Verily there is no lack of the plainer symbols of humanity, to remind
the wanderer that Childe Harold was bitterly truthful, when he appended
to his inimitable descriptions of the Alps the assertion that they
"serve to show,
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below."
The impertinences and follies that are penned by men and women in the
various Livres des Voyageurs, wherein they record their names, were
alone sufficient proof of this. It is true that enthusiasm and fine
feeling cannot endure for an indefinite period; and that he would be a
sorry companion who always brought his stilts to the dinner-table.
Still, one must regret that a certain craving for notoriety seems to
impel so many a tourist to write himself down an ass, whilst no sense of
fairness restrains others from commenting, appropriately or
inappropriately, upon the names or remarks of predecessors. There is a
cowardice and cruelty herein which has, I confess, sometimes made me
angry, when the identity, characters, and conduct of the individuals
concerned were alike unknown or indifferent to me. In place, however, of
prolonging this digression, and without the least notion of proving
anything whatever by the citation, I beg to offer the reader a brace of
extracts from the visitors' record book at the Montanvert.
The first tickled me exceedingly, as a genuine specimen of the so-called
Irish Bull. Mr. Somebody had entered his name, and added thereto this
valuable bit of information: "Walked up from Chamouni in four hours and
a-half, _having lost the greater part of his way_?" The italics are
mine, of course; but is not the _mot_ worth its space in print?
My other extract concerns some of my young countrywomen, and I trust
that their countrywomen who may read it will forgive me for putting it
into circulation. They are very poor laughers, who never laugh when the
joke tells against themselves; in this instance it is we who pay the
piper. A party of English school girls had been lately at Montanvert
with their governess, and had set down their names one after another in
the big book, as is the custom there. A waggish Frenchman, waiting of
course until their backs were turned, had bracketted the list, and
written against the conclave this pithy and caustic criticism: "_Teint
rouge; appetit geant; langage embarrasse._" What an ungallant scamp! Yet
it must be owned that the same absurd album is rich in provocatives. A
running fire of sarcasm, exchanged between English and French tourists,
marks almost every page.