstance, which has
attracted the notice of all who have paid attention to crétinism, that
the natives of the tributary valleys are almost free from the
malady—that people of the same race, speaking the same language,
breathing the same air, eating the same food, and living the same life,
enjoy almost entire immunity from it, while at the distance of a very
few miles thousands of others are completely in its power.

A parallel case is found, however, on the other side of the Pennine
Alps. The Rhone valley is almost equally disfigured by crétinism, and
in it, too, the extremities of the valley are slightly affected
compared with the intermediate districts—particularly those between
Brieg and St. Maurice.[54] This second example strengthens the
conviction that the great development of crétinism in the middle of the
valley of Aosta is not the result of accidental circumstances.

 [54] It was stated a few years ago that one in twenty-five of the
 natives of the Canton Valais (which is chiefly occupied by the valley
 of the upper Rhone) were crétins. This would give about 3500 to the
 canton. At the same time the valley of Aosta contained about 2000
 crétins.

It was formerly supposed that crétinism arose from the habitual
drinking of snow- and glacier-water. De Saussure opposed to this
conjecture the facts that the disease was entirely unknown precisely in
those places where the inhabitants were most dependent upon these kinds
of water, and that it was most common where such was not the case—that
the high valleys were untainted, while the low ones were infected. The
notion seems to have proceeded from crétins being confounded with
persons who were merely goîtred, or at least from the supposition that
goître was an incipient stage of crétinism.

Goître, it is now well ascertained, is induced by the use of chemically
impure water, and especially hard water; and the investigations of
various observers have discovered that goître has an intimate
connection with certain geological formations. In harmony with these
facts it is found that infants are seldom born with goîtres, but that
they develop as the child grows up, that they will sometimes appear and
disappear from mere change of locality, and that it is possible to
produce them intentionally.

It is not so certain that the causes which produce goître should be
regarded as causes of the production or maintenance of crétinism. It is
true that crétins are very generally goitrous, but it is also true that
there are tens of thousands of goitrous persons who are entirely free
from all traces of crétinism. Not only so, but that there are districts
in the Alps and outside of them (even in our own country) where goître
is not rare, but where the crétin is unknown. Still, regarding the evil
state of body which leads to goître as being, possibly, in alliance
with crétinism, it will not be irrelevant to give the former disease a
little more attention before continuing the consideration of the main
subject.

In this country the possession of a goître is considered a misfortune
rather than otherwise, and individuals who are afflicted with these
appendages attempt to conceal their shame. In the Alps it is quite the
reverse. In France, Italy and Switzerland it is a positive advantage to
be goîtred, as it secures exemption from military service. A goître is
a thing to be prized, exhibited, preserved—it is worth so much hard
cash; and it is an unquestionable fact that the perpetuation of the
great goitrous family is assisted by this very circumstance.

When Savoy was annexed to France the administration took stock of the
resources of its new territory, and soon discovered that although the
acres were many the conscripts would be few. The government bestirred
itself to amend this state of affairs, and after arriving at the
conclusion that goître was produced by drinking bad water (and that its
production was promoted by sottish and bestial habits), took measures
to cleanse the villages, to analyze the waters (in order to point out
those which should not be drunk), and to give to children who came to
school lozenges containing small doses of iodine. It is said that out
of five thousand goitrous children who were so treated in the course of
eight years, two thousand were cured, and the condition of two thousand
others was improved; and that the number of cures would have been
greater if the parents “had not opposed the care of the government, _in
order to preserve the privilege of exemption from military service._”
These benighted creatures refused the marshal’s bâton and preferred
their “wallets of flesh!”

No wonder that the Préfet for Haute-Savoie proposes that goitrous
persons shall no longer be privileged. Let him go farther, and obtain a
decree that all of them capable of bearing arms shall be immediately
drafted into the army. Let them be formed into regiments by themselves,
brigaded together and commanded by crétins. Think what _esprit de
corps_ they would have! Who could stand against them? Who would
understand their tactics? He would save his iodine and would render an
act of justice to the non-goîtred population. The subject is worthy of
serious attention. If goître is really an ally of crétinism, the sooner
it is eradicated the better.

De Saussure substituted heat and stagnation of air as the cause of
crétinism, in the place of badness of water. But this was only giving
up one unsatisfactory explanation for another equally untenable; and
since there are places far hotter and with pernicious atmospheres where
the disease is unknown, while, on the other hand, there are situations
in which it is common where the heat is not excessive, and which enjoy
a freely circulating atmosphere, his assumption may be set aside as
insufficient to account for the crétinism of the valley of Aosta. And
in regard to its particular case it may be questioned whether there is
anything more than an imaginary stagnation of air. For my own part, I
attribute the oppression which strangers say they feel in the middle of
the valley not to stagnation of air, but to absence of shadow in
consequence of the valley’s course being east and west; and believe
that if the force of the wind were observed and estimated according to
the methods in common use, it would be found that there is no
deficiency of motion in the air throughout the entire year. Several
towns and villages, moreover, where crétins are most numerous, are
placed at the entrances of valleys and upon elevated slopes, with
abundant natural facilities for drainage—free from malaria, which has
been suggested as accounting for the crétinism of the Rhone valley.

Others have imagined that intemperance, poor living, foul habits and
personal uncleanliness sow the seeds of crétinism; and this opinion is
entitled to full consideration. Intemperance of divers kinds is
fruitful in the production of insanity, and herding together in filthy
dwellings, with little or no ventilation, may possibly deteriorate
_physique_, as much as extreme indulgence may the mind. These ideas are
popularly entertained, because crétins are more numerous among the
lower orders than among the well-to-do classes. Yet they must, each and
all, be regarded as inadequate to account for the disease, still less
to explain its excess in the centre of the valley; for in these
respects there is little or no distinction between it, the two
extremities and the neighboring districts.

A conjecture remains to be considered regarding the origin of crétinism
which is floating in the minds of many persons (although it is seldom
expressed), which carries with it an air of probability that is wanting
in the other explanations, and which is supported by admitted facts.

The fertility of the valley of Aosta is proverbial. It is covered with
vineyards and cornfields, flocks and herds abound in it, and its
mineral resources are great. There is enough and to spare both for man
and beast. There are poor in the valley, as there are everywhere, but
life is so far easy that they are not driven to seek for subsistence in
other places, and remain from generation to generation rooted to their
native soil. The large numbers of persons who are found in this valley
having the same surnames is a proof of the well-known fact that there
is little or no emigration from the valley, and that there is an
indefinite amount of intermarriage between the natives. It is
conjectured that the continuance of these conditions through a long
period has rendered the population more or less consanguineous, and
that we see in crétinism an example; upon a large scale, of the evil
effects of alliances of kindred.

This explanation commends itself by reason of its general applicability
to crétinism. The disease is commonly found in valleys, on islands or
in other circumscribed areas in which circulation is restricted or the
inhabitants are non-migratory; and it is rare on plains, where
communications are free. It will at once be asked, “Why, then, are not
the tributary valleys of the valley of Aosta full of crétins?” The
answer is, that these lateral valleys are comparatively sterile, and
are unable to support their population from their internal resources.
Large numbers annually leave and do not return—some come back, having
formed alliances elsewhere. There is a constant circulation and
introduction of new blood. I am not aware that there are returns to
show the extent to which this goes on, but the fact is notorious.

This conjecture explains, far better than the other guesses, why it is
that crétinism has so strong a hold upon the lower classes, while it
leaves the upper ones almost untouched; for the former are most likely
to intermarry with people of their own district, whilst the latter are
under no sort of compulsion in this respect. It gives a clue, too, to
the reason of the particular intensity in the centre of the valley. The
inhabitants of the lower extremity communicate and mix with the
untainted dwellers on the plains, whilst the conditions at the upper
extremity approximate to those of the lateral valleys. Before this
explanation will be generally received a closer connection will have to
be established between the assumed cause and the presumed effect.
Accepting it, nevertheless, as a probable and reasonable one, let us
now consider what prospect there is of checking the progress of the
disease.

It is, of course, impossible to change the habits of the natives of the
valley of Aosta suddenly, and it would probably be very difficult to
cause any large amount of emigration or immigration. In the present
embarrassed condition of Italian finances there is very small chance of
any measure of the sort being undertaken if it would involve a
considerable expenditure. The opening of a railway from Ivrea to Aosta
might possibly bring about, in a natural way, more movement than would
be promoted by any legislation, and by this means the happiest effects
might be produced.

There is little hope of practical results from attempts to cure
crétins. Once a crétin, you are always one. The experiments of the late
Dr. Guggenbühl demonstrated that some _half_-crétins may even become
useful members of society if they are taken in hand early in life, but
they did not show that the nature of the true or complete crétin could
be altered. He essayed to modify some of the mildest forms of
crétinism, but did not strike at the root of the evil. If fifty
Guggenbühls were at work in the single valley of Aosta, they would take
several generations to produce an appreciable effect, and they would
never extirpate the disease so long as its sources were unassailed.

Nor will the house which has been built at Aosta to contain two hundred
crétin beggars do much, unless the inmates are restrained from
perpetuating their own degradation. Even the lowest types of crétins
may be procreative, and it is said that the unlimited liberty which is
allowed to them has caused infinite mischief. A large proportion of the
crétins who will be born in the next generation will undoubtedly be
offspring of crétin parents. It is strange that self-interest does not
lead the natives of Aosta to place their crétins under such
restrictions as would prevent their illicit intercourse; and it is
still more surprising to find the Catholic Church actually legalizing
their marriage. There is something horribly grotesque in the idea of
_solemnizing_ the union of a brace of idiots; and since it is well
known that the disease is hereditary, and develops in successive
generations, the fact that such marriages are sanctioned is scandalous
and infamous.

The supply, therefore, is kept up from two sources. The first
contingent is delved from apparently healthy parents; the second, by
inheritance from diseased persons. The origin of the first is obscure;
and before its quota can be cut off, or even diminished, the mystery
which envelops it must be dissipated. The remedy for the second is
obvious, and is in the hands of the authorities, particularly in those
of the clergy. Marriage must be prohibited to all who are affected, the
most extreme cases must be placed under restraint, and crétins whose
origin is illegitimate must be subject to disabilities. Nothing short
of the adoption of these measures will meet the case. Useless it will
be, so long as the primary sources of the disease are untouched, to
build hospitals, to cleanse dwellings, to widen streets, or to attempt
small ameliorations of the social circumstances of the natives. All of
these things are good enough in themselves, but they are wholly
impotent to effect a radical change.

No satisfactory conclusion will be arrived at regarding the origin of
crétinism until the pedigrees of a large number of examples have been
traced. The numerical test is the only one which is likely to discover
the reality. The necessary inquiries are beyond the powers of private
persons, and their pursuit will be found sufficiently difficult by
official investigators. Great reluctance will be exhibited to disclose
the information which should be sought, and the common cry will
certainly be raised that such scrutiny is without general advantage and
is painful to private feelings. But in matters which affect mankind in
general, individual feelings must always be subordinated to the public
interest; and if the truth is to be arrived at in regard to crétinism,
the protests of the ignorant will have to be overridden.

[Illustration: THE GRANDES JORASSES AND THE DOIRE TORRENT, VAL FERRET
(D’ITALIE).]

Crétinism is the least agreeable feature of the valley of Aosta, but it
is, at the same time, the most striking. It has been touched upon for
the sake of its human interest, and on account of those unhappy beings
who—punished by the errors of their fathers—are powerless to help
themselves; the first sight of whom produced such an impression upon
the most earnest of all Alpine writers, that he declared, in a
twice-repeated expression, its recollection would never be effaced from
his memory.[55]

 [55] De Saussure, §§ 954, 1030.




CHAPTER XVII.
THE COL DOLENT.


“Men willingly believe what they wish.”—Cæsar.

Freethinking mountaineers have been latterly in the habit of going up
one side of an Alp and coming down the other, and calling the route a
pass. In this confusion of ideas may be recognised the result of the
looseness of thought which arises from the absence of technical
education. The true believer abhors such heresies, and observes with
satisfaction that Providence oftentimes punishes the offenders for
their greediness by causing them to be benighted. The faithful know
that passes must be made between mountains, and not over their tops.
Their creed declares that between any two mountams there must be a
pass, and they believe that the end for which big peaks were
created—the office they are especially designed to fulfill—is to point
out the way one should go. This is the true faith, and there is no
other.

We set out upon the 26th of June to endeavor to add one more to the
passes which are strictly orthodox. We hoped, rather than expected, to
discover a quicker route from Courmayeur to Chamounix than the Col du
Géant, which was the easiest, quickest and most direct pass known at
the time across the main chain of Mont Blanc. The misgivings which I
had as to the result caused us to start at the unusual hour of 12.40
A.M. At 4.30 we passed the châlets of Pré du Bar, and thence, for some
distance, followed the track which we had made upon the ascent of Mont
Dolent, over the glacier of the same name. At a quarter-past eight we
arrived at the head of the glacier, and at the foot of the only steep
gradient upon the whole of the ascent.

It was the beau-ideal of a pass. There was a gap in the mountains, with
a big peak on each side (Mont Dolent and the Aiguille de Triolet). A
narrow thread of snow led up to the lowest point between those
mountains, and the blue sky beyond said, Directly you arrive here you
will begin to go down. We addressed ourselves to our task, and at 10.15
A.M. arrived at the top of the pass.

[Illustration: THE SUMMIT OF THE COL DOLENT.]

Had things gone as they ought, within six hours more we should have
been at Chamounix. Upon the other side we knew that there was a couloir
in correspondence with that up which we had just come. If it had been
filled with snow, all would have been well: it turned out to be filled
with ice. Croz, who led, passed over to the other side, and reported
that we should get down somehow, but I knew from the sound of his axe
how the _somehow_ would be, and settled myself to sketch, well assured
that I should not be wanted for an hour to come. What I saw is shown in
the engraving—a sharp aiguille (nameless), perhaps the sharpest in the
whole range, backed on the left by the Aiguille de Triolet; queer
blocks of (probably) protogine sticking out awkwardly through the snow;
and a huge cornice from which big icicles depended, that broke away
occasionally and went skiddling down the slope up which we had come. Of
the Argentiere side I could not see anything.

Croz was tied up with our good manila rope, and the whole two hundred
feet were paid out gradually by Almer and Biener before he ceased
working. After two hours’ incessant toil, he was able to anchor himself
to the rock on his right. He then untied himself, the rope was drawn
in, Biener was attached to the end and went down to join his comrade.
There was then room enough for me to stand by the side of Almer, and I
got my first view of the other side. For the first and only time in my
life I looked down a slope of more than a thousand feet long, set at an
angle of about fifty degrees, which was a sheet of ice from top to
bottom. It was unbroken by rock or crag, and anything thrown down it
sped away unarrested until the level of the Glacier d’Argentiere was
reached. The entire basin of that noble glacier was spread out at our
feet, and the ridge beyond, culminating in the Aiguille d’Argentiere,
was seen to the greatest advantage. I confess, however, that I paid
very little attention to the view, for there was no time to indulge in
such luxuries. I descended the icy staircase and joined the others, and
then we three drew in the rope tenderly as Almer came down. His was not
an enviable position, but he descended with as much steadiness as if
his whole life had been passed on ice-slopes of fifty degrees. The
process was repeated, Croz again going to the front, and availing
himself very skillfully of the rocks which projected from the cliff on
our right. Our two hundred feet of rope again came to an end, and we
again descended one by one. From this point we were able to clamber
down by the rocks alone for about three hundred feet. They then became
sheer cliff, and we stopped for dinner, about 2.30 P.M. at the last
place upon which we could sit. Four hours’ incessant work had brought
us rather more than halfway down the gully. We were now approaching,
although we were still high above, the schrunds at its base, and the
guides made out, in some way unknown to me, that Nature had perversely
placed the only snow-bridge across the topmost one toward the centre of
the gully. It was decided to cut diagonally across the gully to the
point where the snow-bridge was supposed to be. Almer and Biener
undertook the work, leaving Croz and myself firmly planted on the rocks
to pay out rope to them as they advanced. It is generally admitted that
veritable ice-slopes (understanding by _ice_ something more than a
crust of hard snow over soft snow) are only rarely met with in the
Alps. They are frequently spoken of, but such as that to which I refer
are _very_ rarely seen, and still more seldom traversed. It is,
however, always possible that they may be encountered, and on this
account, if for no other, it is necessary for men who go mountaineering
to be armed with ice-axes, and with good ones. The form is of more
importance than might be supposed. Of course, if you intend to act as a
simple amateur and let others do the work, and only follow in their
steps, it is not of much importance what kind of ice-axe you carry, so
long as its head does not fall off or otherwise behave itself
improperly. There is no better weapon for cutting steps in ice than a
common pick-axe, and the form of ice-axe which is now usually employed
by the best guides is very like a miniature pick. My own axe is copied
from Melchior Anderegg’s. It is of wrought iron, with point and edge
steeled. Its weight, including spiked handle, is four pounds. For
cutting steps in ice the pointed end of the head is almost exclusively
employed: the adze-end is handy for polishing them up, but is
principally used for cutting in hard snow. Apart from its value as a
cutting weapon, it is invaluable as a grapnel. It is naturally a rather
awkward implement when it is not being employed for its legitimate
purpose, and is likely to give rise to much strong language in crushes
at railway termini, unless its head is protected with a leathern cap or
in some other way. Many attempts have been made, for the sake of
convenience, to fashion an ice-axe with a movable head, but it seems
difficult or impossible to produce one except at the expense of cutting
qualities and by increasing the weight.

[Illustration: MY ICE-AXE]

Mr. T. S. Kennedy (of the firm of Fairbairn & Co.), whose practical
acquaintance with mountaineering and with the use and manufacture of
tools makes his opinion particularly valuable, has contrived the best
that I have seen; but even it seems to me to be deficient in rigidity,
and not to be so powerful a weapon as the more common kind with the
fixed head. The simple instrument which is shown in the annexed diagram
is the invention of Mr. Leslie Stephen, and it answers the purposes for
which he devised it—namely, for giving better hold upon snow and ice
than can be obtained from the common alpenstock, and for cutting an
occasional step. The amateur scarcely requires anything more imposing,
but for serious ice-work a heavier weapon is indispensable.

[Illustration: KENNEDY ICE-AXE]

[Illustration: KENNEDY ICE-AXE]

To persons armed with the proper tools, ice-slopes are not so dangerous
as many places which appeal less to the imagination. Their ascent or
descent is necessarily laborious (to those who do the work), and they
may therefore be termed difficult. They _ought_ not to be dangerous.
Yet they always seem dangerous, for one is profoundly convinced that if
he slips he will certainly go to the bottom. Hence, any man who is not
a fool takes particular care to preserve his balance, and in
consequence we have the noteworthy fact that accidents have seldom or
never taken place upon ice-slopes.

The same slopes covered with snow are much less impressive, and _may_
be much more dangerous. They may be less slippery, the balance may be
more easily preserved, and if one man slips he may be stopped by his
own personal efforts, provided the snow which overlies the ice is
consolidated and of a reasonable depth. But if, as is more likely to be
the case upon an angle of fifty degrees (or anything approaching that
angle), there is only a thin stratum of snow which is not consolidated,
the occurrence of a slip will most likely take the entire party as low
as possible, and, in addition to the chance of broken necks, there will
be a strong probability that some, at least, will be smothered by the
dislodged snow. Such accidents are far too common, and their
occurrence, as a rule, may be traced to the want of caution which is
induced by the apparent absence of danger.

I do not believe that the use of the rope, in the ordinary way, affords
the least _real_ security upon ice-slopes. Nor do I think that any
benefit is derived from the employment of crampons. Mr. Kennedy was
good enough to present me with a pair some time ago, and one of these
has been engraved. They are the best variety I have seen of the
species, but I only feel comfortable with them on my feet in places
where they are not of the slightest use—that is, in situations where
there is no possibility of slipping—and would not wear them upon an
ice-slope for any consideration whatever. All such adventitious aids
are useless if you have not a good step in the ice to stand upon, and
if you have got that nothing more is wanted except a few nails in the
boots.

[Illustration: CRAMPONS]

Almer and Biener got to the end of their tether: the rope no longer
assured their safety, and they stopped work as we advanced and coiled
it up. Shortly afterward they struck a streak of snow that proved to be
just above the bridge of which they were in search. The slope
steepened, and for thirty feet or so we descended face to the wall,
making steps by kicking with the toes and thrusting the arms well into
the holes above, just as if they had been rounds in a ladder. At this
time we were crossing the uppermost of the schrunds. Needless to say
that the snow was of an admirable quality: this performance would
otherwise have been impossible. It was soon over, and we then found
ourselves upon a huge rhomboidal mass of ice, and still separated from
the Argentiere glacier by a gigantic crevasse. The only bridge over
this lower schrund was at its eastern end, and we were obliged to
double back to get to it. Cutting continued for half an hour after it
was passed, and it was 5.35 P.M. before the axes stopped work, and we
could at last turn back and look comfortably at the formidable slope
upon which seven hours had been spent.[56]

 [56] It occupies about one-sixth of an inch upon the map. I estimate
 its height at 1200 feet. The triangulation of Capt. Mieulet places the
 summit of the pass 11,624 feet above the sea. This, I think, is rather
 too high.

The Col Dolent is not likely to compete with the Col du Géant, and I
would recommend any person who starts to cross it to allow himself
plenty of time, plenty of rope and ample guide-power. There is no
difficulty whatever upon any part of the route, excepting upon the
steep slopes immediately below the summit on each side. When we arrived
upon the Glacier d’Argentiere our work was as good as over. We drove a
straight track to the châlets of Lognan, and thence the way led over
familiar ground. Soon after dusk we got into the high-road at Les
Tines, and at 10 P.M. arrived at Chamounix. Our labors were duly
rewarded. Houris brought us champagne and the other drinks which are
reserved for the faithful, but before my share was consumed I fell
asleep in an arm-chair, I slept soundly until daybreak, and then turned
into bed and went to sleep again.




CHAPTER XVIII.
ASCENT OF THE AIGUILLE VERTE.


Michel Croz now parted from us. His new employer had not arrived at
Chamounix, but Croz considered that he was bound by honor to wait for
him, and thus Christian Almer of Grindelwald became my leading guide.

Almer displayed aptitude for mountaineering at an early age. Whilst
still a very young man he was known as a crack chamois-hunter, and he
soon developed into an accomplished guide. Those who have read Mr.
Wills’ graphic account of the first ascent of the Wetterhorn[57] will
remember that when his party was approaching the top of the mountain
two stranger men were seen climbing by a slightly different route, one
of whom carried upon his back a young fir tree, branches, leaves and
all. Mr. Wills’ guides were extremely indignant with these two
strangers (who were evidently determined to be the first at the
summit), and talked of giving them blows. Eventually they gave them a
cake of chocolate instead, and declared that they were good fellows.
“Thus the pipe of peace was smoked, and tranquillity reigned between
the rival forces.” Christian Almer was one of these two men.

 [57] _Wanderings among the High Alps_, 1858.

This was in 1854. In 1858-59 he made the first ascents of the Eigher
and the Mönch, the former with a Mr. Harrington (?), and the latter
with Dr. Forges. Since then he has wandered far and near, from Dauphiné
to the Tyrol. With the exception of Melchior Anderegg, there is not,
perhaps, another guide of such wide experience, or one who has been so
invariably successful; and his numerous employers concur in saying that
there is not a truer heart or a surer foot to be found amongst the
Alps.

[Illustration: CHRISTIAN ALMER]

Before recrossing the chain to Courmayeur we ascended the Aiguille
Verte. In company with Mr. Reilly I inspected this mountain from every
direction in 1864, and came to the conclusion that an ascent could more
easily be made from the south than upon any other side. We set out upon
the 28th from Chamounix to attack it, minus Croz, and plus a porter (of
whom I will speak more particularly presently), leaving our comrade
very downcast at having to kick his heels in idleness, whilst we were
about to scale the most celebrated of his native aiguilles.

Our course led us over the old Mer de Glace, the glacier made famous by
De Saussure and Forbes. The heat of the day was over, but the little
rills and rivulets were still flowing along the surface of the ice;
cutting deep troughs where the gradients were small, leaving
ripple-marks where the water was with more difficulty confined to one
channel, and falling over the precipitous walls of the great crevasses,
sometimes in bounding cascades, and sometimes in diffused streams,
which marked the perpendicular faces with graceful sinuosities.[58] As
night came on, their music died away, the rivulets dwindled down to
rills, the rills ceased to murmur, and the spark sparkling drops,
caught by the hand of frost, were bound to the ice, coating it with an
enameled film which lasted until the sun struck the glacier once more.

 [58] Admirably rendered in the accompanying drawing by Mr. Cyrus
 Johnson. The “ripple-marks” are seen in the engraving upon p. 356.

[Illustration: ON THE MER DE GLACE]

The weathering of the walls of crevasses, which _obscures_ the internal
structure of the glacier, has led some to conclude that the
stratification which is seen in the higher glacier-regions is
_obliterated_ in the lower ones. Others—Agassiz and Mr. John Ball, for
example—have disputed this opinion, and my own experiences accord with
those of these accurate observers. It is, undoubtedly, very difficult
to trace stratification in the lower ends of the Alpine glaciers, but
we are not, upon that account, entitled to conclude that the original
structure of the ice has been obliterated. There are thousands of
crevasses in the upper regions upon whose walls no traces of bedding
are apparent, and we might say, with equal unreasonableness, that it
was obliterated there also. Take an axe and clear away the ice which
has formed from water trickling down the faces and the weathered ice
beneath, and you will expose sections of the mingled strata of pure and
of imperfect ice, and see clearly enough that the primitive structure
of the glacier has not been effaced, although it has been obscured.

[Illustration: ICE-PINNACLES ON THE MER DE GLACE.]

We camped on the Couvercle (seventy-eight hundred feet) under a great
rock, and at 3.15 the next morning started for our aiguille, leaving
the porter in charge of the tent and of the food. Two hours’ walking
over crisp snow brought us up more than four thousand feet, and within
about sixteen hundred feet of the summit. From no other direction can
it be approached so closely with equal facility. Thence the mountain
steepens. After his late severe piece of ice-work, Almer had a natural
inclination for rocks; but the lower rocks of the final peak of the
Verte were not inviting, and he went on and on, looking for a way up
them, until we arrived in front of a great snow-couloir that led from
the Glacier de Talèfre right up to the crest of the ridge connecting
the summit of the Verte with the mountain called Les Droites. This was
the route which I intended to be taken, but Almer pointed out that the
gully narrowed at the lower part, and that if stones fell we should
stand some chance of getting our heads broken; and so we went on still
more to the east of the summit, to another and smaller couloir which
ran up side by side with the great one. At 5.30 we crossed the schrund
which protected the final peak, and a few minutes afterward saw the
summit and the whole of the intervening route. “Oh, Aiguille Verte!”
said my guide, stopping as he said it, “you are dead, you are dead!”
which, being translated into plain English, meant that he was cock-sure
we should make its ascent.

Almer is a quiet man at all times. When climbing he is taciturn, and
this is one of his great merits. A garrulous man is always a nuisance,
and upon the mountain-side he may be a danger, for actual climbing
requires a man’s whole attention. Added to this, talkative men are
hindrances: they are usually thirsty, and a thirsty man is a drag.

Guide-books recommend mountain-walkers to suck pebbles to prevent their
throats from becoming parched. There is not much goodness to be got out
of the pebbles, but you cannot suck them and keep the mouth open at the
same time, and hence the throat does not become dry. It answers just as
well to keep the mouth shut, without any pebbles inside—indeed, I
think, better; for if you have occasion to open your mouth you can do
so without swallowing any pebbles.[59] As a rule, amateurs, and
particularly novices, _will not_ keep their mouths shut. They attempt
to “force the pace;” they go faster than they can go without being
compelled to open their mouths to breathe; they pant, their throats and
tongues become parched; they drink and perspire copiously, and,
becoming exhausted, declare that the dryness of the air or the
rarefaction of the air (everything is laid upon the air) is in fault.
On several accounts, therefore, a mountain-climber does well to hold
his tongue when he is at his work.

 [59] I heard lately of two well-known mountaineers who, under the
 influence of sudden alarm, _swallowed their crystals_. I am happy to
 say that they were able to cough them up again.

At the top of the small gully we crossed over the intervening rocks
into the large one, and followed it so long as it was filled with snow.
At last ice replaced snow, and we turned over to the rocks upon its
left. Charming rocks they were—granitic in texture, gritty, holding the
nails well. At 9.45 we parted from them, and completed the ascent by a
little ridge of snow which descended in the direction of the Aiguille
du Moine. At 10.15 we stood on the summit (13,540 feet), and devoured
our bread and cheese with a good appetite.

I have already spoken of the disappointing nature of purely panoramic
views. That seen from Mont Blanc itself is notoriously unsatisfactory.
When you are upon that summit you look down upon all the rest of
Europe. There is nothing to look up to—all is below; there is no one
point for the eye to rest upon. The man who is there is somewhat in the
position of one who has attained all that he desires—he has nothing to
aspire to: his position must needs be unsatisfactory. Upon the summit
of the Verte there is not this objection. You see valleys, villages,
fields; you see mountains interminable rolling away, lakes resting in
their hollows; you hear the tinkling of the sheep-bells as it rises
through the clear mountain air, and the roar of the avalanches as they
descend to the valleys; but above all there is the great white dome,
with its shining crest high above; with its sparkling glaciers, that
descend between buttresses which support them; with its brilliant
snows, purer and yet purer the farther they are removed from this
unclean world.

Even upon this mountain-top it was impossible to forget the world, for
some vile wretch came to the Jardin and made hideous sounds by blowing
upon a horn. Whilst we were denouncing him a change came over the
weather: cumulous clouds gathered in all directions, and we started off
in hot haste. Snow began to fall heavily before we were off the
summit-rocks, our track was obscured and frequently lost, and
everything became so sloppy and slippery that the descent took as long
as the ascent. The schrund was recrossed at 3.15 P.M., and thence we
raced down to the Couvercle, intending to have a carouse there; but as
we rounded our rock a howl broke simultaneously from all three of us,
for the porter had taken down the tent, and was in the act of moving
off with it. “Stop, there! what are you doing?” He observed that he had
thought we were killed, or at least lost, and was going to Chamounix to
communicate his ideas to the _guide chef_. “Unfasten the tent and get
out the food.” But instead of doing so, the porter fumbled in his
pockets. “Get out the food,” we roared, losing all patience. “Here it
is,” said our worthy friend, producing a dirty piece of bread about as
big as a half-penny roll. We three looked solemnly at the fluff-covered
morsel. It was past a joke—he had devoured everything. Mutton, loaves,
cheese, wine, eggs, sausages—all was gone past recovery. It was idle to
grumble and useless to wait. We were light, and could move quickly—the
porter was laden inside and out. We went our hardest—he had to shuffle
and trot. He streamed with perspiration; the mutton and cheese oozed
out in big drops; he larded the glacier. We had our revenge, and dried
our clothes at the same time, but when we arrived at the Montanvert the
porter was as wet as we had been upon our arrival at the Couvercle. We
halted at the inn to get a little food, and at a quarter-past eight
re-entered Chamounix amidst firing of cannon and other demonstrations
of satisfaction on the part of the hotel-keepers.

One would have thought that the ascent of this mountain, which had been
frequently assailed before without success, would have afforded some
gratification to a population whose chief support is derived from
tourists, and that the prospect of the perennial flow of francs which
might be expected to result from it would have stifled the jealousy
consequent on the success of foreigners.[60]

 [60] The Chamounix tariff price for the ascent of the Aiguille is now
 placed at £4 _per guide_.

It was not so. Chamounix stood on its rights. A stranger had ignored
their regulations, had imported two foreign guides, and furthermore he
had added injury to that insult—he had not taken a single Chamounix
guide. Chamounix would be revenged! It would bully the foreign guides:
it would tell them they had lied—they had not made the ascent! Where
were their proofs? Where was the flag upon the summit?

Poor Almer and Biener were accordingly chivied from pillar to post,
from one inn to another, and at length complained to me. Peter Perm,
the Zermatt guide, said on the night that we returned that this was to
happen, but the story seemed too absurd to be true. I now bade my men
go out again, and followed them myself to see the sport. Chamounix was
greatly excited. The _bureau_ of the _guide chef_ was thronged with
clamouring men. Their ringleader—one Zacharie Cachat, a well-known
guide, of no particular merit, but not a bad fellow—was haranguing the
multitude. He met with more than his match. My friend Kennedy, who was
on the spot, heard of the disturbance and rushed into the fray,
confronted the burly guide and thrust back his absurdities into his
teeth.

There were the materials for a very pretty riot, but they manage these
things better in France than we do, and the gensdarmes—three
strong—came down and dispersed the crowd. The guides quailed before the
cocked hats, and retired to cabarets to take little glasses of absinthe
and other liquors more or less injurious to the human frame. Under the
influence of these stimulants they conceived an idea which combined
revenge with profit. “You have ascended the Aiguille Verte, you say.
_We_ say we don’t believe it. _We_ say, Do it again! Take three of us
with you, and we will bet you two thousand francs to one thousand that
you won’t make the ascent!”

This proposition was formally notified to me, but I declined it with
thanks, and recommended Kennedy to go in and win. I accepted, however,
a hundred-franc share in the bet, and calculated upon getting two
hundred per cent, on my investment. Alas! how vain are human
expectations! Zacharie Cachat was put into confinement, and although
Kennedy actually ascended the aiguille a week later with two Chamounix
guides and Peter Perm, the bet came to nothing.[61]

 [61] It should be said that we received the most polite apologies for
 this affair from the chief of the gensdarmes, and an invitation to
 lodge a complaint against the ringleaders. We accepted his apologies,
 and declined his invitation. Needless to add, Michel Croz took no part
 in the demonstration.

The weather arranged itself just as this storm in a teapot blew over,
and we left at once for the Montanvert, in order to show the
Chamouniards the easiest way over the chain of Mont Blanc, in return
for the civilities which we had received from them during the past
three days.

[Illustration: WESTERN SIDE OF THE COL DE TALÈFRE]




CHAPTER XIX.
THE COL DE TALÈFRE.


The person who discovered the Col du Géant must have been a shrewd
mountaineer. The pass was in use before any other was known across the
main chain of Mont Blanc, and down to the present time it remains the
easiest and quickest route from Chamounix to Courmayeur, with the
single exception of the pass that we crossed upon the 3d of July for
the first time, which lies about midway between the Aiguille de Triolet
and the Aiguille de Talèfre, and which, for want of a better name, I
have called the Col de Talèfre.

When one looks toward the upper end of the Glacier de Talèfre from the
direction of the Jardin or of the Couvercle, the ridge that bounds the
view seems to be of little elevation. It is overpowered by the colossal
Grandes Jorasses and by the almost equally magnificent Aiguille Verte.
The ridge, notwithstanding, is by no means despicable. At no point is
its elevation less than eleven thousand six hundred feet. It does not
look anything like this height. The Glacier de Talèfre mounts with a
steady incline, and the eye is completely deceived.

In 1864, when prowling about with Mr. Reilly, I instinctively fixed
upon a bent couloir which led up from the glacier to the lowest part of
the ridge; and when, after crossing the Col de Triolet, I saw that the
other side presented no particular difficulty, it seemed to me that
this was the _one_ point in the whole of the range which would afford
an easier passage than the Col du Géant.

We set out from the Montanvert at 4 A. M. upon July 3, to see whether
this opinion was correct, and it fortunately happened that the Rev. A.
G. Girdlestone and a friend, with two Chamounix guides, left the inn at
the same hour as ourselves, to cross the Col du Géant. We kept in
company as far as our routes lay together, and at 9.35 we arrived at
the top of our pass, having taken the route to the south of the Jardin.
Description is unnecessary, as our track is laid down very clearly on
the engraving at the head of this chapter.

Much snow had fallen during the late bad weather, and as we reposed
upon the top of our pass (which was about eleven thousand six hundred
and fifty feet above the level of the sea, and six hundred feet above
the Col du Géant), we saw that the descent of the rocks which
intervened between us and the Glacier de Triolet would require some
caution, for the sun’s rays poured down directly upon them, and the
snow slipped away every now and then from ledge to ledge just as if it
had been water—in cascades not large enough to be imposing, but
sufficient to knock us over if we got in their way. This little bit of
cliff consequently took a longer time than it should have done, for
when we heard the indescribable swishing, hissing sound which announced
a coming fall, we of necessity huddled under the lee of the rocks until
the snow ceased to shoot over us.

We got to the level of the Glacier de Triolet without misadventure,
then steered for its left bank to avoid the upper of its two formidable
ice-falls, and after descending the requisite distance by some old snow
lying between the glacier and the cliffs which border it, crossed
directly to the right bank over the level ice between the two
ice-falls. The right bank was gained without any trouble, and we found
there numerous beds of hard snow (avalanche débris), down which we
could run or glissade as fast as we liked.

Glissading is a very pleasant employment when it is accomplished
successfully, and I have never seen a place where it can be more safely
indulged in than the snowy valley on the right bank of the Glacier de
Triolet. In my dreams I glissade delightfully, but in practice I find
that somehow the snow will not behave properly, and that my alpenstock
_will_ get between my legs. Then my legs go where my head should be,
and I see the sky revolving at a rapid pace: the snow rises up and
smites me, and runs away, and when it is at last overtaken it suddenly
stops, and we come into violent collision. Those who are with me say
that I tumble head over heels, and there may be some truth in what they
say. Streaks of ice are apt to make the heels shoot away, and stray
stones cause one to pitch headlong down. Somehow, these things always
seem to come in the way, so it is as well to glissade only when there
is something soft to tumble into.[62]

 [62] In glissading an erect position should be maintained, and the
 point of the alpenstock allowed to trail over the snow. If it is
 necessary to stop, or to slacken speed, the point is pressed against
 the slope, as shown in the illustration.

[Illustration: GLISSADING]

Near the termination of the glacier we could not avoid traversing a
portion of its abominable moraine, but at 1.30 P.M. we were clear of
it, and threw ourselves upon some springy turf, conscious that our
day’s work was over. An hour afterward we resumed the march, crossed
the Doire torrent by a bridge a little below Gruetta, and at five
o’clock entered Courmayeur, having occupied somewhat less than ten
hours on the way. Mr. Girdlestone’s party came in, I believe, about
four hours afterward, so there was no doubt that we made a shorter pass
than the Col du Géant; and I believe we discovered a quicker way of
getting from Chamounix to Courmayeur, or vice versâ, than will be found
elsewhere so long as the chain of Mont Blanc remains in its present
condition.




CHAPTER XX.
ASCENT OF THE RUINETTE—THE MATTERHORN.


All of the excursions that were set down in my programme had been
carried out, with the exception of the ascent of the Matterhorn, and we
now turned our faces in its direction, but instead of returning viâ the
Val Tournanche, we took a route across country, and bagged upon our way
the summit of the Ruinette.

We passed the night of July 4 at Aosta, under the roof of the genial
Tairraz, and on the 5th went by the Val d’Ollomont and the Col de la
Fenêtre (9140 feet) to Chermontane. We slept that night at the châlets
of Chanrion (a foul spot, which should be avoided), left them at 3.50
the next morning, and after a short scramble over the slope above, and
a half-mile tramp on the Glacier de Breney, we crossed directly to the
Ruinette, and went almost straight up it. There is not, I suppose,
another mountain in the Alps of the same height that can be ascended so
easily. You have only to go ahead: upon its southern side one can walk
about almost anywhere.

Though I speak thus slightingly of a very respectable peak, I will not
do anything of the kind in regard to the view which it gives. It is
happily placed in respect to the rest of the Pennine Alps, and as a
stand-point it has not many superiors. You see mountains, and nothing
but mountains. It is a solemn—some would say a dreary—view, but it is
very grand. The great Combin (14,164 feet), with its noble background
of the whole range of Mont Blanc, never looks so big as it does from
here. In the contrary direction the Matterhorn overpowers all besides.
The Dent d’Hérens, although closer, looks a mere outlier of its great
neighbor, and the snows of Monte Rosa behind seem intended for no other
purpose than to give relief to the crags in front. To the south there
is an endless array of Becs and Beccas, backed by the great Italian
peaks, whilst to the north Mont Pleureur (12,159 feet) holds its own
against the more distant Wildstrubel.

We gained the summit at 9.15, and stayed there an hour and a half. My
faithful guides then admonished me that Prerayen, whither we were
bound, was still far away, and that we had yet to cross two lofty
ridges. So we resumed our harness and departed; not, however, before a
huge cairn had been built out of the blocks of gneiss with which the
summit is bestrewn. Then we trotted down the slopes of the Ruinette,
over the Glacier de Breney, and across a pass which (if it deserves a
name) may be called the Col des Portons, after the neighboring peaks.
From thence we proceeded across the great Otemma glacier toward the Col
d’Olen.

The part of the glacier that we traversed was overspread with snow,
which completely concealed its numerous pitfalls. We marched across it
in single file, and of course roped together. All at once Almer dropped
into a crevasse up to his shoulders. I pulled in the rope immediately,
but the snow gave way as it was being done, and I had to spread out my
arms to stop my descent. Biener held fast, but said afterward that his
feet went through as well, so, for a moment, all three were in the jaws
of the crevasse. We now altered our course, so as to take the fissures
transversely, and after the centre of the glacier was passed, changed
it again and made directly for the summit of the Col d’Olen.

It is scarcely necessary to observe, after what has been before said,
that it is my invariable practice to employ a rope when traversing a
snow-covered glacier. Many guides, even the best ones, object to be
roped, more especially early in the morning, when the snow is hard.
They object sometimes because they think it is unnecessary. Crevasses
that are bridged by snow are almost always more or less perceptible by
undulations on the surface: the snow droops down, and hollows mark the
course of the chasms beneath. An experienced guide usually notices
these almost imperceptible wrinkles, steps one side or the other, as
the case may require, and rarely breaks through unawares. Guides think
there is no occasion to employ a rope, because they think that they
will _not_ be taken by surprise. Michel Croz used to be of this
opinion. He used to say that only imbeciles and children required to be
tied up in the morning. I told him that in this particular matter I was
a child to him. “You see these things, my good Croz, and avoid them. I
do not, except you point them out to me, and so that which is not a
danger to you _is_ a danger to me.” The sharper one’s eyes get by use,
the less is a rope required as a protective against these hidden
pitfalls, but according to my experience the sight never becomes so
keen that they can be avoided with unvarying certainty, and I mentioned
what occurred upon the Otemma glacier to show that this is so.

I well remember my first passage of the Col Théodule, the easiest of
the higher Alpine glacier passes. We had a rope, but my guide said it
was not necessary—he knew all the crevasses. However, we did not go a
quarter of a mile before he dropped through the snow into a crevasse up
to his neck. He was a heavy man, and would scarcely have extricated
himself alone; anyhow, he was very glad of my assistance. When he got
on to his legs again, he said, “Well, I had no idea that there was a
crevasse there.” He no longer objected to use the rope, and we
proceeded—upon my part with greater peace of mind than before. I have
crossed the pass thirteen times since then, and have invariably
insisted upon being tied.

Guides object to the use of the rope upon snow-covered glacier, because
they are afraid of being laughed at by their comrades; and this,
perhaps, is the more common reason. To illustrate this, here is another
Théodule experience. We arrived at the edge of the ice, and I required
to be tied. My guide (a Zermatt man of repute) said that no one used a
rope going across that pass. I declined to argue the matter, and we put
on the rope, though very much against the wish of my man, who protested
that he should have to submit to perpetual ridicule if we met any of
his acquaintances. We had not gone very far before we saw a train
coming in the contrary direction. “Ah!” cried my man, “there is R——”
(mentioning a guide who used to be kept at the Riffel hotel for the
ascent of Monte Rosa): “it will be as I said—I shall never hear the end
of this.” The guide we met was followed by a string of tomfools, none
of whom were tied together, and had his face covered by a mask to
prevent it becoming blistered. After we had passed, I said, “Now,
should R—— make any observations to you, ask him why he takes such
extraordinary care to preserve the skin of his face, which will grow
again in a week, when he neglects such an obvious precaution in regard
to his life, which he can only lose once.” This was quite a new idea to
my guide, and he said nothing more against the use of the rope so long
as we were together. I believe that the unwillingness to use a rope
upon snow-covered glacier which born mountaineers not unfrequently
exhibit, arises—first, on the part of expert men from the consciousness
that they themselves incur little risk; secondly, on the part of
inferior men from fear of ridicule, and from aping the ways of their
superiors; and thirdly, from pure ignorance or laziness. Whatever may
be the reason, I raise my voice against the neglect of a precaution so
simple and so effectual. In my opinion, the very first thing a
glacier-traveler requires is plenty of good rope.

A committee of the English Alpine Club was appointed in 1864 to test,
and to report upon, the most suitable ropes for mountaineering
purposes, and those which were approved are probably as good as can be
found. One is made of Manila and another of Italian hemp. The former is
the heavier, and weighs a little more than an ounce per foot (103
ounces to 100 feet). The latter weighs 79 ounces per 100 feet, but I
prefer the Manila rope, because it is more easy to handle. Both of
these ropes will sustain 168 pounds falling 10 feet, or 196 pounds
falling 8 feet, and they break with a dead weight of two tons. In 1865
we carried two 100-feet lengths of the Manila rope, and the
inconvenience arising from its weight was more than made up for by the
security which it afforded. Upon several occasions it was worth more
than an extra guide.

Now, touching the _use_ of the rope. There is a right way and there are
wrong ways of using it. I often meet, upon glacier-passes, elegantly
got-up persons, who are clearly out of their element, with a guide
stalking along in front, who pays no attention to the innocents in his
charge. They are tied together as a matter of form, but they evidently
have no idea _why_ they are tied up, for they walk side by side or
close together, with the rope trailing on the snow. If one tumbles into
a crevasse, the rest stare and say, “La! what is the matter with
Smith?” unless, as is more likely, they all tumble in together. This is
the wrong way to use a rope. It is abuse of the rope.

[Illustration: THE WRONG WAY TO USE THE ROPE.]

[Illustration: THE RIGHT WAY TO USE THE ROPE.]

It is of the first importance to keep the rope taut from man to man.
There is no real security if this is not done, and your risks may be
considerably magnified. There is little or no difficulty in extricating
one man who breaks through a bridged crevasse if the rope is taut, but
the case may be very awkward if two break through at the same moment,
close together, and there are only two others to aid, or perhaps only
one other. Further, the rope ought not upon any account to graze over
snow, ice or rocks, otherwise the strands suffer and the lives of the
whole party may be endangered. Apart from this, it is extremely
annoying to have a rope knocking about one’s heels. If circumstances
render it impossible for the rope to be kept taut by itself, the men
behind should gather it up round their hands,[63] and not allow it to
incommode those in advance. A man must either be incompetent, careless
or selfish if he permits the rope to dangle about the heels of the
person in front of him.

 [63] For example, when the leader suspects crevasses, and _sounds_ for
 them, in the manner shown in the engraving, he usually loses half a
 step or more. The second man should take a turn of the rope around his
 hand to draw it back in case the leader goes through.

The distance from man to man must be neither too great nor too small.
About twelve feet is sufficient. If there are only two or three
persons, it is prudent to allow a little more—say fifteen feet. More
than this is unnecessary, and less than nine or ten feet is not much
good.

It is essential to examine your rope from time to time to see that it
is in good condition. If you are wise you will do this yourself every
day. Latterly, I have examined every inch of my rope overnight, and
upon more than one occasion have found the strands of the Manila rope
nearly half severed through accidental grazes.

Thus far the rope has been supposed to be employed upon level,
snow-covered glacier, to prevent any risk from concealed crevasses. On
rocks and on slopes it is used for a different purpose (namely, to
guard against slips), and in these cases it is equally important to
keep it taut and to preserve a reasonable distance one from the other.
It is much more troublesome to keep the rope taut upon slopes than upon
the level, and upon difficult rocks it is all but impossible, except by
adopting the plan of moving only one at a time.

From the Col d’Olen we proceeded down the combe of the same name to the
châlets of Prerayen, and passed the night of the 6th under the roof of
our old acquaintance, the wealthy herdsman. On the 7th we crossed the
Va Cornere Pass, en route for Breuil. My thoughts were fixed on the
Matterhorn, and my guides knew that I wished them to accompany me. They
had an aversion to the mountain, and repeatedly expressed their belief
that it was useless to try to ascend it. “_Anything_ but Matterhorn,
dear sir!” said Almer—“_anything_ but Matterhorn.” He did not speak of
difficulty or of danger, nor was he shirking _work._ He offered to go
_anywhere_, but he entreated that the Matterhorn should be abandoned.
Both men spoke fairly enough. They did not think that an ascent could
be made, and for their own credit, as well as for my sake, they did not
wish to undertake a business which in their opinion would only lead to
loss of time and money.

I sent them by the short cut to Breuil, and walked down to Val
Tournanche to look for Jean-Antoine Carrel. He was not there. The
villagers said that he and three others had started on the 6th to try
the Matterhorn by the old way, on their own account. They will have no
luck, I thought, for the clouds were low down on the mountains; and I
walked up to Breuil, fully expecting to meet them. Nor was I
disappointed. About halfway up I saw a group of men clustered around a
châlet upon the other side of the torrent, and crossing over found that
the party had returned. Jean-Antoine and Cæsar were there, C. E. Gorret
and J. J. Maquignaz. They had had no success. The weather, thev said,
had been horrible, and they had scarcely reached the Glacier du Lion.

I explained the situation to Carrel, and proposed that we, with Cæsar
and another man, should cross the Théodule by moonlight on the 9th, and
that upon the 10th we should pitch the tent as high as possible upon
the east face. He was unwilling to abandon the old route, and urged me
to try it again. I promised to do so provided the new route failed.
This satisfied him, and he agreed to my proposal. I then went up to
Breuil, and discharged Almer and Biener—with much regret, for no two
men ever served me more faithfully or more willingly.[64] On the next
day they crossed to Zermatt.

 [64] During the preceding eighteen clays (I exclude Sundays and other
 non-working days) we ascended more than 100,000 feet, and descended
 98,000 feet.

The 8th was occupied with preparations. The weather was stormy, and
black, rainy vapors obscured the mountains. Toward evening a young man
came from Val Tournanche, and reported that an Englishman was lying
there extremely ill. Now was the time for the performance of my vow,
and on the morning of Sunday, the 9th, I went down the valley to look
after the sick man. On my way I passed a foreign gentleman, with a mule
and several porters laden with baggage. Amongst these men were
Jean-Antoine and Cæsar, carrying some barometers. “Hullo!” I said,
“what are you doing?” They explained that the foreigner had arrived
just as they were setting out, and that they were assisting his
porters. “Very well: go on to Breuil, and await me there—we start at
midnight, as agreed.” Jean-Antoine then said that he should not be able
to serve me after Tuesday, the 11th, as he was engaged to travel “with
a family of distinction” in the valley of Aosta. “And Cæsar?” “And
Cæsar also.” “Why did you not say this before?” “Because,” said he, “it
was not settled. The engagement is of long standing, but _the day_ was
not fixed. When I got back to Val Tournanche on Friday night, after
leaving you, I found a letter naming the day.” I could not object to
the answer, but the prospect of being left guideless was provoking.
They went up, and I down, the valley.

The sick man declared that he was better, though the exertion of saying
as much tumbled him over on to the floor in a fainting-fit. He was
badly in want of medicine, and I tramped down to Chatillon to get it.
It was late before I returned to Val Tournanche, for the weather was
tempestuous and rain fell in torrents. A figure passed me under the
church-porch. “_Qui vive?_” “Jean-Antoine.” “I thought you were at
Breuil.” “No, sir: when the storm came on I knew we should not start
to-night, and so came down to sleep here.” “Ha, Carrel,” I said, “this
is a great bore. If to-morrow is not fine, we shall not be able to do
anything together. I have sent away my guides, relying on you, and now
you are going to leave me to travel with a party of ladies. That work
is not fit for _you_” (he smiled, I supposed at the implied
compliment): “can’t you send some one else instead?” “No, monsieur. I
am sorry, but my word is pledged. I should like to accompany you, but I
can’t break my engagement.” By this time we had arrived at the inn
door. “Well, it is no fault of yours. Come presently with Cæsar, and
have some wine.” They came, and we sat up till midnight, recounting our
old adventures, in the inn of Val Tournanche.

The weather continued bad upon the 10th, and I returned to Breuil. The
two Carrels were again hovering about the above-mentioned châlet, and I
bade them adieu. In the evening the sick man crawled up, a good deal
better, but his was the only arrival. The Monday crowd[65] did not
cross the Théodule, on account of the continued storms. The inn was
lonely. I went to bed early, and was awoke the next morning by the
invalid inquiring if I had heard the news. “No—what news?” “Why,” said
he, “a large party of guides went off this morning to try the
Matterhorn, taking with them a mule laden with provisions.”

 [65] Tourists usually congregate at Zermatt upon Sundays, and large
 gangs and droves cross the Theodule pass on Mondays.

I went to the door, and with a telescope saw the party upon the lower
slopes of the mountain. Favre, the landlord, stood by. “What is all
this about?” I inquired: “who is the leader of this party?” “Carrel.”
“What! Jean-Antoine?” “Yes, Jean-Antoine.” “Is Cæsar there too?” “Yes,
he is there.” Then I saw in a moment that I had been bamboozled and
humbugged, and learned, bit by bit, that the affair had been arranged
long beforehand. The start on the 6th had been for a preliminary
reconnaissance; the mule that I passed was conveying stores for the
attack; the “family of distinction” was Signor F. Giordano, who had
just despatched the party to facilitate the way to the summit, and who,
when the facilitation was completed, was to be taken to the top along
with Signor Sella![66]

 [66] The Italian Minister. Signor Giordano had undertaken the business
 arrangements for Signor Sella.

I was greatly mortified. My plans were upset: the Italians had clearly
stolen a march upon me, and I saw that the astute Favre chuckled over
my discomfiture, because the route by the eastern face, if successful,
would not benefit his inn. What was to be done? I retired to my room,
and, soothed by tobacco, re-studied my plans, to see if it was not
possible to outmanœuvre the Italians. “They have taken a mule-load of
provisions.” That is _one_ point in my favor, for they will take two or
three days to get through the food, and until that is done no work will
be accomplished. “How is the weather?” I went to the window. The
mountain was smothered up in mist—another point in my favor. “They are
to facilitate the way. Well, if they do that to any purpose, it will be
a long job.” Altogether, I reckoned that they could not possibly ascend
the mountain and come back to Breuil in less than seven days. I got
cooler, for it was evident that the wily ones might be outwitted after
all. There was time enough to go to Zermatt, to try the eastern face,
and, should it prove impracticable, to come back to Breuil before the
men returned; and then it seemed to me, as the mountain was not
padlocked, one might start at the same time as the messieurs, and yet
get to the top before them.

The first thing to do was to go to Zermatt. Easier said than done. The
seven guides upon the mountain included the ablest men in the valley,
and none of the ordinary muleteer-guides were at Breuil. Two men, at
least, were wanted for my baggage, but not a soul could be found. I ran
about and sent about in all directions, but not a single porter could
be obtained. One was with Carrel, another was ill, another was at
Chatillon, and so forth. Even Meynet the hunchback could not be induced
to come: he was in the thick of some important cheese-making
operations. I was in the position of a general without an army: it was
all very well to make plans, but there was no one to execute them. This
did not much trouble me, for it was evident that so long as the weather
stopped traffic over the Théodule, it would hinder the men equally upon
the Matterhorn; and I knew that directly it improved company would
certainly arrive.

About midday on Tuesday, the 11th, a large party hove in sight from
Zermatt, preceded by a nimble young Englishman and one of old Peter
Taugwalder’s sons.[67] I went at once to this gentleman to learn if he
could dispense with Taugwalder. He said that he could not, as they were
going to recross to Zermatt on the morrow, but that the young man
should assist in transporting my baggage, as he had nothing to carry.
We naturally got into conversation. I told my story, and learned that
the young Englishman was Lord Francis Douglas,[68] whose recent
exploit—the ascent of the Gabelhorn—had excited my wonder and
admiration. He brought good news. Old Peter had lately been beyond the
Hörnli, and had reported that he thought an ascent of the Matterhorn
was possible upon that side. Almer had left Zermatt, and could not be
recovered, so I determined to seek for old Peter. Lord Francis Douglas
expressed a warm desire to ascend the mountain, and before long it was
determined that he should take part in the expedition.

 [67] Peter Taugwalder, the father, is called to distinguish him from
 his eldest son, _young_ Peter. In 1860 the father’s age was about 45.

 [68] Brother of the present Marquis of Queensberry.

Favre could no longer hinder our departure, and lent us one of his men.
We crossed the Col Théodule on Wednesday morning, the 12th of July,
rounded the foot of the Ober Theodulgletscher, crossed the
Furggengletscher, and deposited tent, blankets, ropes and other things
in the little chapel at the Schwarz-see. All four were heavily laden,
for we brought across the whole of my stores from Breuil. Of rope alone
there were about six hundred feet. There were three kinds: first, two
hundred feet of Manila rope; second, one hundred and fifty feet of a
stouter and probably stronger rope than the first; and third, more than
two hundred feet of a lighter and weaker rope than the first, of a kind
that I used formerly (stout sash-line).

We descended to Zermatt, sought and engaged old Peter, and gave him
permission to choose another guide. When we returned to the Monte Rosa
hotel, whom should we see sitting upon the wall in front but my old
_guide-chef_, Michel Croz! I supposed that he had come with Mr. B——,
but I learned that that gentleman had arrived in ill health at
Chamounix, and had returned to England. Croz, thus left free, had been
immediately engaged by the Rev. Charles Hudson, and they had come to
Zermatt with the same object as ourselves—namely, to attempt the ascent
of the Matterhorn!

Lord Francis Douglas and I dined at the Monte Rosa, and had just
finished when Mr. Hudson and a friend entered the _salle à manger_.
They had returned from inspecting the mountain, and some idlers in the
room demanded their intentions. We heard a confirmation of Croz’s
statement, and learned that Mr. Hudson intended to set out on the
morrow at the same hour as ourselves. We left the room to consult, and
agreed it was undesirable that two independent parties should be on the
mountain at the same time with the same object. Mr. Hudson was
therefore invited to join us, and he accepted our proposal. Before
admitting his friend, Mr. Hadow, I took the precaution to inquire what
he had done in the Alps, and, as well as I remember, Mr. Hudson’s reply
was, “Mr. Hadow has done Mont Blanc in less time than most men.” He
then mentioned several other excursions, that were unknown to me, and
added, in answer to a further question, “I consider he is a
sufficiently good man to go with us.” Mr. Hadow was admitted without
any further question, and we then went into the matter of guides.
Hudson thought that Croz and old Peter would be sufficient. The
question was referred to the men themselves, and they made no
objection.

So Croz and I became comrades once more, and as I threw myself on my
bed and tried to go to sleep, I wondered at the strange series of
chances which had first separated us and then brought us together
again. I thought of the mistake through which he had accepted the
engagement to Mr. B——; of his unwillingness to adopt my route; of his
recommendation to transfer our energies to the chain of Mont Blanc; of
the retirement of Almer and Biener; of the desertion of Carrel; of the
arrival of Lord Francis Douglas; and lastly of our accidental meeting
at Zermatt; and as I pondered over these things I could not help
asking, “What next?” If any one of the links of this fatal chain of
circumstances had been omitted, what a different story I should have to
tell!




CHAPTER XXI.
THE ASCENT OF THE MATTERHORN.


We started from Zermatt on the 13th of July at half-past five, on a
brilliant and perfectly cloudless morning. We were eight in
number—Croz, old Peter and his two sons,[69] Lord Francis Douglas,
Hadow, Hudson[70] and I. To ensure steady motion, one tourist and one
native walked together. The youngest Taugwalder fell to my share, and
the lad marched well, proud to be on the expedition and happy to show
his powers. The wine-bags also fell to my lot to carry, and throughout
the day, after each drink, I replenished them secretly with water, so
that at the next halt they were found fuller than before! This was
considered a good omen, and little short of miraculous.

 [69] The two young Taugwalders were taken as porters, by desire of
 their father, and carried provisions amply sufficient for three days,
 in case the ascent should prove more troublesome than we anticipated.

 [70] I remember speaking about pedestrianism to a well-known
 mountaineer some years ago, and venturing to remark that a man who
 averaged thirty miles a-day might be considered a good walker. “A fair
 walker,” he said, “a _fair_ walker.“ “What then would you consider
 _good_ walking?” “Well,” he replied, “I will tell you. Some time back
 a friend and I agreed to go to Switzerland, but a short time
 afterwards he wrote to say he ought to let me know that a young and
 delicate lad was going with him who would not be equal to great
 things, in fact, he would not be able to do more than fifty miles
 a-day!” “What became of the young and delicate lad?” “He lives.” “And
 who was your extraordinary friend?” “Charles Hudson.” I have every
 reason to believe that the gentlemen referred to _were_ equal to
 walking more than fifty miles a-day, but they were exceptional, not
 _good_ pedestrians.
    Charles Hudson, Vicar of Skillington in Lincolnshire, was
    considered by the mountaineering fraternity to be the best amateur
    of his time. He was the organiser and leader of the party of
    Englishmen who ascended Mont Blanc by the Aig. du Goûter, and
    descended by the Grands Mulets route, without guides, in 1855. His
    long practice made him surefooted, and in that respect he was not
    greatly inferior to a born mountaineer. I remember him as a
    well-made man of middle height and age, neither stout nor thin,
    with face pleasant—though grave, and with quiet unassuming manners.
    Although an athletic man, he would have been overlooked in a crowd;
    and although he had done the greatest mountaineering feats which
    have been done, he was the last man to speak of his own doings. His
    friend Mr. Hadow was a young man of nineteen, who had the looks and
    manners of a greater age. He was a rapid walker, but 1865 was his
    first season in the Alps. Lord Francis Douglas was about the same
    age as Mr. Hadow. He had had the advantage of several seasons in
    the Alps. He was nimble as a deer, and was becoming an expert
    mountaineer. Just before our meeting he had ascended the Ober
    Gabelhorn (with old Peter and Jos. Viennin), and this gave me a
    high opinion of his powers; for I had examined that mountain all
    round, a few weeks before, and had declined its ascent on account
    of its apparent difficulty.
    My personal acquaintance with Mr. Hudson was very slight—still I
    should have been content to have placed myself under his orders if
    he had chosen to claim the position to which he was entitled. Those
    who knew him will not be surprised to learn that, so far from doing
    this, he lost no opportunity of consulting the wishes and opinions
    of those around him. We deliberated together whenever there was
    occasion, and our authority was recognised by the others. Whatever
    responsibility there was devolved upon us. I recollect with
    satisfaction that there was no difference of opinion between us as
    to what should be done, and that the most perfect harmony existed
    between all of us so long as we were together.

On the first day we did not intend to ascend to any great height, and
we mounted, accordingly, very leisurely, picked up the things which
were left in the chapel at the Schwarzsee at 8.20, and proceeded thence
along the ridge connecting the Hörnli with the Matterhorn. At half-past
eleven we arrived at the base of the actual peak, then quitted the
ridge and clambered round some ledges on to the eastern face. We were
now fairly upon the mountain, and were astonished to find that places
which from the Riffel, or even from the Furggengletscher, looked
entirely impracticable, were so easy that we could _run about._

Before twelve o’clock we had found a good position for the tent, at a
height of eleven thousand feet.[71] Croz and young Peter went on to see
what was above, in order to save time on the following morning. They
cut across the heads of the snow-slopes which descended toward the
Furggengletscher, and disappeared round a corner, but shortly afterward
we saw them high up on the face, moving quickly. We others made a solid
platform for the tent in a well-protected spot, and then watched
eagerly for the return of the men. The stones which they upset told
that they were very high, and we supposed that the way must be easy. At
length, just before 3 P.M., we saw them coming down, evidently much
excited. “What are they saying, Peter?” “Gentlemen, they say it is no
good.” But when they came near we heard a different story: “Nothing but
what was good—not a difficulty, not a single difficulty! We could have
gone to the summit and returned to-day easily!”

 [71] Thus far the guides did not once go to the front. Hudson or I
 led, and when any cutting was required we did it ourselves. This was
 done to spare the guides, and to show them that we were thoroughly in
 earnest. The spot at which we camped was just four hours’ walking from
 Zermatt, and is marked upon the map—CAMP (1865). It was just upon a
 level with the Furggengrat, and its position is indicated upon the
 engraving facing p. 285 by a little circular white spot, in a line
 with the word CAMP.

We passed the remaining hours of daylight—some basking in the sunshine,
some sketching or collecting—and when the sun went down, giving, as it
departed, a glorious promise for the morrow, we returned to the tent to
arrange for the night. Hudson made tea, I coffee, and we then retired
each one to his blanket-bag, the Taugwalders, Lord Francis Douglas and
myself occupying the tent, the others remaining, by preference,
outside. Long after dusk the cliffs above echoed with our laughter and
with the songs of the guides, for we were happy that night in camp, and
feared no evil.

We assembled together outside the tent before dawn on the morning of
the 14th, and started directly it was light enough to move. Young Peter
came on with us as a guide, and his brother returned to Zermatt. We
followed the route which had been taken on the previous day, and in a
few minutes turned the rib which had intercepted the view of the
eastern face from our tent platform. The whole of this great slope was
now revealed, rising for three thousand feet like a huge natural
staircase. Some parts were more and others were less easy, but we were
not once brought to a halt by any serious impediment, for when an
obstruction was met in front it could always be turned to the right or
to the left. For the greater part of the way there was indeed no
occasion for the rope, and sometimes Hudson led, sometimes myself. At
6.20 we had attained a height of twelve thousand eight hundred feet,
and halted for half an hour: we then continued the ascent without a
break until 9.55, when we stopped for fifty minutes at a height of
fourteen thousand feet. Twice we struck the north-eastern ridge, and
followed it for some little distance—to no advantage, for it was
usually more rotten and steep, and always more difficult, than the
face. Still, we kept near to it, lest stones perchance might fall.

We had now arrived at the foot of that part which, from the Riffelberg
or from Zermatt, seems perpendicular or overhanging, and could no
longer continue upon the eastern side. For a little distance we
ascended by snow upon the arête—that is, the ridge—descending toward
Zermatt, and then by common consent turned over to the right, or to the
northern side. Before doing so we made a change in the order of ascent.
Croz went first, I followed, Hudson came third: Hadow and old Peter
were last. “Now,” said Croz as he led off—“now for something altogether
different.” The work became difficult, and required caution. In some
places there was little to hold, and it was desirable that those should
be in front who were least likely to slip. The general slope of the
mountain at this part was _less_ than forty degrees, and snow had
accumulated in, and had filled up, the interstices of the rock-face,
leaving only occasional fragments projecting here and there. These were
at times covered with a thin film of ice, produced from the melting and
refreezing of the snow. It was the counterpart, on a small scale, of
the upper seven hundred feet of the Pointe des Écrins; only there was
this material difference—the face of the Écrins was about, or exceeded,
an angle of fifty degrees, and the Matterhorn face was less than forty
degrees. It was a place over which any fair mountaineer might pass in
safety, and Mr. Hudson ascended this part, and, as far as I know, the
entire mountain, without having the slightest assistance rendered to
him upon any occasion. Sometimes, after I had taken a hand from Croz or
received a pull, I turned to offer the same to Hudson, but he
invariably declined, saying it was not necessary. Mr. Hadow, however,
was not accustomed to this kind of work, and required continual
assistance. It is only fair to say that the difficulty which he found
at this part arose simply and entirely from want of experience.

This solitary difficult part was of no great extent. We bore away over
it at first nearly horizontally, for a distance of about four hundred
feet, then ascended directly toward the summit for about sixty feet,
and then doubled back to the ridge which descends toward Zermatt. A
long stride round a rather awkward corner brought us to snow once more.
The last doubt vanished! The Matterhorn was ours! Nothing but two
hundred feet of easy snow remained to be surmounted!

You must now carry your thoughts back to the seven Italians who started
from Breuil on the 11th of July. Four days had passed since their
departure, and we were tormented with anxiety lest they should arrive
on the top before us. All the way up we had talked of them, and many
false alarms of “men on the summit” had been raised. The higher we rose
the more intense became the excitement. What if we should be beaten at
the last moment? The slope eased off, at length we could be detached,
and Croz and I, dashing away, ran a neck-and-neck race which ended in a
dead heat. At 1.40 P.M. the world was at our feet and the Matterhorn
was conquered! Hurrah! Not a footstep could be seen.

It was not yet certain that we had not been beaten. The summit of the
Matterhorn was formed of a rudely level ridge, about 350 feet long,[72]
and the Italians might have been at its farther extremity. I hastened
to the southern end, scanning the snow right and left eagerly. Hurrah
again! it was untrodden. “Where were the men?” I peered over the cliff,
half doubting, half expectant. I saw them immediately, mere dots on the
ridge, at an immense distance below. Up went my arms and my hat. “Croz!
Croz! come here!” “Where are they, monsieur?” “There—don’t you see them
down there?” “Ah! the _coquins!_ they are low down.” “Croz, we must
make those fellows hear us.” We yelled until we were hoarse. The
Italians seemed to regard us—we could not be certain. “Croz, we _must_
make them hear us—they _shall_ hear us!” I seized a block of rock and
hurled it down, and called upon my companion, in the name of
friendship, to do the same. We drove our sticks in and prized away the
crags, and soon a torrent of stones poured down the cliffs. There was
no mistake about it this time. The Italians turned and fled.[73]

 [72] The highest points are towards the two ends. In 1865 the northern
 end was slightly higher than the southern one. In bygone years Carrel
 and I often suggested to each other that we might one day arrive upon
 the top, and find ourselves cut off from the very highest point by a
 notch in the summit-ridge which is seen from the Theodule and from
 Breil (marked D on the outline on p. 128). This notch is very
 conspicuous from below, but when one is actually upon the summit it is
 hardly noticed, and it can be passed without the least difficulty.

 [73] I have learnt since from J.-A. Carrel that they heard our first
 cries. They were then upon the south-west ridge, close to the
 ‘Cravate,’ and _twelve hundred and fifty_ feet below us; or, as the
 crow flies, at a distance of about one-third of a mile.

[Illustration: “CROZ! CROZ! COME HERE!”]

Still, I would that the leader of that party could have stood with us
at that moment, for our victorious shouts conveyed to him the
disappointment of the ambition of a lifetime. He was _the_ man, of all
those who attempted the ascent of the Matterhorn, who most deserved to
be the first upon its summit. He was the first to doubt its
inaccessibility, and he was the only man who persisted in believing
that its ascent would be accomplished. It was the aim of his life to
make the ascent from the side of Italy for the honor of his native
valley. For a time he had the game in his hands: he played it as he
thought best, but he made a false move, and lost it. Times have changed
with Carrel. His supremacy is questioned in the Val Tournanche; new men
have arisen, and he is no longer recognized as _the_ chasseur above all
others; but so long as he remains the man that he is to-day it will not
be easy to find his superior.

The others had arrived, so we went back to the northern end of the
ridge. Croz now took the tent-pole[74] and planted it in the highest
snow. “Yes,” we said, “there is the flagstaff, but where is the flag?”
“Here it is,” he answered, pulling off his blouse and fixing it to the
stick. It made a poor flag, and there was no wind to float it out, yet
it was seen all around. They saw it at Zermatt, at the Riffel, in the
Val Tournanche. At Breuil the watchers cried, “Victory is ours!” They
raised “bravos” for Carrel and “vivas” for Italy, and hastened to put
themselves _en fête_. On the morrow they were undeceived. All was
changed: the explorers returned sad—cast
down—disheartened—confounded—gloomy. “It is true,” said the men. “We
saw them ourselves—they hurled stones at us! The old traditions _are_
true—there are spirits on the top of the Matterhorn!”[75]

 [74] At our departure the men were confident that the ascent would be
 made, and took one of the poles out of the tent. I protested that it
 was tempting Providence; they took the pole, nevertheless.

 [75] Signor Giordano was naturally disappointed at the result, and
 wished the men to start again. _They all refused to do so, with the
 exception of Jean-Antoine_. Upon the 16th of July he set out again
 with three others, and upon the 17th gained the summit by passing (at
 first) up the south-west ridge, and (afterwards) by turning over to
 the Z’Mutt, or north-western side. On the 18th he returned to Breil.
    Whilst we were upon the southern end of the summit-ridge, we paid
    some attention to the portion of the mountain which intervened
    between ourselves and the Italian guides. It seemed as if there
    would not be the least chance for them if they should attempt to
    storm the final peak directly from the end of the ‘shoulder.’ In
    that direction cliffs fell sheer down from the summit, and we were
    unable to see beyond a certain distance. There remained the route
    about which Carrel and I had often talked, namely, to ascend
    directly at first from the end of the ‘shoulder,’ and afterwards to
    swerve to the left—that is, to the Z’Mutt side—and to complete the
    ascent from the north-west. When we were upon the summit we laughed
    at this idea. The part of the mountain that I have described upon
    p. 388, was not easy, although its inclination was moderate. If
    that slope were made only ten degrees steeper, its difficulty would
    be enormously increased. To double its inclination would be to make
    it impracticable. The slope at the southern end of the
    summit-ridge, falling towards the north-west, was _much_ steeper
    than that over which we passed, and we ridiculed the idea that any
    person should attempt to ascend in that direction, when the
    northern route was so easy. Nevertheless, the summit was reached by
    that route by the undaunted Carrel. From knowing the final slope
    over which he passed, and from the account of Mr. F. C. Grove—who
    is the only traveller by whom it has been traversed—I do not
    hesitate to term the ascent of Carrel and Bich in 1865 the most
    desperate piece of mountain-scrambling upon record. In 1869 I asked
    Carrel if he had ever done anything more difficult. His reply was,
    “Man cannot do anything much more difficult than that!” See
    Appendix.

[Illustration: THE SUMMIT OF THE MATTERHORN IN 1865 (NORTHERN END)]

We returned to the southern end of the ridge to build a cairn, and then
paid homage to the view.[76] The day was one of those superlatively
calm and clear ones which usually precede bad weather. The atmosphere
was perfectly still and free from all clouds or vapors. Mountains
fifty—nay, a hundred—miles off looked sharp and near. All their
details—ridge and crag, snow and glacier—stood out with faultless
definition. Pleasant thoughts of happy days in bygone years came up
unbidden as we recognized the old, familiar forms. All were
revealed—not one of the principal peaks of the Alps was hidden.[77] I
see them clearly now—the great inner circles of giants, backed by the
ranges, chains and _massifs_. First came the Dent Blanche, hoary and
grand; the Gabelhorn and pointed Rothhorn, and then the peerless
Weisshorn; the towering Mischabelhörner, flanked by the Allaleinhorn,
Strahlhorn and Rimpfischhorn; then Monte Rosa—with its many Spitzes—the
Lyskamm and the Breithorn. Behind were the Bernese Oberland, governed
by the Finsteraarhorn, the Simplon and St. Gothard groups, the
Disgrazia and the Orteler. Toward the south we looked down to Chivasso
on the plain of Piedmont, and far beyond. The Viso—one hundred miles
away—seemed close upon us; the Maritime Alps—one hundred and thirty
miles distant—were free from haze. Then came my first love—the Pelvoux;
the Écrins and the Meije; the clusters of the Graians; and lastly, in
the west, gorgeous in the full sunlight, rose the monarch of all—Mont
Blanc. Ten thousand feet beneath us were the green fields of Zermatt,
dotted with châlets, from which blue smoke rose lazily. Eight thousand
feet below, on the other side, were the pastures of Breuil. There were
forests black and gloomy, and meadows bright and lively; bounding
waterfalls and tranquil lakes; fertile lands and savage wastes; sunny
plains and frigid plateaux. There were the most rugged forms and the
most graceful outlines—bold, perpendicular cliffs and gentle,
undulating slopes; rocky mountains and snowy mountains, sombre and
solemn or glittering and white, with walls, turrets, pinnacles,
pyramids, domes, cones and spires! There was every combination that the
world can give, and every contrast that the heart could desire.

 [76] The summit-ridge was much shattered, although not so extensively
 as the south-west and north-east ridges. The highest rock, in 1805,
 was a block of mica-schist, and the fragment I broke off it not only
 possesses, in a remarkable degree, the _character_ of the peak, but
 mimics, in an astonishing manner, the details of its form. (See
 illustration on page 395.)

 [77] It is most unusual to see the southern half of the panorama
 unclouded. A hundred ascents may be made before this will be the case
 again.

We remained on the summit for one hour—

One crowded hour of glorious life.

It passed away too quickly, and we began to prepare for the descent.

[Illustration: THE ACTUAL SUMMIT OF THE MATTERHORN IN 1865.]




CHAPTER XXII.
DESCENT OF THE MATTERHORN.


Hudson and I again consulted as to the best and safest arrangement of
the party. We agreed that it would be best for Croz to go first,[78]
and Hadow second; Hudson, who was almost equal to a guide in sureness
of foot, wished to be third; Lord F. Douglas was placed next, and old
Peter, the strongest of the remainder, after him. I suggested to Hudson
that we should attach a rope to the rocks on our arrival at the
difficult bit, and hold it as we descended, as an additional
protection. He approved the idea, but it was not definitely settled
that it should be done. The party was being arranged in the above order
whilst I was sketching the summit, and they had finished, and were
waiting for me to be tied in line, when some one remembered that our
names had not been left in a bottle. They requested me to write them
down, and moved off while it was being done.

 [78] If the members of the party had been more equally efficient, Croz
 would have been placed _last_.

A few minutes afterward I tied myself to young Peter, ran down after
the others, and caught them just as they were commencing the descent of
the difficult part.[79] Great care was being taken. Only one man was
moving at a time: when he was firmly planted, the next advanced, and so
on. They had not, however, attached the additional rope to rocks, and
nothing was said about it. The suggestion was not made for my own sake,
and I am not sure that it even occurred to me again. For some little
distance we two followed the others, detached from them, and should
have continued so had not Lord F. Douglas asked me, about 3 P.M. to tie
on to old Peter, as he feared, he said, that Taugwalder would not be
able to hold his ground if a slip occurred.

 [79] Described upon pp. 388-9.

A few minutes later a sharp-eyed lad ran into the Monte Rosa hotel to
Seiler, saying that he had seen an avalanche fall from the summit of
the Matterhorn on to the Matterhorngletscher. The boy was reproved for
telling idle stories: he was right, nevertheless, and this was what he
saw.

Michel Croz had laid aside his axe, and in order to give Mr. Hadow
greater security was absolutely taking hold of his legs and putting his
feet, one by one, into their proper positions.[80] As far as I know, no
one was actually descending. I cannot speak with certainty, because the
two leading men were partially hidden from my sight by an intervening
mass of rock, but it is my belief, from the movements of their
shoulders, that Croz, having done as I have said, was in the act of
turning round to go down a step or two himself: at this moment Mr.
Hadow slipped, fell against him and knocked him over. I heard one
startled exclamation from Croz, then saw him and Mr. Hadow flying
downward: in another moment Hudson was dragged from his steps, and Lord
F. Douglas immediately after him.[81] All this was the work of a
moment. Immediately we heard Croz’s exclamation, old Peter and I
planted ourselves as firmly as the rocks would permit:[82] the rope was
taut between us, and the jerk came on us both as on one man. We held,
but the rope broke midway between Taugwalder and Lord Francis Douglas.
For a few seconds we saw our unfortunate companions sliding downward on
their backs, and spreading out their hands, endeavoring to save
themselves. They passed from our sight uninjured, disappeared one by
one, and fell from precipice to precipice on to the Matterhorngletscher
below, a distance of nearly four thousand feet in height. From the
moment the rope broke it was impossible to help them.

 [80] Not at all an unusual proceeding, even between born mountaineers.
 I wish to convey the impression that Croz was using all pains, rather
 than to indicate extreme inability on the part of Mr. Hadow. The
 insertion of the word ‘absolutely’ makes the passage, perhaps, rather
 ambiguous. I retain it now, in order to offer the above explanation.

 [81] At the moment of the accident, Croz, Hadow, and Hudson, were all
 close together. Between Hudson and Lord F. Douglas the rope was all
 but taut, and the same between all the others who were _above_. Croz
 was standing by the side of a rock which afforded good hold, and if he
 had been aware, or had suspected, that anything was about to occur, he
 might and would have gripped it, and would have prevented any
 mischief. He was taken totally by surprise. Mr. Hadow slipped off his
 feet on to his back, his feet struck Croz in the small of the back,
 and knocked him right over, head first. Croz’s axe was out of his
 reach, and without it he managed to get his head uppermost before he
 disappeared from our sight. If it had been in his hand I have no doubt
 that he would have stopped himself and Mr. Hadow.
    Mr. Hadow, at the moment of the slip, was not occupying a bad
    position. He could have moved either up or down, and could touch
    with his hand the rock of which I have spoken. Hudson was not so
    well placed, but he had liberty of motion. The rope was not taut
    from him to Hadow, and the two men fell ten or twelve feet before
    the jerk came upon him. Lord F. Douglas was not favourably placed,
    and could neither move up nor down. Old Peter was firmly planted,
    and stood just beneath a large rock which he hugged with both arms.
    I enter into these details to make it more apparent that the
    position occupied by the party at the moment of the accident was
    not by any means excessively trying. We were compelled to pass over
    the exact spot where the slip occurred, and we found—even with
    shaken nerves—that _it_ was not a difficult place to pass. I have
    described the _slope generally_ as difficult, and it is so
    undoubtedly to most persons; but it must be distinctly understood
    that Mr. Hadow slipped at an easy part.

 [82] Or, more correctly, we held on as tightly as possible. There was
 no time to change our position.

[Illustration: ROPE BROKEN ON THE MATTERHORN.]

So perished our comrades! For the space of half an hour we remained on
the spot without moving a single step. The two men, paralyzed by
terror, cried like infants, and trembled in such a manner as to
threaten us with the fate of the others. Old Peter rent the air with
exclamations of “Chamounix!—oh, what will Chamounix say?” He meant, Who
would believe that Croz could fall?

The young man did nothing but scream or sob, “We are lost! we are
lost!” Fixed between the two, I could move neither up nor down. I
begged young Peter to descend, but he dared not. Unless he did, we
could not advance. Old Peter became alive to the danger, and swelled
the cry, “We are lost! we are lost!” The father’s fear was natural—he
trembled for his son; the young man’s fear was cowardly—he thought of
self alone. At last old Peter summoned up courage, and changed his
position to a rock to which he could fix the rope: the young man then
descended, and we all stood together. Immediately we did so, I asked
for the rope which had given way, and found, to my surprise—indeed, to
my horror—that it was the weakest of the three ropes. It was not
brought, and should not have been employed, for the purpose for which
it was used. It was old rope, and, compared with the others, was
feeble. It was intended as a reserve, in case we had to leave much rope
behind attached to rocks. I saw at once that a serious question was
involved, and made them give me the end. It had broken in mid-air, and
it did not appear to have sustained previous injury.

For more than two hours afterward I thought almost every moment that
the next would be my last, for the Taugwalders, utterly unnerved, were
not only incapable of giving assistance, but were in such a state that
a slip might have been expected from them at any moment. After a time
we were able to do that which should have been done at first, and fixed
rope to firm rocks, in addition to being tied together. These ropes
were cut from time to time, and were left behind.[83] Even with their
assurance the men were afraid to proceed, and several times old Peter
turned with ashy face and faltering limbs, and said with terrible
emphasis, _“I cannot!”_

 [83] These ends, I believe, are still attached to the rocks, and mark
 our line of ascent and descent.

About 6 P.M. we arrived at the snow upon the ridge descending toward
Zermatt, and all peril was over. We frequently looked, but in vain, for
traces of our unfortunate companions: we bent over the ridge and cried
to them, but no sound returned. Convinced at last that they were within
neither sight nor hearing, we ceased from our useless efforts, and, too
cast down for speech, silently gathered up our things and the little
effects of those who were lost, preparatory to continuing the descent.
When lo! a mighty arch appeared, rising above the Lyskamm high into the
sky. Pale, colorless and noiseless, but perfectly sharp and defined,
except where it was lost in the clouds, this unearthly apparition
seemed like a vision from another world, and almost appalled we watched
with amazement the gradual development of two vast crosses, one on
either side. If the Taugwalders had not been the first to perceive it,
I should have doubted my senses. They thought it had some connection
with the accident, and I, after a while, that it might bear some
relation to ourselves. But our movements had no effect upon it. The
spectral forms remained motionless. It was a fearful and wonderful
sight, unique in my experience, and impressive beyond description,
coming at such a moment.[84]

 [84] See Frontispiece. I paid very little attention to this remarkable
 phenomenon, and was glad when it disappeared, as it distracted our
 attention. Under ordinary circumstances I should have felt vexed
 afterwards at not having observed with greater precision an occurrence
 so rare and so wonderful. I can add very little about it to that which
 is said above. The sun was directly at our backs; that is to say, the
 fog-bow was opposite to the sun. The time was 6.30 P.M. The forms were
 at once tender and sharp; neutral in tone; were developed gradually,
 and disappeared suddenly. The mists were light (that is, not dense),
 and were dissipated in the course of the evening.
    It has been suggested that the crosses are incorrectly figured in
    the Frontispiece, and that they were probably formed by the
    intersection of other circles or ellipses, as shown in the annexed
    diagram. I think this suggestion is very likely correct; but I have
    preferred to follow my original memorandum.
    In Parry’s _Narrative of an Attempt to reach the North Pole_, 4to,
    1828, there is, at pp. 99-100, an account of the occurrence of a
    phenomenon analogous to the above-mentioned one. “At half-past five
    P.M. we witnessed a very beautiful natural phenomenon. A broad
    white fog-bow first appeared opposite to the sun, as was very
    commonly the case,” etc. I follow Parry in using the term fog-bow.
    It may be observed that, upon the descent of the Italian guides
    (whose expedition is noticed upon p. 393, and again in the
    Appendix), upon July 17th, 1865, the phenomenon commonly termed the
    Brocken was observed. The following is the account given by the
    Abbé Amé Gorret in the _Feuille d’Aoste_, October 31, 1865:—“Nous
    étions sur l’épaule (the ‘shoulder’) quand nous remarquâmes un
    phénomène qui nous fit plaisir; le nuage était très-dense du côté
    de Valtornanche, c’était serein en Suisse; nous nous vîmes au
    milieu d’un cercle aux couleurs de l’arc-en-ciel; ce mirage nous
    formait à tous une couronne au milieu de laquelle nous voyions
    notre ombre.” This occurred at about 6.30 to 7 P.M., and the
    Italians in mention were at about the same height as
    ourselves—namely, 14,000 feet.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: FOG-BOW SEEN FROM THE MATTERHORN ON JULY 14, 1885.]

I was ready to leave, and waiting for the others. They had recovered
their appetites and the use of their tongues. They spoke in patois,
which I did not understand. At length the son said in French,
“Monsieur.” “Yes.” “We are poor men; we have lost our Herr; we shall
not get paid; we can ill afford this.”[85] “Stop!” I said, interrupting
him—“that is nonsense: I shall pay you, of course, just as if your Herr
were here.” They talked together in their patois for a short time, and
then the son spoke again: “We don’t wish you to pay us. We wish you to
write in the hotel-book at Zermatt and to your journals that we have
not been paid.” “What nonsense are you talking? I don’t understand you.
What do you mean?” He proceeded: “Why, next year there will be many
travelers at Zermatt, and we shall get more _voyageurs._”

 [85] They had been travelling with, and had been engaged by, Lord F.
 Douglas, and so considered him their employer, and responsible to
 them.

[Illustration: MONSIEUR ALEX. SEILER.]

Who would answer such a proposition? I made them no reply in words,[86]
but they knew very well the indignation that I felt. They filled the
cup of bitterness to overflowing, and I tore down the cliff madly and
recklessly, in a way that caused them, more than once, to inquire if I
wished to kill them. Night fell, and for an hour the descent was
continued in the darkness. At half-past nine a resting-place was found,
and upon a wretched slab, barely large enough to hold the three, we
passed six miserable hours. At daybreak the descent was resumed, and
from the Hörnli ridge we ran down to the châlets of Buhl and on to
Zermatt. Seiler met me at his door, and followed in silence to my room:
“What is the matter?” “The Taugwalders and I have returned.” He did not
need more, and burst into tears, but lost no time in useless
lamentations, and set to work to arouse the village. Ere long a score
of men had started to ascend the Hohlicht heights, above Kalbermatt and
Z’Mutt, which commanded the plateau of the Matterhorngletscher. They
returned after six hours, and reported that they had seen the bodies
lying motionless on the snow. This was on Saturday, and they proposed
that we should leave on Sunday evening, so as to arrive upon the
plateau at daybreak on Monday. Unwilling to lose the slightest chance,
the Rev. J. M’Cormick and I resolved to start on Sunday morning. The
Zermatt men, threatened with excommunication by their priests if they
failed to attend the early mass, were unable to accompany us. To
several of them, at least, this was a severe trial, and Peter Perm
declared with tears that nothing else would have prevented him from
joining in the search for his old comrades. Englishmen came to our aid.
The Rev. J. Robertson and Mr. J. Phillpotts offered themselves and
their guide, Franz Andermatten: another Englishman lent us Joseph Marie
and Alexandre Lochmatter. Frédéric Payot and Jean Tairraz of Chamounix
also volunteered.

 [86] Nor did I speak to them afterwards, unless it was absolutely
 necessary, so long as we were together.

[Illustration: THE MANILA ROPE[87]]

 [87] The three ropes have been reduced by photography to the same
 scale.

We started at 2 A.M. on Sunday, the 16th, and followed the route that
we had taken on the previous Thursday as far as the Hörnli. From thence
we went down to the right of the ridge, and mounted through the
_séracs_ of the Matterhorngletscher. By 8.30 we had got to the plateau
at the top of the glacier, and within sight of the corner in which we
knew my companions must be. As we saw one weather-beaten man after
another raise the telescope, turn deadly pale and pass it on without a
word to the next, we knew that all hope was gone. We approached. They
had fallen below as they had fallen above—Croz a little in advance,
Hadow near him, and Hudson some distance behind, but of Lord F. Douglas
we could see nothing.[88] We left them where they fell, buried in snow
at the base of the grandest cliff of the most majestic mountain of the
Alps.

 [88] A pair of gloves, a belt, and boot that had belonged to him were
 found. This, somehow, became publicly known, and gave rise to wild
 notions, which would not have been entertained had it been also known
 that the _whole_ of the boots of those who had fallen _were off_, and
 were lying upon the snow near the bodies.

All those who had fallen had been tied with the Manila, or with the
second and equally strong rope, and consequently there had been only
one link —that between old Peter and Lord F. Douglas—where the weaker
rope had been used. This had a very ugly look for Taugwalder, for it
was not possible to suppose that the others would have sanctioned the
employment of a rope so greatly inferior in strength when there were
more than two hundred and fifty feet of the better qualities still out
of use.[89] For the sake of the old guide (who bore a good reputation),
and upon all other accounts, it was desirable that this matter should
be cleared up; and after my examination before the court of inquiry
which was instituted by the government was over, I handed in a number
of questions which were framed so as to afford old Peter an opportunity
of exculpating himself from the grave suspicions which at once fell
upon him. The questions, I was told, were put and answered, but the
answers, although promised, have never reached me.[90]

 [89] I was one hundred feet or more from the others whilst they were
 being tied up, and am unable to throw any light on the matter. Croz
 and old Peter no doubt tied up the others.

 [90] This is not the only occasion upon which M. Clemenz (who presided
 over the inquiry) has failed to give up answers that he has promised.
 It is greatly to be regretted that he does not feel that the
 suppression of the truth is equally against the interests of
 travellers and of the guides. If the men are untrustworthy, the public
 should be warned of the fact; but if they are blameless, why allow
 them to remain under unmerited suspicion?
    Old Peter Taugwalder is a man who is labouring under an unjust
    accusation. Notwithstanding repeated denials, even his comrades and
    neighbours at Zermatt persist in asserting or insinuating that he
    _cut_ the rope which led from him to Lord F. Douglas. In regard to
    this infamous charge, I say that he _could_ not do so at the moment
    of the slip, and that the end of the rope in my possession shows
    that he did not do so beforehand. There remains, however, the
    suspicious fact that the rope which broke was the thinnest and
    weakest one that we had. It is suspicious, because it is unlikely
    that any of the four men in front would have selected an old and
    weak rope when there was abundance of new, and much stronger, rope
    to spare; and, on the other hand, because if Taugwalder thought
    that an accident was likely to happen, it was to his interest to
    have the weaker rope where it was placed.
    I should rejoice to learn that his answers to the questions which
    were put to him were satisfactory. Not only was his act at the
    critical moment wonderful as a feat of strength, but it was
    admirable in its performance at the right time. I am told that he
    is now nearly incapable for work—not absolutely mad, but with
    intellect gone and almost crazy; which is not to be wondered at,
    whether we regard him as a man who contemplated a scoundrelly
    meanness, or as an injured man suffering under an unjust
    accusation.
    In respect to young Peter, it is not possible to speak in the same
    manner. The odious idea that he propounded (which I believe
    emanated from _him_) he has endeavoured to trade upon, in spite of
    the fact that his father was paid (for both) in the presence of
    witnesses. Whatever may be his abilities as a guide, he is not one
    to whom I would ever trust my life, or afford any countenance.

Meanwhile, the administration sent strict injunctions to recover the
bodies, and upon the 19th of July twenty-one men of Zermatt
accomplished that sad and dangerous task. Of the body of Lord Francis
Douglas they too saw nothing: it is probably still arrested on the
rocks above.[91] The remains of Hudson and Hadow were interred upon the
north side of the Zermatt church, in the presence of a reverent crowd
of sympathizing friends. The body of Michel Croz lies upon the other
side, under a simpler tomb, whose inscription bears honorable testimony
to his rectitude, to his courage and to his devotion.[92]

 [91] This, or a subsequent party, discovered a sleeve. No other traces
 have been found.

 [92] At the instance of Mr. Alfred Wills, a subscription list was
 opened for the benefit of the sisters of Michel Croz, who had been
 partly dependent upon his earnings. In a short time more than £280
 were raised. This was considered sufficient, and the list was closed.
 The proceeds were invested in French Rentes (by Mr. William Mathews),
 at the recommendation of M. Dupui, at that time Maire of Chamounix.

[Illustration: THE SECOND ROPE]

So the traditional inaccessibility of the Matterhorn was vanquished,
and was replaced by legends of a more real character. Others will essay
to scale its proud cliffs, but to none will it be the mountain that it
was to its early explorers. Others may tread its summit-snows, but none
will ever know the feelings of those who first gazed upon its marvelous
panorama, and none, I trust, will ever be compelled to tell of joy
turned into grief, and of laughter into mourning. It proved to be a
stubborn foe; it resisted long and gave many a hard blow; it was
defeated at last with an ease that none could have anticipated, but,
like a relentless enemy conquered but not crushed, it took terrible
vengeance. The time may come when the Matterhorn shall have passed
away, and nothing save a heap of shapeless fragments will mark the spot
where the great mountain stood, for, atom by atom, inch by inch, and
yard by yard, it yields to forces which nothing can withstand. That
time is far distant, and ages hence generations unborn will gaze upon
its awful precipices and wonder at its unique form. However exalted may
be their ideas and however exaggerated their expectations, none will
come to return disappointed!

The play is over, and the curtain is about to fall. Before we part, a
word upon the graver teachings of the mountains. See yonder height!
’Tis far away—unbidden comes the word “Impossible!” “Not so,” says the
mountaineer. “The way is long, I know: it’s difficult—it may be
dangerous. It’s possible, I’m sure: I’ll seek the way, take counsel of
my brother mountaineers, and find how they have gained similar heights
and learned to avoid the dangers.” He starts (all slumbering down
below): the path is slippery—maybe laborious too. Caution and
perseverance gain the day—the height is reached! and those beneath cry,
“Incredible! ’tis superhuman!”

We who go mountain-scrambling have constantly set before us the
superiority of fixed purpose or perseverance to brute force. We know
that each height, each step, must be gained by patient, laborious toil,
and that wishing cannot take the place of working: we know the benefits
of mutual aid—that many a difficulty must be encountered, and many an
obstacle must be grappled with or turned; but we know that where
there’s a will there’s a way; and we come back to our daily occupations
better fitted to fight the battle of life and to overcome the
impediments which obstruct our paths, strengthened and cheered by the
recollection of past labors and by the memories of victories gained in
other fields.

I have not made myself an advocate or an apologist for mountaineering,
nor do I now intend to usurp the functions of a moralist, but my task
would have been ill performed if it had been concluded without one
reference to the more serious lessons of the mountaineer. We glory in
the physical regeneration which is the product of our exertions; we
exult over the grandeur of the scenes that are brought before our eyes,
the splendors of sunrise and sunset, and the beauties of hill, dale,
lake, wood and waterfall; but we value more highly the development of
manliness, and the evolution, under combat with difficulties, of those
noble qualities of human nature—courage, patience, endurance and
fortitude.

Some hold these virtues in less estimation, and assign base and
contemptible motives to those who indulge in our innocent sport.

Be thou chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.

Others, again, who are not detractors, find mountaineering, as a sport,
to be wholly unintelligible. It is not greatly to be wondered at—we are
not all constituted alike. Mountaineering is a pursuit essentially
adapted to the young or vigorous, and not to the old or feeble. To the
latter toil may be no pleasure, and it is often said by such persons,
“This man is making a toil of pleasure.” Toil he must who goes
mountaineering, but out of the toil comes strength (not merely muscular
energy—more than that, an awakening of all the faculties), and from the
strength arises pleasure. Then, again, it is often asked, in tones
which seem to imply that the answer must at least be doubtful, “But
does it repay you?” Well, we cannot estimate our enjoyment as you
measure your wine or weigh your lead: it is real, nevertheless. If I
could blot out every reminiscence or erase every memory, still I should
say that my scrambles amongst the Alps have repaid me, for they have
given me two of the best things a man can possess—health and friends.

The recollections of past pleasures cannot be effaced. Even now as I
write they crowd up before me. First comes an endless series of
pictures, magnificent in form, effect and color. I see the great peaks
with clouded tops, seeming to mount up for ever and ever; I hear the
music of the distant herds, the peasant’s jodel and the solemn
church-bells; and I scent the fragrant breath of the pines; and after
these have passed away another train of thoughts succeeds—of those who
have been upright, brave and true; of kind hearts and bold deeds; and
of courtesies received at stranger hands, trifles in themselves, but
expressive of that good-will toward men which is the essence of
charity.

Still, the last sad memory hovers round, and sometimes drifts across
like floating mist, cutting off sunshine and chilling the remembrance
of happier times. There have been joys too great to be described in
words, and there have been griefs upon which I have not dared to dwell;
and with these in mind I say, Climb if you will, but remember that
courage and strength are naught without prudence, and that a momentary
negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime. Do nothing in
haste, look well to each step, and from the beginning think what may be
the end.

[Illustration]

APPENDIX.

A. SUBSEQUENT ASCENTS OF THE MATTERHORN.

Mr. Craufurd Grove was the first traveler who ascended the Matterhorn
after the accident. This was in August, 1867. He took with him as
guides three mountaineers of the Val Tournanche—J.-A. Carrel, J. Bich
and S. Meynet, Carrel being the leader. The natives of Val Tournanche
were, of course, greatly delighted that his ascent was made upon their
side. Some of them, however, were by no means well pleased that J.-A.
Carrel was so much regarded. They feared, perhaps, that he would
acquire the monopoly of the mountain. Just a month after Mr. Grove’s
ascent, six Val Tournanchians set out to see whether they could not
learn the route, and so come in for a share of the good things which
were expected to arrive. They were three Maquignazes, Cæsar Carrel (my
old guide), J.-B. Carrel, and a daughter of the last named! They left
Breuil at 5 A.M. on September 12, and at 3 P.M. arrived at the hut,
where they passed the night. At 7 A.M. the next day they started again
(leaving J.-B. Carrel behind), and proceeded along the “shoulder” to
the final peak; passed the cleft which had stopped Bennen, and
clambered up the comparatively easy rocks on the other side until they
arrived at the base of the last precipice, down which we had hurled
stones on July 14, 1865. They (young woman and all) were then about
three hundred and fifty feet from the summit! Then, instead of turning
to the left, as Carrel and Mr. Grove had done, Joseph and J.-Pierre
Maquignaz paid attention to the cliff in front of them, and managed to
find a means of passing up, by clefts, ledges and gullies, to the
summit. This was a shorter (and it appears to be an easier) route than
that taken by Carrel and Grove, and it has been followed by all those
who have since then ascended the mountain from the side of Breuil.
Subsequently, a rope was fixed over the most difficult portions of the
final climb.

In the mean time they had not been idle upon the other side. A hut was
constructed upon the eastern face at a height of 12,526 feet above the
sea, near to the crest of the ridge which descends toward Zermatt
(north-east ridge). This was done at the expense of Monsieur Seller and
of the Swiss Alpine Club. Mons. Seller placed the execution of the work
under the direction of the Knubels, of the village of St. Nicholas, in
the Zermatt valley; and Peter Knubel, along with Joseph Marie
Lochmatter of the same village, had the honor of making the second
ascent of the mountain upon the northern side with Mr. Elliott. This
took place on July 24 and 25, 1868. Since then numerous ascents have
been made, and of these the only one which calls for mention is that by
Signer Giordano, on September 3-5, 1868. This gentleman came to Breuil
several times after his famous visit in 1865, with the intention of
making the ascent, but he was always baffled by weather. In July, 1866,
he got as high as the “cravate” (with J.-A. Carrel and other men), and
_was detained there five days and nights, unable to move either up or
down!_ At last, upon the above-named date, he was able to gratify his
desires, and accomplished the feat of ascending the mountain upon one
side and descending it upon the other. Signor Giordano is, I believe,
the only geologist who has ascended the Matterhorn. He spent a
considerable time in the examination of its structure, and became
benighted on its eastern face in consequence.

[Illustration: PINNACLES NEAR SACHAS IN THE VALLEY OF THE DURANCE,
FORMED FROM AN OLD MORAINE.]

B. DENUDATION IN THE VALLEY OF THE DURANCE.

In the summer of 1869, whilst walking up the valley of the Durance from
Mont Dauphin to Briançon, I noticed, when about five kilometres from
the latter place, some pinnacles on the mountain-slopes to the west of
the road. I scrambled up, and found the remarkable natural pillars
which are represented in the annexed engraving. They were formed out of
an unstratified conglomerate of gritty earth, boulders and stones. Some
of them were more thickly studded with stones than a plum-pudding
usually is with plums, whilst from others the stones projected like the
spines from an echinoderm. The earth (or mud) was extremely hard and
tenacious, and the stones embedded in it were extricated with
considerable difficulty. The mud adhered very firmly to the stones that
were got out, but it was readily washed away in a little stream near at
hand. In a few minutes I extracted fragments of syenite, mica-schist,
several kinds of limestone and conglomerates, and some fossil plants
characteristic of carboniferous strata. Most of the fragments were
covered with scratches, which told that they had traveled underneath a
glacier. The mud had all the character of glacier-mud, and the hillside
was covered with drift. From these indications, and from the situation
of the pinnacles, I concluded that they had been formed out of an old
moraine. The greatest of them were sixty to seventy feet high, and the
moraine had therefore been at least that height. I judged from
appearances that the moraine was a frontal-terminal one of a glacier
which had been an affluent of the great glacier that formerly occupied
the valley of the Durance, and which during retrogression had made a
stand upon this hillside near Sachas. This lateral glacier had flowed
down a nameless _vallon_ which descends toward the east-south-east from
the mountain called upon the French government map Sommet de l’Eychouda
(8740 feet).

Only one of all the pinnacles that I saw was _capped_ by a stone (a
small one), and I did not notice any boulders lying in their immediate
vicinity of a size sufficient to account for their production in the
manner of the celebrated pillars near Botzen. The readers of Sir
Charles Lyell’s Principles (10th ed., vol. i., p. 338) will remember
that he attributes the formation of the Botzen pillars chiefly to the
protection which boulders have afforded to the underlying matter from
the direct action of rain. This is no doubt correct: the Botzen
pinnacles are mostly capped by boulders of considerable dimensions. In
the present instance this does not appear to have been exactly the
case. Running water has cut the moraine into ridges (shown upon the
right hand of the engraving), and has evidently assisted in the work of
denudation. The group of pinnacles here figured belonged, in all
probability, to a ridge which had been formed in this way, whose crest,
in course of time, became sharp, perhaps attenuated. In such a
condition very small stones upon the crest of the ridge would originate
little pinnacles: whether these would develop into larger ones would
depend upon the quantity of stones embedded in the surrounding
moraine-matter. I imagine that the largest of the Sachas pinnacles owe
their existence to the portions of the moraine out of which they are
formed having been studded with a greater quantity of stones and small
boulders than the portions of the moraine which formerly filled the
gaps between them; and, of course, primarily, to the facts that
glacier-mud is extremely tenacious when dry, and is readily washed
away. Thus, the present form of the pinnacles is chiefly due to the
direct action of rain, but their production was assisted, in the first
instance, by the action of running water.






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