THE GREAT WHITE MOUNTAIN.

We are in Switzerland now; in the "land of the mountain and the flood"--

the land also of perennial ice and snow. The solemn presence of the

Great White Mountain is beginning to be felt. Its pure summit was first

seen from Geneva; its shadow is now beginning to steal over us.

We are on the road to Chamouni, not yet over the frontier, in a carriage

and four. Mrs Stoutley, being a lady of unbounded wealth, always

travels post in a carriage and four when she can manage to do so, having

an unconquerable antipathy to railroads and steamers. She could not

well travel in any other fashion here, railways not having yet

penetrated the mountain regions in this direction, and a mode of

ascending roaring mountain torrents in steamboats not having yet been

discovered. She might, however, travel with two horses, but she prefers

four. Captain Wopper, who sits opposite Emma Gray, wonders in a quiet

speculative way whether "the Mines" will produce a dividend sufficient

to pay the expenses of this journey. He is quite disinterested in the

thought, it being understood that the Captain pays his own expenses.

But we wander from our text, which is--the Great White Mountain. We are

driving now under its shadow with Mrs Stoutley's party, which, in

addition to the Captain and Miss Gray, already mentioned, includes young

Dr George Lawrence and Lewis, who are on horseback; also Mrs

Stoutley's maid (Mrs Stoutley never travels without a maid), Susan

Quick, who sits beside the Captain; and Gillie White, _alias_ the Spider

and the Imp, who sits beside the driver, making earnest but futile

efforts to draw him into a conversation in English, of which language

the driver knows next to nothing.

But to return: Mrs Stoutley and party are now in the very heart of

scenery the most magnificent; they have penetrated to a great

fountain-head of European waters; they are surrounded by the cliffs, the

gorges, the moraines, and are not far from the snow-slopes and

ice-fields, the couloirs, the seracs, the crevasses, and the

ice-precipices and pinnacles of a great glacial world; but not one of

the party betrays the smallest amount of interest, or expresses the

faintest emotion of surprise, owing to the melancholy fact that all is

shrouded in an impenetrable veil of mist through which a thick fine rain

percolates as if the mountain monarch himself were bewailing their

misfortunes.

"Isn't it provoking?" murmured Mrs Stoutley drawing her shawl closer.

"Very," replied Emma.

"Disgusting!" exclaimed Lewis, who rode at the side of the carriage next

his cousin.

"It might be worse," said Lawrence, with a grim smile.

"Impossible," retorted Lewis.

"Come, Captain, have you no remark to make by way of inspiring a little

hope?" asked Mrs Stoutley.

"Why, never havin' cruised in this region before," answered the Captain,

"my remarks can't be of much value. Hows'ever, there _is_ one idea that

may be said to afford consolation, namely, that this sort o' thing can't

last. I've sailed pretty nigh in all parts of the globe, an' I've

invariably found that bad weather has its limits--that after rain we may

look for sunshine, and after storm, calm."

"How cheering!" said Lewis, as the rain trickled from the point of his

prominent nose.

At that moment Gillie White, happening to cast his eyes upward, beheld a

vision which drew from him an exclamation of wild surprise.

They all looked quickly in the same direction, and there, through a rent

in the watery veil, they beheld a little spot of blue sky, rising into

which was a mountain-top so pure, so faint so high and inexpressibly far

off, yet so brilliant in a glow of sunshine, that it seemed as if heaven

had been opened, and one of the hills of Paradise revealed. It was the

first near view that the travellers had obtained of these mountains of

everlasting ice. With the exception of the exclamations "Wonderful!"

"Most glorious!" they found no words for a time to express their

feelings, and seemed glad to escape the necessity of doing so by

listening to the remarks of their driver, as he went into an elaborate

explanation of the name and locality of the particular part of Mont

Blanc that had been thus disclosed.

The rent in the mist closed almost as quickly as it had opened, utterly

concealing the beautiful vision; but the impression it had made, being a

first and a very deep one, could never more be removed. The travellers

lived now in the faith of what they had seen. Scepticism was no longer

possible, and in this improved frame of mind they dashed into the

village of Chamouni--one of the haunts of those whose war-cry is

"Excelsior!"--and drove to the best hotel.

Their arrival in the village was an unexpected point of interest to many

would-be mountaineers, who lounged about the place with macintoshes and

umbrellas, growling at the weather. Any event out of the common forms a

subject of interest to men who wait and have nothing to do. As the

party passed them, growlers gazed and speculated as to who the

new-comers might be. Some thought Miss Gray pretty; some thought

otherwise--to agree on any point on such a day being, of course,

impossible. Others "guessed" that the young fellows must be uncommonly

fond of riding to "get on the outside of a horse" in such weather; some

remarked that the "elderly female" seemed "used up," or "_blasee_," and

all agreed--yes, they _did_ agree on this point--that the thing in blue

tights and buttons beside the driver was the most impudent-looking

monkey the world had ever produced!

The natives of the place also had their opinions, and expressed them to

each other; especially the bronzed, stalwart sedate-looking men who hung

about in knots near the centre of the village, and seemed to estimate

the probability of the stout young Englishmen on horseback being likely

to require their services often--for these, said the driver, were the

celebrated guides of Chamouni; men of bone and muscle, and endurance and

courage; the leaders of those daring spirits who consider--and justly

so--the ascent to the summit of Mont Blanc, or Monte Rosa, or the

Matterhorn, a feat; the men who perform this feat it may be, two or

three times a week--as often as you choose to call them to it, in fact--

and think nothing of it; the men whose profession it is to risk their

lives every summer from day to day for a few francs; who have become so

inured to danger that they have grown quite familiar with it, insomuch

that some of the reckless blades among them treat it now and then with

contempt, and pay the penalty of such conduct with their lives.

Sinking into a couch in her private sitting-room, Mrs Stoutley resigned

herself to Susan's care, and, while she was having her boots taken off,

said with a sigh:--

"Well, here we are at last. What do you think of Chamouni, Susan?"

"Rather a wet place, ma'am; ain't it?"

With a languid smile, Mrs Stoutley admitted that it was, but added, by

way of encouragement that it was not always so. To which Susan replied

that she was glad to hear it, so she was, as nothink depressed her

spirits so much as wet and clouds, and gloom.

Susan was a pretty girl of sixteen, tall, as well as very sedate and

womanly, for her age. Having been born in one of the midland counties,

of poor, though remarkably honest, parents, who had received no

education themselves, and therefore held it to be quite unnecessary to

bestow anything so useless on their daughter, she was, until very

recently, as ignorant of all beyond the circle of her father's homestead

as the daughter of the man in the moon--supposing no compulsory

education-act to be in operation in the orb of night. Having passed

through them, she now knew of the existence of France and Switzerland,

but she was quite in the dark as to the position of these two countries

with respect to the rest of the world, and would probably have regarded

them as one and the same if their boundary-line had not been somewhat

deeply impressed upon her by the ungallant manner in which the Customs

officials examined the contents of her modest little portmanteau in

search, as Gillie gave her to understand, of tobacco.

Mrs Stoutley had particularly small feet, a circumstance which might

have induced her, more than other ladies, to wear easy boots; but owing

to some unaccountable perversity of mental constitution, she deemed this

a good reason for having her boots made unusually tight. The removal of

these, therefore, afforded great relief, and the administration of a cup

of tea produced a cheering reaction of spirits, under the influence of

which she partially forgot herself, and resolved to devote a few minutes

to the instruction of her interestingly ignorant maid.

"Yes," she said, arranging herself comfortably, and sipping her tea,

while Susan busied herself putting away her lady's "things," and

otherwise tidying the room, "it does not always rain here; there is a

little sunshine sometimes. By the way, where is Miss Gray?"

"In the bedroom, ma'am, unpacking the trunks."

"Ah, well, as I was saying, they have a little sunshine sometimes, for

you know, Susan, people _must_ live, and grass or grain cannot grow

without sunshine, so it has been arranged that there should be enough

here for these purposes, but no more than enough, because Switzerland

has to maintain its character as one of the great refrigerators of

Europe."

"One of the what, ma'am?"

"Refrigerators," explained Mrs Stoutley; "a refrigerator, Susan, is a

freezer; and it is the special mission of Switzerland to freeze nearly

all the water that falls on its mountains, and retain it there in the

form of ice and snow until it is wanted for the use of man. Isn't that

a grand idea?"

The lecturer's explanation had conveyed to Susan's mind the idea of the

Switzers going with long strings of carts to the top of Mont Blanc for

supplies of ice to meet the European demand, and she admitted that it

_was_ a grand idea, and asked if the ice and snow lasted long into the

summer.

"Long into it!" exclaimed her teacher. "Why, you foolish thing, its

lasts all through it."

"Oh indeed, ma'am!" said Susan, who entertained strong doubts in her

heart as to the correctness of Mrs Stoutley's information on this

point.

"Yes," continued that lady, with more animation than she had experienced

for many months past, so invigorating was the change of moral atmosphere

induced by this little breeze of instruction; "yes, the ice and snow

cover the hills and higher valleys for dozens and dozens of miles round

here in all directions, not a few inches deep, such as we sometimes see

in England, but with thousands and millions of tons of it, so that the

ice in the valleys is hundreds of feet thick, and never melts away

altogether, but remains there from year to year--has been there, I

suppose, since the world began, and will continue, I fancy, until the

world comes to an end."

Mrs Stoutley warmed up here, to such an extent that she absolutely

flushed, and Susan, who had heretofore regarded her mistress merely as a

weakish woman, now set her down, mentally, as a barefaced story-teller.

"Surely, ma'am," she said, with diffidence, "ice and snow like that

doesn't fill _all_ the valleys, else we should see it, and find it

difficult to travel through 'em; shouldn't we, ma'am?"

"Silly girl!" exclaimed her preceptress, "I did not say it filled _all_

the valleys, but the _higher_ valleys--valleys such as, in England and

Scotland, would be clothed with pasturage and waving grain, and dotted

with cattle and sheep and smiling cottages."

Mrs Stoutley had by this time risen to a heroic frame, and spoke

poetically, which accounts for her ascribing risible powers to cottages.

"And thus you see, Susan," she continued, "Switzerland is, as it were, a

great ice-tank, or a series of ice-tanks, in which the ice of ages is

accumulated and saved up, so that the melting of a little of it--the

mere dribbling of it, so to speak--is sufficient to cause the continuous

flow of innumerable streams and of great rivers, such as the Rhone, and

the Rhine, and the Var."

The lecture received unexpected and appropriate illustration here by the

sudden lifting of the mists, which had hitherto blotted out the

landscape.

"Oh, aunt!" exclaimed Emma, running in at the moment, "just look at the

hills. How exquisite! How much grander than if we had seen them quite

clear from the first!"

Emma was strictly correct, for it is well known that the grandeur of

Alpine scenery is greatly enhanced by the wild and weird movements of

the gauze-like drapery with which it is almost always partially

enshrouded.

As the trio stood gazing in silent wonder and admiration from their

window, which, they had been informed, commanded a view of the summit of

Mont Blanc, the mist had risen like a curtain partially rolled up. All

above the curtain-foot presented the dismal grey, to which they had been

too long accustomed, but below, and, as it were, far behind this

curtain, the mountain-world was seen rising upwards.

So close were they to the foot of the Great White Monarch, that it

seemed to tower like a giant-wall before them; but this wall was varied

and beautiful as well as grand. Already the curtain had risen high

enough to disclose hoary cliffs and precipices, with steep grassy slopes

between, and crowned with fringes of dark pines; which latter, although

goodly trees, looked like mere shrubs in their vast setting. Rills were

seen running like snowy veins among the slopes, and losing themselves in

the masses of _debris_ at the mountain-foot. As they gazed, the curtain

rose higher, disclosing new and more rugged features, on which shone a

strange, unearthly light--the result of shadow from the mist and

sunshine behind it--while a gleam of stronger light tipped the curtain's

under-edge in one direction. Still higher it rose! Susan exclaimed

that the mountain was rising into heaven; and Emma and Mrs Stoutley,

whose reading had evidently failed to impress them with a just

conception of mountain-scenery, stood with clasped hands in silent

expectancy and admiration. The gleam of stronger light above referred

to, widened, and Susan almost shrieked with ecstasy when the curtain

seemed to rend, and the gleam resolved itself into the great Glacier des

Bossons, which, rolling over the mountain-brow like a very world of ice,

thrust its mighty tongue down into the valley.

From that moment Susan's disbelief in her lady's knowledge changed into

faith, and deepened into profound veneration.

It was, however, only a slight glimpse that had been thus afforded of

the ice-world by which they were surrounded. The great ice-fountain of

those regions, commencing at the summit of Mont Blanc, flings its ample

waves over mountain and vale in all directions, forming a throne on

which perpetual winter reigns, and this glacier des Bossons, which

filled the breasts of our travellers with such feelings of awe, was but

one of the numerous rivers which flow from the fountain down the gorges

and higher valleys of the Alps, until they reach those regions where

summer heat asserts itself, and checks their further progress in the

form of ice by melting them.

"Is it possible," said Emma, as she gazed at the rugged and riven mass

of solid ice before her, "that a glacier really _flows_?"

"So learned men tell us, and so we must believe," said Mrs Stoutley.

"Flows, ma'am?" exclaimed Susan, in surprise.

"Yes, so it is said," replied Mrs Stoutley, with a smile.

"But we can see, ma'am, by lookin' at it, that it _don't_ flow; can't

we, ma'am?" said Susan.

"True, Susan, it does not seem to move; nevertheless scientific men tell

us that it does, and sometimes we are bound to believe against the

evidence of our senses."

Susan looked steadily at the glacier for some time; and then, although

she modestly held her tongue, scientific men fell considerably in her

esteem.

While the ladies were thus discussing the glacier and enlightening their

maid, Lewis, Lawrence, and the Captain, taking advantage of the improved

state of the weather, had gone out for a stroll, partly with a view, as

Lewis said, to freshen up their appetites for dinner--although, to say

truth, the appetites of all three were of such a nature as to require no

freshening up. They walked smartly along the road which leads up the

valley, pausing, ever and anon, to look back in admiration at the

wonderful glimpses of scenery disclosed by the lifting mists. Gradually

these cleared away altogether, and the mountain summits stood out well

defined against the clear sky. And then, for the first time, came a

feeling of disappointment.

"Why, Lawrence," said Lewis, "didn't they tell us that we could see the

top of Mont Blanc from Chamouni?"

"They certainly did," replied Lawrence, "but I can't see it."

"There are two or three splendid-looking peaks," said Lewis, pointing up

the valley, "but surely that's not the direction of the top we look

for."

"No, my lad, it ain't the right point o' the compass by a long way,"

said the Captain; "but yonder goes a strange sail a-head, let's overhaul

her."

"Heave a-head then, Captain," said Lewis, "and clap on stun's'ls and

sky-scrapers, for the strange sail is making for that cottage on the

hill, and will get into port before we overhaul her if we don't look

sharp."

The "strange sail" was a woman. She soon turned into the cottage

referred to, but our travellers followed her up, arranging, as they drew

near, that Lawrence, being the best French scholar of the three (the

Captain knowing nothing whatever of the language), should address her.

She turned out to be a very comely young woman, the wife, as she

explained, of one of the Chamouni guides, named Antoine Grennon. Her

daughter, a pretty blue-eyed girl of six or so, was busy arranging a

casket of flowers, and the grandmother of the family was engaged in that

mysterious mallet-stone-scrubbing-brush-and-cold-water system, whereby

the washerwomen of the Alps convert the linen of tourists into shreds

and patches in the shortest possible space of time.

After some complimentary remarks, Lawrence asked if it were possible to

see the summit of Mont Blanc from where they stood.

Certainly it was; the guide's pretty wife could point it out and

attempted to do so, but was for a long time unsuccessful, owing to the

interference of preconceived notions--each of our travellers having set

his heart upon beholding a majestic peak of rugged rock, mingled,

perhaps, with ice-blocks and snow.

"Most extraordinary," exclaimed the puzzled Captain, "I've squinted

often enough at well-known peaks when on the look-out for landmarks from

the sea, an' never failed to make 'em out. Let me see," he added,

getting behind the woman so as to look straight along her outstretched

arm, "no, _I_ can't see it. My eyes must be giving way."

"Surely," said Lawrence, "you don't mean that little piece of smooth

snow rising just behind the crest of yonder mountain like a bit of

rounded sugar?"

"Oui, monsieur"--that was precisely what she meant; _that_ was the

summit of Mont Blanc.

And so, our three travellers--like many hundreds of travellers who had

gone before them, and like many, doubtless, who shall follow--were

grievously disappointed with their first view of Mont Blanc! They

lived, however to change their minds, to discover that the village of

Chamouni lies too close to the toe of the Great White Mountain to permit

of his being seen to advantage. One may truly see a small scrap of the

veritable top from Chamouni, but one cannot obtain an idea of what it is

that he sees. As well might a beetle walk close up to the heel of a

man, and attempt from that position to form a correct estimate of his

size; as well might one plant himself two inches distant from a large

painting and expect to do it justice! No, in order to understand Mont

Blanc, to "realise" it, to appreciate it adequately, it requires that we

should stand well back, and get up on one of the surrounding heights,

and make the discovery that as _we_ rise _he_ rises, and looks vaster

and more tremendous the further off we go and the higher up we rise,

until, with foot planted on the crest of one of the neighbouring giants,

we still look up, as well as down, and learn--with a feeling of deeper

reverence, it may be, for the Maker of the "everlasting hills"--that the

grand monarch with the hoary head does in reality tower supreme above

them all.