_THE WEISSHORN._
On Friday the 16th of August I rose at 4.30; the eastern heaven was hot
with the glow of the rising sun, and against it were drawn the mountain
outlines. At 5.30 I bade good-bye to the excellent little auberge of
the Bel Alp,[9] and went straight down the mountain to Briegg, took the
diligence to Visp, and engaged a porter immediately to Randa. I had
sent Bennen thither to inspect the Weisshorn. On my arrival I learned
that he had made the necessary reconnaissance, and entertained hopes of
our being able to gain the top.
[9] Now a substantial hotel which merits encouragement.
[Illustration: THE WEISSHORN FROM THE RIFFEL.]
This noble mountain, which is fourteen thousand eight hundred feet
high, had been tried on various occasions and from different sides
by brave and competent climbers, but all efforts had been hitherto
unavailing.
Previous to quitting Randa to assail this formidable peak I had two
pairs of rugs sewed together so as to form two sacks. These and other
coverlets, together with our wine and provisions, were sent on in
advance of us. At 1 P.M. on the 18th of August Bennen, Wenger, and
myself quitted the hotel, and were soon zigzagging among the pines of
the opposite mountain. Wenger had been the guide of my friend Forster,
and had shown himself so active and handy on the Strahleck that I
commissioned Bennen to engage him. During the previous night I had been
very unwell, and as I climbed the slope I suffered from intense thirst.
Water seemed powerless to quench the desire for drink. We reached a
chalet, and at our request a smart young Senner caught up a pail, and
soon returned with it full of delicious milk. The effect of the milk
was astonishing. It seemed to lubricate every atom of my body, and to
exhilarate with its fragrance my brain.
Two hours’ additional climbing brought us to our bivouac, a ledge of
rock which jutted from the mountain-side, and formed an overhanging
roof. On removing the stones from beneath the ledge, a space of
comparatively dry clay was laid bare. This was to be my bed, and to
soften it Wenger considerately stirred it up with his axe. The position
was excellent, for lying upon my left side I commanded the whole range
of Monte Rosa, from the Mischabel to the Breithorn. We were on the edge
of an amphitheatre. Beyond the Schallenbach was the stately Mettelhorn.
A row of eminences swept round to the right linked by lofty ridges of
cliffs, which embraced the Schallenberg glacier. They formed, however,
only a spur of the vaster Weisshorn, the cone of which was not visible
from our dormitory. In company with Bennen I afterwards skirted the
mountain until the whole colossal pyramid stood facing us. When I first
looked at it my hopes sank, but both of us gathered confidence from a
more lengthened gaze. The mountain is a pyramid with three faces, the
intersections of which form three sharp edges or _arêtes_. The end
of the eastern ridge was nearest to us, and on it our attention was
principally fixed. We finally decided on the route to be pursued next
morning, and with a chastened hope in both our breasts we returned to
our shelter.
Water was our first necessity: it seemed everywhere, but there was none
to drink. It was locked to solidity in the ice and snow. The sound of
it came booming up from the Vispbach, as it broke into foam or rolled
its boulders over its waterworn bed; and the swish of many a minor
streamlet mingled with the muffled roar of the large one. Bennen set
out in search of the precious liquid, and after a long absence returned
with a jug and pan full. At our meal, Wenger, who is a man rich in
small expedients, turned the section of a cheese towards the flame of
our pine fire; it fizzed and blistered and turned viscous, and, the
toasted surface being removed, was consumed with relish by us all.
The sunset had been unspeakably grand, steeping the zenith in violet,
and flooding the base of the heavens with crimson light. Immediately
opposite to us rose the Mischabel, with its two great peaks, the
Grubenhorn and the Täschhorn, each barely under 15,000 feet in height.
Next came the Alphubel, with its flattened crown of snow; then the
Allaleinhorn and Rympfischhorn; then the Cima di Jazzi; next the mass
of Monte Rosa, flooded with light from bottom to top. The face of the
Lyskamm turned towards us was for the most part shaded, but here and
there its projecting portions jutted forth red hot as the light fell
upon them. The ‘Twins’ were most singularly illuminated; across the
waist of each of them was drawn a black bar, produced by the shadow of
a corner of the Breithorn, while their bases and crowns were exposed
to the crimson light. Over the rugged face of the Breithorn itself the
light fell as if in splashes, igniting its glaciers and swathing its
black crags in a layer of transparent red. The Mettelhorn was cold, so
was the entire range governed by the Weisshorn, while the glaciers they
embraced lay grey and ghastly in the twilight shade.
The sunlight lingered, while up the arch of the opposite heavens the
moon, within one day of being full, seemed hastening to our aid. She
finally appeared exactly behind the peak of the Rympfischhorn, the
cone of the mountain being projected for a short time as a triangle on
the lunar disc. Only for a short time, however; the silver sphere soon
cleared the mountain, and bore away through the tinted sky. The motion
was quite visible, and resembled that of a vast balloon. As the day
approached its end the scene assumed the most sublime aspect. All the
lower portions of the mountains were deeply shaded, while the loftiest
peaks, ranged upon a semicircle, were fully exposed to the sinking sun.
They seemed pyramids of solid fire, while here and there long stretches
of crimson light drawn over the higher snow-fields linked the summits
together. An intensely illuminated geranium flower seems to swim in its
own colour, which apparently surrounds the petals like a layer, and
defeats by its lustre any attempt of the eye to seize upon the sharp
outline of the leaves. A similar effect was here observed upon the
mountains; the glory did not seem to come from them alone, but seemed
also effluent from the air around them. As the evening advanced, the
eastern heavens low down assumed a deep purple hue, above which, and
blending with it by infinitesimal gradations, was a belt of red, and
over this again zones of orange and violet. I walked round the corner
of the mountain at sunset, and found the western sky glowing with a
more transparent crimson than that which overspread the east. The crown
of the Weisshorn was imbedded in this magnificent light. After sunset
the purple of the east changed to a deep neutral tint, and against the
faded red which spread above it the sun-forsaken mountains laid their
cold and ghastly heads. The ruddy colour vanished more and more; the
stars strengthened in lustre, until finally the moon and they held
undisputed possession of the sky.
My face was turned towards the moon until it became so chilled that
I was forced to protect it by a light handkerchief. The power of
blinding the eyes is ascribed to the moonbeams, but the real mischief
is that produced by radiation from the eyes into clear space, and the
inflammation consequent upon the chill. As the cold increased I was
fain to squeeze myself more and more underneath the ledge, so as to
lessen the space of sky against which my body could radiate. Nothing
could be more solemn than the night. Up from the valley came the low
thunder of the Vispbach. Over the Dom flashed in succession the stars
of Orion, until finally the entire constellation hung aloft. Higher up
in heaven was the moon, and her beams as they fell upon the snow-fields
and pyramids were sent back in silvery lustre by some, while others
remained a dead white. These, as the earth twirled round, came duly
in for their share of the glory. The Twins caught it at length and
retained it long, shining with a pure spiritual radiance, while the
moon continued above the hills.
At twelve o’clock I looked at my watch, and a second time at 2 A.M.
The moon was then just touching the crest of the Schallenberg, and we
were threatened with the withdrawal of her light. This soon occurred.
We rose at 2-1/4 A.M., consumed our coffee, and had to wait idly for
the dawn. A faint illumination at length overspread the sky, and with
this promise of the coming day we quitted our bivouac at 3-1/2 A.M. No
cloud was to be seen; as far as the weather was concerned we were sure
to have fair play. We rounded the shingly shoulder of the mountain to
the edge of a snow-field, but before entering upon it I disburthened
myself of my strong shooting jacket, leaving it on the mountain-side.
The sunbeams and my own exertion would, I knew, keep me only too warm
during the day. We crossed the snow, cut our way through a piece of
entangled glacier, reached the Bergschrund, and passed it without a
rope. We ascended the frozen snow of the couloir by steps, but soon
diverged from it to the rocks at our right, and mounted them to the end
of the eastern _arête_ of the mountain.
A snow saddle separated us from the higher rocks. With our staff-pikes
at one side of the saddle, we pass by steps cut upon the other. We
find the rocks hewn into fantastic turrets and obelisks, while the
loose chips of this sculpture are strewn confusedly upon the ridge.
Amid these we cautiously pick our way, winding round the towers or
scaling them amain. The work was heavy from the first, the bending,
twisting, reaching, and drawing up calling upon all the muscles of
the frame. After two hours of this work we halted, and, looking back,
saw two moving objects on the glacier below us. At first we took them
to be chamois, but they were men. The leader carried an axe, and his
companion a knapsack and an alpenstock. They followed our traces,
losing them apparently now and then, and waiting to recover them. Our
expedition had put Randa in a state of excitement, and some of its best
climbers had urged Bennen to take them with him. This he did not deem
necessary, and now here were two of them determined to try the thing
on their own account, and perhaps to dispute with us the honour of the
enterprise. On this point, however, our uneasiness was small.
Resuming our gymnastics, the rocky staircase led us to the flat summit
of a tower, where we found ourselves cut off from a similar tower by
a deep gap bitten into the mountain. The rope was here our refuge.
Bennen coiled it round his waist; we let him down along the surface
of the rock, until he fixed himself on a ledge, where he could lend
me a helping hand. I followed him, and Wenger followed me. By a kind
of screw motion we twisted ourselves round the opposite tower, and
reached the ridge behind it. Work of this kind, however, is not to
be performed by the day, and, with a view of sparing our strength, we
quitted the ridge and endeavoured to get along the southern slope of
the pyramid. The mountain was scarred by long couloirs, filled with
clear hard ice. The cutting of steps across these couloirs proved to
be so tedious and fatiguing that I urged Bennen to abandon them and
try the ridge once more. We regained it and worked along it as before.
Here and there upon the northern side the snow was folded over, and we
worked slowly upward along the cornice snow. The ridge became gradually
narrower, and the precipices on each side more sheer. We reached the
end of one of its subdivisions, and found ourselves separated from
the next rocks by a gap about twenty yards across. The ridge has here
narrowed to a mere wall, which, however, as rock, would present no
serious difficulty. But upon the wall of rock was placed a second wall
of snow, which dwindled to a pure knife-edge at the top. It was white,
of very fine grain, and a little moist. How to pass this snow catenary
I knew not, for I did not think a human foot could trust itself upon so
frail a support. Bennen’s practical sagacity, however, came into play.
He tried the snow by squeezing it with his foot, and to my astonishment
began to cross it. Even after the pressure of his feet the space he
had to stand on did not exceed a hand-breadth. I followed him, exactly
as a boy walking along a horizontal pole, with toes turned outwards.
Right and left the precipices were appalling. We reached the opposite
rock, and an earnest smile rippled over Bennen’s countenance as he
turned towards me. He knew that he had done a daring thing, though not
a presumptuous one. ’Had the snow,’ he said, ‘been less perfect, I
should not have thought of attempting it; but I knew after I had set my
foot upon the ridge that we might pass without fear.’
It is quite surprising what a number of things the simple observation
made by Faraday in 1846 enables us to explain. Bennen’s instinctive act
is justified by theory. The snow was fine in grain, pure, and moist.
When pressed, the attachments of its granules were innumerable, and
their perfect cleanness enabled them to freeze together with a maximum
energy. It was this freezing which gave the mass its sustaining power.
Two fragments of ordinary table ice brought carefully together freeze
and cement themselves at their place of junction; or if two pieces
floating in water be brought together, they instantly freeze, and by
laying hold of either of them gently you can drag the other after it
through the water. Imagine such points of attachment distributed in
great numbers through a mass of snow. The substance becomes thereby a
semi-solid instead of a mass of powder. My guide, however, unaided by
any theory, did a thing from which I should have shrunk, though backed
by all the theories in the world.
After this we found the rocks on the ridge so shaken that it required
the greatest caution to avoid bringing them down upon us. With all
our care, moreover, we sometimes dislodged vast masses, which leaped
upon the slope adjacent, loosened others by their shock, these again
others, until finally a whole flight of them would escape, setting the
mountain in a roar as they whizzed and thundered along its side to
the snow-fields 4,000 feet below us. The day was hot, the work hard,
and our bodies were drained of their liquids as by a Turkish bath. To
make good our loss we halted at intervals where the melted snow formed
liquid veins, and quenched our thirst. A bottle of champagne, poured
sparingly into our goblets over a little snow, furnished Wenger and
myself with many a refreshing draught. Bennen feared his eyes, and
would not touch champagne. We, however, did not find halting good; for
at every pause the muscles became set, and some minutes were necessary
to render them again elastic. But for both mind and body the discipline
was grand. There is scarcely a position possible to a human being
which, at one time or another during the day, I was not forced to
assume. The fingers, wrist, and forearm were my main reliance, and as
a mechanical instrument the human hand appeared to me this day to be a
miracle of constructive art.
For the most part the summit was hidden from us, but on reaching
the successive eminences it came frequently into view. After three
hours spent on the _arête_--about five hours, that is, subsequent to
starting--we saw the summit over another minor summit, which gave it
an illusive proximity. ‘You have now good hopes,’ I remarked, turning
to Bennen. ‘I do not allow myself to entertain the idea of failure,’
he replied. Well, six hours passed on the ridge, each of which put in
its inexorable claim to the due amount of mechanical work; and at the
end of this time we found ourselves apparently no nearer to the summit
than when Bennen’s hopes cropped out in confidence. I looked anxiously
at my guide as he fixed his weary eyes upon the distant peak. There was
no confidence in his expression; still I do not believe that either of
us entertained for a moment the thought of giving in. Wenger complained
of his lungs, and Bennen counselled him several times to remain behind;
but this the Oberland man refused to do. At the commencement of a day’s
work one often feels anxious, if not timid; but when the work is
very hard we become callous and sometimes stupefied by the incessant
knocking about. This was my case at present, and I kept watch lest my
indifference should become carelessness. I repeatedly supposed a case
where a sudden effort might be required of me, and felt all through
that I had a fair residue of strength to fall back upon should such a
call be made. This conclusion was sometimes tested by a spurt; flinging
myself suddenly from rock to rock, I proved my condition by experiment
instead of relying on surmise. An eminence in the ridge which cut off
the view of the summit was now the object of our exertions. We reached
it; but how hopelessly distant did the summit appear! Bennen laid his
face upon his axe for a moment; a kind of sickly despair was in his eye
as he turned to me, remarking, ‘Lieber Herr, die Spitze ist noch sehr
weit oben.’
Lest the desire to gratify me should urge him beyond the bounds of
prudence, I told my guide that he must not persist on my account; that
I should cheerfully return with him the moment he thought it no longer
safe to proceed. He replied that, though weary, he felt quite sure of
himself, and asked for some food. He had it, and a gulp of wine, which
mightily refreshed him. Looking at the mountain with a firmer eye, he
exclaimed, ‘Herr! wir müssen ihn haben,’ and his voice, as he spoke,
rung like steel within my heart. I thought of Englishmen in battle, of
the qualities which had made them famous: it was mainly the quality of
not knowing when to yield--of fighting for duty even after they had
ceased to be animated by hope. Such thoughts helped to lift me over
the rocks. Another eminence now fronted us, behind which, how far we
knew not, the summit lay. We scaled this height, and above us, but
clearly within reach, a silvery pyramid projected itself against the
blue sky. I was assured ten times over by my companions that it was the
highest point before I ventured to stake my faith upon the assertion.
I feared that it also might take rank with the illusions which had so
often beset our ascent, and I shrunk from the consequent moral shock.
A huge prism of granite, or granitic gneiss, terminated the _arête_,
and from it a knife-edge of pure white snow ran up to a little point.
We passed along the edge, reached that point, and instantly swept with
our eyes the whole range of the horizon. We stood upon the crown of the
redoubtable Weisshorn.
The long-pent feelings of my two companions found vent in a wild and
reiterated cheer. Bennen shook his arms in the air and shouted as a
Valaisian, while Wenger raised the shriller yell of the Oberland. We
looked downwards along the ridge, and far below, perched on one of
its crags, could discern the two Randa men. Again and again the roar
of triumph was sent down to them. They had accomplished but a small
portion of the ridge, and soon after our success they wended their way
homewards. They came, willing enough, no doubt, to publish our failure
had we failed; but we found out afterwards that they had been equally
strenuous in announcing our success; they had seen us, they affirmed,
like three flies upon the summit of the mountain. Both men had to
endure a little persecution for the truth’s sake, for nobody in Randa
would believe that the Weisshorn could be scaled, and least of all by
a man who for two days previously had been the object of Philomène the
waitress’s constant pity, on account of the incompetence of his stomach
to accept all that she offered for its acceptance. The energy of
conviction with which the men gave their evidence had, however, proved
conclusive to the most sceptical before we arrived.
Bennen wished to leave some outward and visible sign of our success on
the summit. He deplored having no suitable flag; but as a substitute
for such it was proposed that he should use the handle of one of our
axes as a flagstaff, and surmount it by a red pocket-handkerchief. This
was done, and for some time subsequently the extempore banner was seen
flapping in the wind. To his extreme delight, it was shown to Bennen
himself three days afterwards by my friend Mr. Francis Galton, from
the Riffelberg hotel.
Every Swiss climber is acquainted with the Weisshorn. I have long
regarded it as the noblest of all the Alps, and most other travellers
share this opinion. The impression it produces is in some measure due
to the comparative isolation with which it juts into the heavens. It
is not masked by other mountains, and all around the Alps its final
pyramid is in view. Conversely, the Weisshorn commands a vast range of
prospect. Neither Bennen nor myself had ever seen anything at all equal
to it. The day, moreover, was perfect; not a cloud was to be seen; and
the gauzy haze of the distant air, though sufficient to soften the
outlines and enhance the colouring of the mountains, was far too thin
to obscure them. Over the peaks and through the valleys the sunbeams
poured, unimpeded save by the mountains themselves, which sent their
shadows in bars of darkness through the illuminated air. I had never
before witnessed a scene which affected me like this one. I opened
my note-book to make a few observations, but soon relinquished the
attempt. There was something incongruous, if not profane, in allowing
the scientific faculty to interfere where silent worship seemed the
‘reasonable service.’
We had been ten hours climbing from our bivouac to the summit, and it
was now necessary that we should clear the mountain before the close of
day. Our muscles were loose and numbed, and, unless extremely urged,
declined all energetic tension: the thought of our success, however,
ran like a kind of wine through our fibres and helped us down. We once
fancied the descent would be rapid, but it was far from it. As in
ascending, Bennen took the lead; he slowly cleared each crag, paused
till I joined him, I pausing till Wenger joined me, and thus one or
other of us was always in motion. Our leader showed a preference for
the snow, while I held on to the rocks, where my hands could assist
my feet. Our muscles were sorely tried by the twisting round the
splintered turrets of the _arête_, but a long, long stretch of the
ridge must be passed before we can venture to swerve from it. We were
roused from our stupefaction at times by the roar of the stones which
we loosed from the ridge and sent leaping down the mountain. Soon after
recrossing the snow catenary already mentioned we quitted the ridge
to get obliquely along the slope of the pyramid. The face of it was
scarred by couloirs, of which the deeper and narrower ones were filled
with ice, while the others acted as highways for the rocks quarried
by the weathering above. Steps must be cut in the ice, but the swing
of the axe is very different now from what it was in the morning.
Bennen’s blows descended with the deliberateness of a man whose fire is
half-quenched; still they fell with sufficient power, and the needful
cavities were formed. We retraced our morning steps over some of the
ice-slopes. No word of warning was uttered here as we ascended, but
now Bennen’s admonitions were frequent and emphatic--‘Take care not to
slip.’ I imagined, however, that even if a man slipped he would be able
to arrest his descent; but Bennen’s response when I stated this opinion
was very prompt--‘No! it would be utterly impossible. If it were snow
you might do it, but it is pure ice, and if you fall you will lose
your senses before you can use your axe.’ I suppose he was right. At
length we turned directly downwards, and worked along one of the ridges
which lie in the line of steepest fall. We first dropped cautiously
from ledge to ledge. At one place Bennen clung for a considerable time
to a face of rock, casting out feelers of leg and arm, and desiring
me to stand still. I did not understand the difficulty, for the rock,
though steep, was by no means vertical. I fastened myself on to it,
Bennen being on a ledge below, waiting to receive me. The spot on which
he stood was a little rounded protuberance sufficient to afford him
footing, but over which the slightest momentum would have carried him.
He knew this, and hence his caution. Soon after this we quitted our
ridge and dropped into a couloir to the left of it. It was dark, and
damp with trickling water. Here we disencumbered ourselves of the rope,
and found our speed greatly augmented. In some places the rocks were
worn to a powder, along which we shot by glissades. We swerved again
to the left, crossed a ridge, and got into another and dryer couloir.
The last one was dangerous, as the water exerted a constant sapping
action upon the rocks. From our new position we could hear the clatter
of stones descending the gulley we had just forsaken. Wenger, who had
brought up the rear during the day, is now sent to the front; he has
not Bennen’s power, but his legs are long and his descent rapid. He
scents out the way, which becomes more and more difficult. He pauses,
observes, dodges, but finally comes to a dead stop on the summit of a
precipice, which sweeps like a rampart round the mountain. We moved to
the left, and after a long _détour_ succeeded in rounding the precipice.
Another half-hour brings us to the brow of a second precipice, which
is scooped out along its centre so as to cause the brow to overhang.
Chagrin was in Bennen’s face: he turned his eyes upwards, and I feared
mortally that he was about to propose a reascent to the _arête_. It
was very questionable whether our muscles could have responded to
such a demand. While we stood pondering here, a deep and confused
roar attracted our attention. From a point near the summit of the
Weisshorn, a rock had been discharged down a dry couloir, raising a
cloud of dust at each bump against the mountain. A hundred similar
ones were immediately in motion, while the spaces between the larger
masses were filled by an innumerable flight of smaller stones. Each of
them shook its quantum of dust in the air, until finally the avalanche
was enveloped in a cloud. The clatter was stunning, for the collisions
were incessant. Black masses of rock emerged here and there from the
cloud, and sped through the air like flying fiends. Their motion was
not one of translation merely, but they whizzed and vibrated in their
flight as if urged by wings. The echoes resounded from side to side,
from the Schallenberg to the Weisshorn and back, until finally, after
many a deep-sounding thud in the snow, the whole troop came to rest at
the bottom of the mountain. This stone avalanche was one of the most
extraordinary things I had ever witnessed, and in connection with it
I would draw the attention of future climbers of the Weisshorn to the
danger which would infallibly beset any attempt to ascend it from this
side, except by one of its _arêtes_. At any moment the mountain-side
may be raked by a fire as deadly as that of cannon.
After due deliberation we moved along the precipice westward, I fearing
that each step forward but plunged us into deeper difficulty. At one
place, however, the precipice bevelled off to a steep incline of smooth
rock, along which ran a crack, wide enough to admit the fingers, and
sloping obliquely down to the lower glacier. Each in succession gripped
the rock and shifted his body sideways along the crack until he came
near enough to the glacier to reach it by a rough glissade. We passed
swiftly along the glacier, sometimes running, and, on steeper slopes,
sliding, until we were pulled up for the third time by a precipice
which seemed even worse than either of the others. It was quite sheer,
and as far as I could see right or left altogether hopeless. To my
surprise, both the men turned without hesitation to the right. I felt
desperately blank, but I could notice no expression of dismay in the
countenance of either of my companions. They inspected the moraine
matter over which we walked, and at length one of them exclaimed, ‘Da
sind die Spuren,’ lengthening his strides at the same moment. We looked
over the brink at intervals, and at length discovered what appeared
to be a mere streak of clay on the face of the precipice. On this
streak we found footing. It was by no means easy, but to hard-pushed
men it was a deliverance. The streak vanished, and we must get down
the rock. This fortunately was rough, so that by pressing the hands
against its rounded protuberances, and sticking the boot-nails against
its projecting crystals, we let ourselves gradually down. A deep cleft
separated the glacier from the precipice; this was crossed, and we were
free, being clearly placed beyond the last bastion of the mountain.
In this admirable fashion did my guides behave on this occasion. The
day previous to my arrival at Randa they had been up the mountain, and
they then observed a solitary chamois moving along the base of this
very precipice, and making ineffectual attempts to get up it. At one
place the creature succeeded; this spot they fixed in their memories,
and when they reached the top of the precipice they sought for the
traces of the chamois, found them, and were guided by them to the only
place where escape in any reasonable time was possible. Our way was
now clear; over the glacier we cheerfully marched, escaping from the
ice just as the moon and the eastern sky contributed about equally to
the illumination. The moonlight was afterwards intercepted by clouds.
In the gloom we were often at a loss, and wandered half-bewildered
over the grassy slopes. At length the welcome tinkle of cow-bells
was heard in the distance, and guided by them we reached the chalet
a little after 9 P.M. The cows had been milked and the milk disposed
of, but the men managed to get us a moderate draught. Thus refreshed
we continued the descent. I was half famished, for my solid nutriment
during the day consisted solely of part of a box of meat lozenges
given to me by Mr. Hawkins. Bennen and myself descended the mountain
deliberately, and after many windings emerged upon the valley, and
reached the hotel a little before 11 P.M. I had a basin of broth, _not_
made according to Liebig, and a piece of mutton boiled probably for the
fifth time. Fortified by these, and comforted by a warm footbath, I
went to bed, where six hours’ sound sleep chased away all consciousness
of fatigue. I was astonished on the morrow to find the loose atoms of
my body knitted so firmly by so brief a rest. Up to my attempt upon the
Weisshorn I had felt more or less dilapidated, but here all weakness
ended, and during my subsequent stay in Switzerland I was unacquainted
with infirmity.