V.

From a little book called ‘Mountaineering in 1861,’ published nine

years ago, but long since out of print, I will now make a few

selections. The mountain work of that year embraced the ascent of the

Weisshorn, and the passage of the barrier between the Cima di Jazzi and

Monte Rosa by an untried and dangerous route. Both these expeditions

are described. But, besides these narratives of outward action, I

notice in the book a subjective element, consisting of the musings

and reflections to which I often abandon myself when sauntering over

easy ground, and without which even Switzerland would sometimes be

monotonous to me. It is only from the reader accustomed to similar

reflective moods that I expect acceptance, or even tolerance, of these

musings: the man of action will pass them impatiently by. I begin with

_A LETTER FROM BÂLE._

‘I reached Bâle last night, and now sit on the balcony of the “Three

Kings” with the Rhine flashing below me. It is silent here, but higher

up, in passing the props of a bridge, it breaks into foam; its

compressed air-bubbles burst like elastic springs, and shake the air

into sonorous vibrations.[6] Thus the rude mechanical motion of the

river is converted into music. The hammer of the boat-builder rings

on his plank, the leaves of the poplars rustle in the breeze, the

watchdog’s honest bark is heard in the distance; while from the windows

of the houses along the banks gleam a series of reflected suns, each

surrounded by a coloured glory.

[6] See note at the end of this chapter.

‘Yesterday I travelled from Paris, and the day previous from London,

when the trail of a spent storm swept across the sea and kept its

anger awake. The stern of our boat went up and down, the distant craft

were equally pendulous, and the usual results followed. Men’s faces

waxed green, roses faded from ladies’ cheeks; while puzzled children

yelled intermittently in the grasp of the demon which had newly taken

possession of them. One rare pale maiden sat right in the line of the

spray, and bore the violence of the ocean with the resignation of an

angel. A white arm could be seen shining through translucent muslin,

but even against it the brine beat as if it were a mere seaweed. I sat

at rest, hovering fearfully on the verge of that doleful region, whose

bourne most of those on board had already passed, thinking how directly

materialistic is the tendency of sea-sickness, through its remorseless

demonstration of the helplessness of the human soul and will.

‘The morning of the 1st of August found me on my way from Paris

to Bâle. The sun was strong, and, in addition to this source of

temperature, eight human beings, each burning the slow fire which

we call life, were cooped within the limits of our compartment. We

slept, first singly, then by groups, and finally as a whole. Vainly

we endeavoured to ward off the coming lethargy. Thought gradually

slips away from its object, or the object glides out of the nerveless

grasp of thought, and we are conquered by the heat. But what _is_

heat, that it should work such changes in moral and intellectual

nature? Why are we unable to read “Mill’s Logic” or study the “Kritik

der reinen Vernunft” with any profit in a Turkish bath? Heat,

defined without reference to our sensations, is a kind of motion,

as strictly mechanical as the waves of the sea, or as the aërial

vibrations which produce sound. The communication of this motion to

the molecules of the brain produces the moral and intellectual effects

just referred to. Human action is only possible within a narrow zone

of temperature. Transgress the limit on one side, and we are torpid

by excess; transgress it on the other, and we are torpid by defect.

The intellect is in some sense a function of temperature. Thus at

noon we were drained of intellectual energy; eight hours later the

mind was awake and active, and through her operations was shed that

feeling of earnestness and awe which the mystery of the starry heavens

ever inspires. Physically considered, however, the intellect of noon

differed from that of 8 P.M. simply in the amount of motion possessed

by the molecules of the brain.

‘It is not levity which prompts me to write thus. Matter, in relation

to vital phenomena, has yet to be studied, and the command of Canute to

the waves would be wisdom itself compared with any attempt to stop such

enquiries. Let the tide rise, and let knowledge advance; the limits

of the one are not more rigidly fixed than those of the other; and no

worse infidelity could seize upon the mind than the belief that a man’s

earnest search after truth should culminate in his perdition.’

The sun was high in heaven as we rolled away from Bâle on the morning

of the 2nd. Sooner or later every intellectual canker disappears before

earnest work, the influence of which, moreover, fills a wide margin

beyond the time of its actual performance. Thus, to-day, I sang as I

rolled along--not with boisterous glee, but with serene and deep-lying

gladness of heart. This happiness, however, had its roots in the past,

and had I not been a worker previous to my release from London, I

could not now have been so glad an idler. In any other country than

Switzerland the valley through which we sped would have called forth

admiration and delight. Noble fells, proudly grouped, flanked us right

and left. Cloud-like woods of pines overspread them in broad patches,

with between them spaces of the tenderest green, while among the

meadows at their feet gleamed the rushing Rhine.

The zenith was blue, but the thick stratum of horizontal air invested

the snowy peaks with a veil of translucent haze, through which their

vast and spectral outlines were clearly seen. As we rolled on towards

Thun the haze thickened, while dense and rounded clouds burst upwards,

as if let loose from a prison behind the mountains. Soon afterwards the

black haze and blacker clouds resolved themselves into a thunderstorm.

The air was cut repeatedly by zigzag bars of solid light. Then came the

cannonade, and then the heavy rain-pellets rattling with fury against

the carriages. It afterwards cleared, but not wholly. Stormy cumuli

swept round the mountains, between which, however, the illuminated

ridges seemed to swim in the opalescent air.

At Thun I found my faithful and favourite guide, Johann Bennen, of

Laax, in the valley of the Rhone, the strongest limb and stoutest heart

of my acquaintance in the Alps. We took the steamer to Interlaken,

and while we were on the lake the heavens again darkened, and the deck

was flooded by the gushing rain. The dusky cloud-curtain was rent at

intervals, and through the apertures thus formed parallel bars of

extraordinary radiance escaped across the lake. On reaching Interlaken

I drove to the steamer on the lake of Brientz. We started at 6 P.M.,

with a purified atmosphere, and passed through scenes of serene beauty

in the tranquil evening light. The bridge of Brientz had been carried

away by the floods, the mail was intercepted, and I joined a young

Oxford man in a vehicle to Meyringen. The west wind again filled the

atmosphere with gloom, and after supper I spent an hour watching the

lightning thrilling behind the clouds. The darkness was intense, and

the intermittent glare correspondingly impressive. Sometimes the

lightning seemed to burst, like a fireball, midway between the horizon

and the zenith, spreading a vast glory behind the clouds and revealing

all their outlines. In front of me was a craggy summit, which indulged

in intermittent shots of thunder; sharp, dry, and sudden, with scarcely

an echo to soften them off.