The Matterhorn is peculiar. I do not know of another mountain like it
on the earth. There are such splintered and precipitous spires on the
moon. How it came to be such I treated of fully in _Sights and
Insights_. It is approximately a three-sided mountain, fourteen
thousand seven hundred and eighteen feet high, whose sides are so steep
as to be unassailable. Approach can be made only along the angle at
the junction of the planes.
[Illustration: The Matterhorn.]
It was long supposed to be inaccessible. Assault after assault was
made on it by the best and most ambitious Alp climbers, but it kept its
virgin height untrodden. However, in 1864, seven men, almost
unexpectedly, achieved the victory; but in descending four of them were
precipitated, down an almost perpendicular declivity, four thousand
feet. They had achieved the summit after hundreds of others had
failed. They had reveled in the upper glories, deposited proof of
their visit, and started to return. According to law, they were roped
together. According to custom, in a difficult place all remain still,
holding the rope, except one who carefully moves on. Croz, the first
guide, was reaching up to take the feet of Mr. Haddow and help him down
to where he stood. Suddenly Haddow's strength failed, or he slipped
and struck Croz on the shoulders, knocking him off his narrow footing.
They two immediately jerked off Rev. Mr. Hudson. The three falling
jerked off Lord Francis Douglas. Four were loose and falling; only
three left on the rocks. Just then the rope somehow parted, and all
four dropped that great fraction of a mile. The mountain climber makes
a sad pilgrimage to the graves of three of them in Zermatt; the fourth
probably fell in a crevasse of the glacier at the foot, and may be
brought to the sight of friends in perhaps two score years, when the
river of ice shall have moved down into the valleys where the sun has
power to melt away the ice. This accident gave the mountain a
reputation for danger to which an occasional death on it since has
added.
Each of these later unfortunate occurrences is attributable to personal
perversity or deficiency. Peril depends more on the man than on
circumstances. One is in danger on a wall twenty feet high, another
safe on a precipice of a thousand feet. No man has a right to peril
his life in mere mountain climbing; that great sacrifice must be
reserved for saving others, or for establishing moral principle.
The morning after coming from Monte Rosa myself and son left Zermatt at
half past seven for the top of the Matterhorn, twelve hours distant,
under the guidance of Peter Knubel, his brother, and Peter Truffer,
three of the best guides for this work in the country. In an hour the
dwellings of the mountain-loving people are left behind, the tree limit
is passed soon after, the grass cheers us for three hours, when we
enter on the wide desolation of the moraines. Here is a little chapel.
I entered it as reverently and prayed as earnestly for God's will, not
mine, to be done as I ever did in my life, and I am confident that amid
the unutterable grandeur that succeeded I felt his presence and help as
fully as at any other time.
At ten minutes of two we were roped together and feeling our way
carefully in the cut steps on a glacier so steep that, standing erect,
one could put his hand upon it. We were on this nearly an hour. Just
as we left it for the rocks a great noise above, and a little to the
south, attracted attention. A vast mass of stone had detached itself
from the overhanging cliff at the top, and falling on the steep slope
had broken into a hundred pieces. These went bounding down the side in
long leaps. Wherever one struck a cloud of powdered stone leaped into
the air, till the whole mountain side smoked and thundered with the
grand cannonade. The omen augured to me that the mountain was going to
do its best for our reception and entertainment. Fortunately these
rock avalanches occur on the steep, unapproachable sides, and not at
the angle where men climb.
How the mountain grew upon us as we clung to its sides! When the great
objects below had changed to littleness the heights above seemed
greater than ever. At half past four we came to a perpendicular height
of twenty feet, with a slight slope above. Down this precipice hung a
rope; there was also an occasional projection of an inch or two of
stone for the mailed foot. At the top, on a little shelf, under
hundreds of feet of overhanging rock, some stones had been built round
and over a little space for passing the night. The rude cabin occupied
all the width of the shelf, so that passing to its other end there was
not room to walk without holding on by one's hands in the crevices of
the wall. We were now at home; had taken nine hours to do what could
be done in eight. What an eyrie in which to sleep! Below us was a
sheer descent, of a thousand or two feet, to the glacier. Above us
towered the crest of the mountain, seemingly higher than ever. The
sharp shadow of the lofty pyramid lengthened toward Monte Rosa. Italy
lifted up its mountains tipped with sunshine to cheer us. The Obernese
Alps, beyond the Rhone, answered with numerous torches to light us to
our sleep. According to prearrangement, at eight o'clock we kindled a
light on our crag to tell our friends in Zermatt that we had
accomplished the first stage of our journey. They answered instantly
with a cheery blaze, and we lay down to sleep.
When four of us lay together I was so crowded against the wall that I
thought if it should give way I could fall two thousand feet out of bed
without possibility of stopping on the way. The ice was two feet thick
on the floor, and by reason of the scarcity of bedding I was reminded
of the damp, chilly sheets of some unaired guest-chambers. I do not
think I slept a moment, but I passed the night in a most happy,
thoughtful, and exultant frame of mind.
At half past three in the morning we were roped together--fifteen feet
of rope between each two men--for the final three or four hours' work.
It is everywhere steep; it is every minute hands and feet on the rocks;
sometimes you cling with fingers, elbows, knees, and feet, and are
tempted to add the nose and chin. Where it is least steep the guide's
heels are right in your face; when it is precipitous you only see a
line of rope before you. We make the final pause an hour before the
top. Here every weight and the fear that so easily besets one must be
laid aside. No part of the way has seemed so difficult; not even that
just past--when we rounded a shoulder on the ice for sixty feet,
sometimes not over twenty inches wide, on the verge of a precipice four
thousand feet high. To this day I can see the wrinkled form of that
far-down glacier below, though I took care not to make more than one
glance at it.
The rocks become smoother and steeper, if possible. A chain or rope
trails from above in four places. You have good hope that it is well
secured, and wish you were lighter, as you go up hand over hand. Then
a beautiful slope for hands, knees, and feet for half an hour, and the
top is reached at half past six.
The view is sublime. Moses on Pisgah could have had no such vision.
He had knowledge added of the future grandeur of his people, but such a
revelation as this tells so clearly what God can do for his people
hereafter that that element of Moses's enjoyment can be perceived, if
not fully appreciated. All the well-known mountains stand up like
friends to cheer us. Mont Blanc has the smile of the morning sun to
greet us withal. Monte Rosa chides us for not partaking of her
prepared visions. The kingdoms of the world--France, Switzerland,
Italy--are at our feet. One hundred and twenty snow-peaks flame like
huge altar piles in the morning sun. The exhilarant air gives ecstasy
to body, the new visions intensity of feeling to soul. The Old World
has sunk out of sight. This is Mount Zion, the city of God. New
Jerusalem has come down out of heaven adorned as a bride for her
husband. The pavements are like glass mingled with fire. The gates of
the morning are pearl. The walls, near or far according to your
thought, are like jasper and sapphire. The glory of God and of the
Lamb lightens it.
But we must descend, though it is good to be here. It is even more
difficult and tedious than the ascent. _Non facilis descensus_. With
your face to the mountain you have only the present surface and the
effort for that instant. But when you turn your back on the mountain
the imminent danger appears. It is not merely ahead, but the sides are
much more dangerous. On the way down we had more cannonades. In six
hours we were off the cliffs, and by half past three we had let
ourselves down, inch by inch, to Zermatt, a distance of nine thousand
four hundred feet.
Looking up to the Matterhorn this next morning after the climb, I feel
for it a personal affection. It has put more pictures of grandeur into
my being than ever entered in such a way before. It is grand enough to
bear acquaintance. People who view it from a distance must be
strangers. It has been, and ever will be, a great example and lofty
monument of my Father's power. He taketh up the isles as a very little
thing; he toucheth the mountains and they smoke. The strength of the
hills is his also; and he has made all things for his children, and
waits to do greater things than these.