_ASCENT OF THE ALETSCHHORN._
The failure through bad weather of a former attempt upon the
Aletschhorn has been already recorded; but a succession of cloudless
days at the Bel Alp in August 1869 stirred up the desire to try again.
This was strengthened by the wish to make a series of observations from
the greatest accessible elevation on the colour and polarisation of the
sky. I had no guide of my own, but the Knecht at the hotel had been up
the mountain, and I thought that we two might accomplish the ascent
without any other assistance. It was the first time the mountain had
been attempted by a single guide, and I was therefore careful to learn
whether he was embarrassed by either doubt or fear. There was no doubt
or fear in the matter: he really wished to go with me. His master (the
proprietor of the hotel) had asked him whether he was not undertaking
too much. ‘I am undertaking no more than my companion,’ was his reply.
At twenty minutes past two we quitted the Bel Alp. The moon, which
seven hours previously had cleared the eastern mountain-tops with a
visible motion, was now sloping to the west. The light was white and
brilliant, and shadows of corresponding darkness were cast upon the
earth. The larger stars were out, those near the horizon especially
sparkling with many-coloured fires. The Pleiades were near the zenith,
while Orion hung his sword a few degrees above the eastern horizon. Our
path lay along the slope of the mountain, parallel to the Oberaletsch
glacier, the lateral moraine of which was close to us on our right.
After climbing sundry grass acclivities we mounted this moraine, and
made it our pathway for a time. At a certain point the shingly ridge
became depressed, opening a natural passage to the glacier. We found
the ice ‘hummocky,’ and therefore crossed it to a medial moraine
composed of granite _débris_ and loaded here and there with clean
granite blocks of enormous size. Beyond this moraine we found smoother
ice and better light, for we had previously journeyed in the shadow of
the mountains.
We marched upwards along the glacier chatting sociably at times, but at
times stilled into silence by the stillness of the night. ‘Es tagt!’
at length exclaimed my companion. It dawns! Orion had moved upwards,
leaving space between him and the horizon for the morning star. All the
east was belted by that ‘daffodil sky’ which in some states of the
atmosphere announces the approach of day in the Alps. We spun towards
the east. It brightened and deepened, but deeper than the orange of the
spectrum it did not fall. Amid this the mountains rose. Silently and
solemnly their dark and dented outlines rested against the dawn.
The mass of light thus thrown over the shaded earth long before the
sun appeared above the horizon came not from illuminated _clouds_, but
from matter far more attenuated than clouds--matter which maintains
comparative permanence in the atmosphere, while clouds are formed and
dissipated. It is not light reflected from concentric shells of air
of varying density, of which our atmosphere may be rightly assumed
to be made up; for the light reflected from these convex layers is
thrown, not upon the earth at all, but into space. The ‘rose of dawn’
is usually ascribed, and with sufficient correctness, to _transmitted_
light, the blue of the sky to _reflected_ light; but in each case
there is both transmission and reflection. No doubt the daffodil and
orange of the east this morning must have been transmitted through long
reaches of atmospheric air, and no doubt it was during this passage of
the rays that the selective winnowing of the light occurred which gave
the sky its tint and splendour. But if the distance of the sun below
the horizon when the dawn first appeared betaken into account, it will
become evident that the solar rays must have been caused to swerve
from their rectilineal course by _reflection_. The _refraction_ of
the atmosphere would be wholly incompetent to bend the rays round the
convex earth to the extent now under contemplation.
Thus the light which is reflected must be first transmitted to the
reflecting particles, while the transmitted light, except in the direct
line of the sun, must be reflected to reach the eyes. What mainly holds
the light in our atmosphere after the sun has retired behind the earth
is, I imagine, the suspended matter which produces the blue of the
sky and the morning and the evening red. Through the reverberation of
the rays from particle to particle, there must be at the very noon of
night a certain amount of illumination. Twilight must continue with
varying degrees of intensity all night long, and the visibility of the
nocturnal firmament itself may be due, not, as my excellent friend Dove
seems to assume, to the light of the stars, but in great part to the
light of the sun, scattered in all directions through the atmosphere by
the almost infinitely attenuated matter held there in suspension.
We had every prospect of a glorious day. To our left was the almost
full moon, now close to the ridge of the Sparrenhorn. The firmament was
as blue as ever I have seen it--deep and dark, and to all appearance
_pure_; that is to say, unmixed with any colour of a lower grade of
refrangibility than the blue. The lunar shadows had already become
weak, and were finally washed away by the light of the east. But while
the shadows were at their greatest depth, and therefore least invaded
by the dawn, I examined the firmament with a Nicol’s prism.[25] The
moonlight, as I have said, came from the left, and right in front of
me was a mountain of dark brown rock, behind which spread a heaven of
the most impressive depth and purity. I looked over the mountain-crest
through the prism. In one position of the instrument the blue was not
sensibly affected; in the rectangular position it was so far quenched
as to reduce the sky and the dark mountain beneath it to the same
uniform hue. The outline of the mountain could hardly be detached from
the sky above it. This was the direction in which the prism showed
its maximum quenching power; in no other direction was the extinction
of the light of the sky so perfect. And it was at right angles to the
lunar rays: so that, as regards the polarisation of the sky, the beams
of the moon behave exactly like those of the sun.
[25] Art. X. of ‘Fragments of Science’ is devoted to the sky.
The glacier along which we first marched was a trunk of many
tributaries, and consequently of many ‘medial moraines,’ such moraines
being always _one_ less in number than the tributaries.[26] But two
principal branches absorbed all the others as constituents. One of
these descended from the Great and Little Nesthorn and their spurs;
the other from the Aletschhorn. Up this latter branch we steered from
the junction. Hitherto the surface of the glacier, disintegrated by
the previous day’s sun, and again hardened by the night’s frost, had
crackled under our feet; but on the Aletschhorn branch the ice was
coated by a kind of fur, resembling the nap of velvet: it was as
soft as a carpet, but at the same time perfectly firm to the grip of
the boot. The sun was hidden behind the mountain; and, thus steeped
in shade, we could enjoy, with spirits unblunted by the heat, the
loveliness and grandeur of the scene.
[26] ‘Glaciers of the Alps,’ p. 264.
Right before us was the pyramid of the Aletschhorn, bearing its load
of glaciers, and thrusting above them its pinnacle of rock; while
right and left of us towered and fell to snowy cols such other peaks
as usually hang about a mountain of nearly 14,000 feet elevation. And
amid them all, with a calmness corresponding to the deep seclusion of
the place, wound the beautiful system of glaciers along which we had
been marching for nearly three hours. I know nothing which can compare
in point of glory with these winter palaces of the mountaineer, under
the opening illumination of the morning. And the best of it is, that no
right of property in the scene could enhance its value. To Switzerland
belongs the rock--to the early climber, competent to enjoy them, belong
the sublimity and beauty of mass, form, colour, and grouping. And still
the outward splendour is by no means all. ‘In the midst of a puddly
moor,’ says Emerson, ‘I am afraid to say how glad I am:’ which is a
strong way of affirming the influence of the inner man as regards the
enjoyment of external nature. And surely the inner man is a high factor
in the effect. The magnificence of the world outside suffices not. Like
light falling upon the polished plate of the photographer, the glory of
Nature, to be felt, must descend upon a soul prepared to receive its
image and superscription.
Mind, like force, is known to us only through matter. Take, then,
what hypothesis you will--consider matter as an instrument through
which the insulated mind exercises its powers, or consider both as so
inextricably mixed that they stand or fall together; from both points
of view the care of the body is equally important.[27] The morality
of clean blood ought to be one of the first lessons taught us by our
pastors and masters. The physical is the substratum of the spiritual,
and this fact ought to give the food we eat and to the air we breathe
a transcendental significance. Boldly and truly writes Mr. Ruskin,
‘Whenever you throw your window wide open in the morning, you let in
Athena, as wisdom and fresh air at the same instant; and whenever you
draw a pure, long, full breath of right heaven, you take Athena into
your heart, through your blood; and with the blood into thoughts of
the brain.’ No higher value than this could be assigned to atmospheric
oxygen.
[27] It will not be supposed that I here mean the stuffing or pampering
of the body. The shortening of the supplies, or a good monkish fast at
intervals, is often the best discipline for the body.
Precisely three hours after we had quitted our hotel the uniform
gradient of the Aletschhorn glacier came to an end. It now suddenly
steepened to run up the mountain. At the base we halted to have some
food, a huge slab of granite serving us for a table. It is not good to
go altogether without food in these climbing expeditions; nor is it
good to eat copiously. Here a little and there a little, as the need
makes itself apparent, is the prudent course. For, left to itself,
the stomach infallibly sickens, and the forces of the system ooze
away. Should the sickness have set in so as to produce a recoil from
nutriment, the stomach must be forced to yield. A small modicum of
food usually suffices to set it right. The strongest guides and the
sturdiest porters have sometimes to use this compulsion. ‘Sie müssen
sich zwingen.’ The guides refer the capriciousness of the stomach at
great elevations to the air. This may be _a_ cause, but I am inclined
to think that something is also due to the motion--the long-continued
action of the same muscles upon the diaphragm. The condition of things
antecedent to the journey must also be taken into account. There is
little, if any, sleep; the starting meal is taken at an unusual hour;
and if the start be made from a mountain cave or cabin, instead of
from the bed of an hotel, the deviation from normal conditions is
aggravated. It could not be the mere difference of height between
Mont Blanc and Monte Rosa which formerly rendered their effects upon
travellers so different. It is that, in the one case, you had the
melted snow of the Grands Mulets for your coffee, and a bare plank for
your bed; while in the other you had the comparative comforts of the
auberge on the Riffel. On the present occasion I had a bottle of milk,
which suits me better than anything else. That and a crust are all I
need to keep my vigour up and to ward off _le mal des montagnes_.
After half an hour’s halt we made ready for the peak, meeting first a
quantity of moraine matter mingled with patches of snow, and afterwards
the rifted glacier. We threaded our way among the crevasses, and here
I paid particular attention to the deportment of my guide. The want
of confidence, or rather the absence of that experience of a guide’s
powers, on which alone perfect reliance can be based, is a serious
drawback to the climber. This source of weakness has often come home to
me since the death of my brave friend Bennen. His loss to me was like
that of an arm to a fighter. But I was glad to notice that my present
guide was not likely to err on the score of rashness. He left a wider
margin between us and accident than I should have deemed necessary; he
sounded with his staff where I should have trod without hesitation;
and, knowing my own caution, I had good reason to be satisfied with
his. Still, notwithstanding all his vigilance, he once went into a
concealed fissure--only waist-deep, however, and he could certainly
have rescued himself without the tug of the rope which united us.
After some time we quitted the ice, striking a rocky shoulder of the
mountain. The rock had been pulled to pieces by the weather, and its
fragments heaped together to an incoherent ridge. Over the lichened
stones we worked our way, our course, though rough, being entirely
free from danger. On this ridge the sun first found us, striking us
at intervals, and at intervals disappearing behind the sloping ridge
of the Aletschhorn. We attained the summit of the rocks, and had now
the upper reaches of the _névé_ before us. To our left the glacier
was greatly torn, exposing fine vertical sections, deep blue pits
and chasms, which were bottomless to vision; and ledges, from whose
copings hung vaster stalactites than those observed below. The beauty
of the higher crevasses is mightily enhanced by the long transparent
icicles which hang from their eaves, and which, loosened by the
sun, fall into them with ringing sound. Above us was the customary
Bergschrund; but the spring avalanches had swept over it, and closed
it, and since the spring it had not been able to open its jaws. At this
schrund we aimed, reached it, and crossed it, and immediately found
ourselves at the base of the final cap of the mountain.
Looking at the Aletschhorn from the Sparrenhorn, or from any other
point which commands a similar view of the pyramid, we see upon the
ridge which falls from the summit to the right, and at a considerable
distance from the top, a tooth or pinnacle of rock, which encloses with
the ridge a deep indentation. At this gap we now aimed. We varied our
ascent from steep snow to rock, and from steep rock to snow, avoiding
the difficulties when possible, and facing them when necessary. We met
some awkward places, but none whose subjugation was otherwise than
pleasant, and at length surmounted the edge of the _arête_. Looking
over this, the facette of the pyramid fell almost sheer to the Middle
Aletsch glacier. This was a familiar sight to me, for years ago I had
strolled over it alone. Below it was the Great Aletsch, into which the
Middle Aletsch flows, and beyond both was the well-known ridge of the
Æggischhorn. We halted, but only for a moment. Turning suddenly to the
left, we ascended the rocky ridge to a sheltered nook which suggested a
brief rest and a slight renewal of that nutriment which, as stated, is
so necessary to the wellbeing of the climber.
From time to time during the ascent I examined the polarisation of the
sky. I should not have halted had not the fear of haze or clouds upon
the summit admonished me. Indeed, as we ascended, one thin, arrowy
cloud shot like a comet’s tail through the air above us, spanning
ninety degrees, or more, of the heavens. Never, however, have I
observed the sky of a deeper, darker, and purer blue. It was to examine
this colour that I ascended the Aletschhorn, and I wished to observe
it where the hue was deepest and the polarisation most complete. You
can look through very different atmospheric thicknesses at right angles
to the solar beams. When, for example, the sun is in the eastern
or western horizon, you can look across the sun’s rays towards the
northern or southern horizon, or you can look across them to the
zenith. In the latter direction the blue is deeper and purer than in
either of the former, the proportion of the polarised light of the sky
to its total light being also a maximum.
The sun, however, when I was on the Aletschhorn, was not in the
horizon, but high above it. I placed my staff upright on a platform of
snow. It cast a shadow. Inclining the staff _from_ the sun, the shadow
lengthened for a time, reached its major limit, and then shortened. The
simplest geometrical consideration will show that the staff when its
shadow was longest was perpendicular to the solar rays; the atmosphere
in this direction was shallower and the sky bluer than in any other
direction perpendicular to the same rays. Along this line I therefore
looked through the Nicol. The light, I found, could be quenched so as
to leave a residue as dark as the firmament upon a moonless night; but
still there _was_ a residue--the polarisation was not complete. Nor was
the colour, however pure its appearance, by any means a monochromatic
blue. A disc of selenite, gradually thickening from the centre to the
circumference, when placed between the Nicol and the sky, yielded vivid
_iris_ colours. The blue was very marked; but there was vivid purple,
which requires an admixture of red to produce it. There was also a
bright green, and some yellow. In fact, however purely blue the sky
might seem, it sent to the eye all the colours of the spectrum: it
owed its colour to the _predominance_ of blue, that is to say, to the
enfeeblement, and not to the extinction, of the other colours of the
spectrum. The green was particularly vivid in the portion of the sky
nearest to the mountains, where the light was ‘daffodil.’
A pocket spectroscope confirmed these results. Permitting the light
of an illuminated cloud to enter the slit of the instrument, a vivid
spectrum was observed; but on passing beyond the rim of the cloud to
the adjacent firmament, a sudden fall in the intensity of all the less
refrangible rays of the spectrum was observed. There was an absolute
shortening of the spectrum in the direction of the red, through the
total extinction of the extreme red. The fall in luminousness was also
very striking as far as the green; the blue also suffered, but not so
much as the other colours.
The scene as we ascended grew more and more superb, both as regards
grouping and expansion. Viewed from the Bel Alp the many-peaked Dom
is a most imposing mountain; it has there no competitor. The mass of
the Weisshorn is hidden, its summit alone appearing. The Matterhorn,
also, besides being more distant, has a portion of its pyramid cut
obliquely away by the slope of the same ridge that intercepts the
Weisshorn, and which is seen to our right when we face the valley of
the Rhone, falling steeply to the promontory called the Nessel. Viewed
from this promontory, the Dom finds its match, and more than its match,
in its mighty neighbour, whose hugeness is here displayed from top to
bottom. On the lower reaches of the Aletschhorn also the Dom maintains
its superiority, the Weisshorn being for a time wholly unseen, and
the Matterhorn but imperfectly. As we rise, however, the Dom steadily
loses its individuality, until from the ridge of the Aletschhorn it
is jumbled to a single leviathan heap with the mass of Monte Rosa.
The Weisshorn meanwhile as steadily gains in grandeur, rising like a
mountain Saul amid the congregated hills, until from the _arête_ it
distances all competitors. In comparison with this kingly peak, the
Matterhorn looks small and mean. It has neither the mass nor the form
which would enable it to compete, from a distant point of view, with
the Weisshorn.
The ridge of the Aletschhorn is of schistose gneiss; in many places
smooth, in all places steep, and sometimes demanding skill and strength
on the part of the climber. I thought we could scale it with greater
ease if untied, so I flung the rope away from me. My guide was in
front, and I carefully watched his action among the rocks. For some
time there was nothing to cause anxiety for his safety. There was no
likelihood of a slip, and if a slip occurred there was opportunity for
recovery. But after a time this ceased to be the case. The rock had
been scaled away by weathering parallel to the planes of foliation,
the surfaces left behind being excessively smooth, and in many cases
flanked by slopes and couloirs of perilous steepness. I saw that a slip
might occur here, and that its consequences would be serious. The rope
was therefore resumed.
A fair amount of skill and an absence of all precipitancy rendered our
progress perfectly secure. In every place of danger one of us planted
himself as securely as the rock on which he stood, and remained thus
fixed until the danger was passed by the other. Both of us were never
exposed to peril at the same moment. The bestowal of a little extra
time renders this arrangement possible along the entire ridge of the
Aletschhorn; in fact, the dangers of the Alps can be almost reduced to
the level of the dangers of the street by the exercise of skill and
caution. For rashness, ignorance, or carelessness the mountains leave
no margin; and to rashness, ignorance, or carelessness three-fourths
of the catastrophes which shock us are to be traced. Even those whose
faculties are ever awake in danger are sometimes caught napping when
danger seems remote; they receive accordingly the punishment of a tyro
for a tyro’s neglect.[28]
[28] See illustration at the end of this chapter.
While ascending the lower glacier we found the air in general crisp
and cool; but we were visited at intervals by gusts of Föhn--warm
breathings of the unexplained Alpine sirocco, which passed over
our cheeks like puffs from a gently heated stove. On the _arête_ we
encountered no Föhn; but the rocks were so hot as to render contact
with them painful. I left my coat among them, and went upward in my
shirt-sleeves. At our last bivouac my guide had allowed two hours for
the remaining ascent. We accomplished it in one, and I was surprised by
the shout which announced the passage of the last difficulty, and the
proximity of the top of the mountain. This we reached precisely eight
hours after starting--an ascent of fair rapidity, and without a single
mishap from beginning to end.
Rock, weathered to fragments, constitutes the crown of the Aletschhorn;
but against this and above it is heaped a buttress of snow, which
tapers, as seen from the Æggischhorn, to a pinnacle of surpassing
beauty. This snow was firm, and we readily attained its highest point.
Over this I leaned for ten minutes, looking along the face of the
pyramid, which fell for thousands of feet to the _névés_ at its base.
We looked _down_ upon the Jungfrau, and upon every other peak for miles
around us, one only excepted. The exception was the Finsteraarhorn, the
highest of the Oberland mountains, after which comes the Aletschhorn.
I could clearly track the course pursued by Bennen and myself eleven
years previously--the spurs of rock and slopes of snow, the steep and
weathered crest of the mountain, and the line of our swift glissade as
we returned.
Round about the dominant peak of the Oberland was grouped a crowd
of other peaks, retreating eastward to Graubünden and the distant
Engadin; retreating southward over Italy, and blending ultimately
with the atmosphere. At hand were the Jungfrau, Mönch, and Eiger. A
little further off the Blumlis Alp, the Weisse Frau, and the Great and
Little Nesthorn. In the distance the grim precipices of Mont Blanc,
rising darkly from the Allée Blanche, and lifting to the firmament
the snow-crown of the mountain. The Combin and its neighbours were
distinct; and then came that trinity of grandeur, with which the
reader is so well acquainted--the Weisshorn, the Matterhorn, and the
Dom--supported by the Alphubel, the Allaleinhorn, the Rympfischhorn,
the Strahlhorn, and the mighty Monte Rosa. From no other point in
the Alps have I had a greater command of their magnificence--perhaps
from none so great; while the blessedness of perfect health, on this
perfect day, rounded off within me the external splendour. The sun
seemed to take a pleasure in bringing out the glory of the hills.
The intermixture of light and shade was astonishing; while to the
whole scene a mystic air was imparted by a belt of haze, in which the
furthest outlines disappeared, as if infinite distance had rendered
them impalpable.
Two concentric shells of atmosphere, perfectly distinct in character,
clasped the earth this morning. That which hugged the surface was of
a deep neutral tint, too shallow to reach more than midway up the
loftier mountains. Upon this, as upon an ocean, rested the luminous
higher atmospheric layer, both being separated along the horizon by a
perfectly definite line. This higher region was without a cloud; the
arrowy streamer that had shot across the firmament during our ascent,
first reduced to feathery streaks, had long since melted utterly away.
Blue was supreme above, while all round the horizon the intrinsic
brilliance of the upper air was enhanced by contrast with the dusky
ground on which it rested. But this gloomier portion of the atmosphere
was also transparent. It was not a cloud-stratum cutting off the view
of things below it, but an attenuated mist, through which were seen,
as through a glass darkly, the lower mountains, and out of which the
higher peaks and ridges sprung into sudden glory.
Our descent was conducted with the same care and success that attended
our ascent. I have already stated it to be a new thing for one man
to lead a traveller up the mountain, and my guide in ascending had
informed me that his wife had been in a state of great anxiety about
him. But until he had cleared all dangers he did not let me know the
extent of her devotion, nor the means she had adopted to ensure his
safety. When we were once more upon the lower glacier, having left
all difficulties behind us, he remarked with a chuckle that she had
been in a terrible state of fear, and had informed him of her intention
to have a mass for his safety celebrated by the village priest. But
if he profited by this mediation, I must have done so equally; for in
all dangerous places we were tied together by a rope which was far too
strong to break had I slipped. My safety was, in fact, bound up in his,
and I therefore thought it right to pay my share of the expense. ‘How
much did the mass cost?’ I asked. ‘Oh, not much, sir,’ he replied;
‘only ninety centimes.’ Not deeming the expense worth dividing, I
let him pay for such advantage as I had derived from the priest’s
intercession.
* * * * *
In 1868 I had been so much broken down on going to the Alps that
even amongst them I found it difficult to recover energy. In 1869,
however, after a severe discipline in bathing and climbing,[29] my
weariness disappeared, and before I attacked the Aletschhorn I felt
that my restoration was ensured. In my subsequent rambles it was a
great delight and refreshment to me, whenever I felt heated, to
choose a bubbling pool in some mountain stream, roll myself in it,
and afterwards dance myself dry in the sunshine. Each morning I had
a tub in a rivulet, a header in a lake, or a douche under a cascade.
The best of these was half a mile or more from the hotel, but there
was an inferior waterfall close at hand to which I resorted when time
was short. On a bright morning towards the end of August 1869 I was
returning from this cascade to my clothes, which were about twenty
yards off. They might have been reached by walking on the grass, but I
chose to walk on some slippery blocks of gneiss, and using no caution
I staggered and fell. My shin was urged with great force against the
sharp crystals, which inflicted three ugly wounds; but I sponged the
blood away, wrapped a cold bandage round the injured place, and limped
to the hotel. I was quite disabled, but felt sure of speedy recovery,
my health was so strong.
[29] In 1869 I tried to get to the top of the Wetterhorn in a single
day from Grindelwald, but the wildness of the storm and the bitterness
of the cold drove Peter Baumann and me back, when we were within a
quarter of an hour of the top. I was afterwards in the habit of taking
to the Riffel See when heavy snow was falling. It was at the Bel Alp,
however, that I found myself renewed.
For four or five days I remained quietly in bed. The wound had become
entirely painless; there was hardly any inflammation and no pus. I felt
so well that I thought a little exercise would do me less harm than
good. I abandoned my cold bandage and went out. That night inflammation
set in, pus appeared, and in trying to dislodge it I poisoned the
wound. It became worse and worse; erysipelas set in, and at last it
became evident that I might lose my foot or something more important.
After remaining nearly a fortnight at the Bel Alp without medical
advice I resolved to go to Geneva. I wrote accordingly to my friend
Professor De la Rive, with the view of securing the services of an able
surgeon. I was carried down to Brieg on a kind of bier, and midway on
the mountain-slope had the good fortune to meet Mr. Ellis of Sloane
Street. He examined my wound, and I have good reason to feel grateful
to him for his extreme kindness and his excellent advice. My friend
Soret met me at the railway station, and Dr. Gauthier was at my side a
few seconds after I entered my hotel.
But, despite all the care, kindness, and real skill bestowed upon me, I
was a month in bed at Geneva. A sinus about five inches long had worked
its channel from the wound down to the instep, which was undermined by
an abscess. This Dr. Gauthier discovered and by assiduous attention
cured. In her beautiful residence at Lammermor, on the margin of Lake
Leman, Lady Emily Peel had a bed erected for me as soon as I was
able to go there, and it was under her roof that the last traces of
the sinus disappeared. I was so emaciated, however, that it required
several months to restore the flesh and the strength that this paltry
accident cost me.
In 1870 I was again at the Bel Alp for several weeks, during which
my interest was continually kept awake by telegrams from the seat of
war; for the enterprising proprietors both at the Bel Alp and the
Æggischhorn had run telegraphic wires from the valley of the Rhone up
to their respective hotels. The most noteworthy occurrence among the
mountains in 1870 was a terrific thunderstorm, which set two forests on
fire by the same discharge. One fire near the Rieder Alp was speedily
quenched; the other, under the Nessel, burned for several successive
days and nights, and threatened to become a public calamity. A constant
fiery glow was kept up by the combustion of the underwood, which
formed the vehicle of transmission among the larger trees. Three or
four of these would often burst simultaneously into pyramids of flame,
which would last but a few minutes, leaving the trees with all their
branches as red-hot embers behind. Heavy and persistent rain at length
extinguished the conflagration.