The Alps Part 1

The Alps.

by Martin Conway.

CHAPTER I

THE TREASURES OF THE SNOW

John Ruskin, in a fine and famous pa.s.sage, describes the effect of a first view of the Alps upon a young and sensitive mind. He was at Schaffhausen with his parents. "We must have spent some time in town-seeing," he writes, "for it was drawing towards sunset when we got up to some sort of garden promenade--west of the town, I believe; and high above the Rhine, so as to command the open country across it to the south and west. At which open country of low undulation, far into blue--gazing as at one of our own distances from Malvern of Worcestershire, or Dorking of Kent,--suddenly--behold--beyond! There was no thought in any of us for a moment of their being clouds. They were clear as crystal, sharp on the pure horizon sky, and already tinged with rose by the sinking sun. Infinitely beyond all that we had ever thought or dreamed,--the seen walls of lost Eden could not have been more beautiful to us; not more awful, round heaven, the walls of sacred Death. It is not possible to imagine, in any time of the world, a more blessed entrance into life, for a child of such a temperament as mine."

Many a lad or man has felt a similar awakening when the snowy Alps first smote upon his vision, though none has ever so n.o.bly expressed the emotion. It is a feeling not to be forgotten in after life. All who love mountains have begun to love them from some remembered moment. We may have known the hills from infancy, but to know is not necessarily to love. It is the day of awakening that counts. To me the hills were early friends. Malvern of Worcestershire was my childish delight. I climbed Snowdon at the age of seven, and felt the delight that arises from standing high and gazing far. But the mountains as beautiful things to look at came later. Well do I remember the year when I was at last going to the Alps. A vague feeling of expectation and suspense pervaded the summer term--the unknown was in the future and hovered there as something large and bright. What would the great snow mountains look like? That was the abiding question. One June day I was idly lying p.r.o.ne upon a gra.s.sy bank, watching piled ma.s.ses of c.u.mulous cloud tower in the east with the afternoon sun shining splendidly upon them. Could it be that any snow mountains were really as fine as clouds like these? I could not believe it.

[Ill.u.s.tration 2: BERN FROM THE SCHaNZLI. The seat of the Swiss Government. The Rathhaus, a modern "old Catholic church," in centre of picture. The Bernese Oberland Mountains in heat-haze at top.]

At last the day came when the sea was crossed and the long railway journey (how long it seemed!) was accomplished. We approached Olten. The Oberland ought to have appeared, but only rain fell. We reached Bern, and drove up to the little country village of Zimmerwald, where my friends were staying; still there was no distant view--nothing but wooded and green hills around, that reminded me of other views, and revealed no such startling novelty as I was awaiting. One day pa.s.sed and then another. On the third morning the sun rose in a sky perfectly clear. When I looked from my window across the green country, and over the deep-lying lake of Thun, I saw them--"suddenly--behold--beyond!"

Jungfrau, Monch, Eiger, and the rest, not yet individuals for me, not for a long time yet, but all together, a great white wall, utterly unlike any dream of them that had visited me before, a new revelation, unimaginable, indescribable, there they stood, and from that moment I also entered into life.

Returned to my school friends in due season, I thought to tell them of this new and splendid joy that had come to me, but a few attempts cured me of any such endeavour. It was impossible. My words fell upon deaf ears, or rather I had no words. What I said failed to raise a picture in their minds, as what had before been said to me had failed. I have never repeated the attempt; I shall not do so now. The prophet who saw the vision of the Almighty could speak only by aid of types and shadows. The great revelations of nature's majesty are not describable. Who that had never seen a thunderstorm could learn its majestic quality from description? Who can enter into the treasures of the snow by way of words? The glory of a great desert must be seen to be realised. The delicate magnificence of the Arctics none can translate into language.

We may speak of that we do know, and testify that we have seen, but no one receives our testimony, because words cannot utter the essential facts.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 3. VIEW OF THE BERNESE ALPS FROM THE GURTEN, NEAR BERN.]

In writing about the Alps, therefore, we write and paint primarily to remind those who know; to suggest further visions of a like character to those they possess within themselves. Even the greatest master of descriptive writing can only manifest his mastership by knowing what to omit and where to stop. "Suddenly--behold--beyond!" That is enough for those who know. For those who do not know, no words can embody and transmit the unfelt emotion.

Since the first day when I saw the snowy mountains, I have seen them again and again in all parts of the world, and have come to know them from above as well as from below. I have penetrated them in all directions and grown to understand the meaning of their smallest details of couloir, creva.s.se, ice-fall, cornice, arete, and bergschrund. It has not been all gain. Gladly would some of us be able to shed our knowledge of detail, if it were but for a moment, and once again behold the great wall of white as ignorantly as we first beheld it--a thing, vast, majestic, and above all mysterious--unapproachable as the clouds--a region not for men but fairies--the rose-clad tops of the mountains where dance the spirits of the dawn. Fairest of all is ever the first vision, not completest. Later we know more, we understand more, we may even come to love more, but the first vision of a young man's love is surpa.s.sed by no future splendour, and the first glory of a mountain view never comes again.

Doubtless there may exist some people who, even if they had been smitten by the glory of the mountains in the age of their own most abounding youthful powers of body, would not have been attracted to climb them; yet such folks must be rare. Those who first see mountains in the years of their solid maturity naturally escape the attraction. But most young and healthy individuals as naturally desire to climb as they do to swim or to wander. The instinct of man is to believe that joy is somewhere else than where he stands. "Dort wo du nicht bist, dort ist das Gluck."

It is not true, but life is not long enough to teach us that it is not--and fortunately, else were half our efforts quenched in the impulse.

To see round, over, and beyond--that is the natural desire of all. We want to go everywhere, to behold everything. Who would not rush to visit the other side of the moon, were such journey possible? If Messrs. Cook were to advertise a trip to Mars, who would not be of the party? "To see round, over, and beyond"--that is a common human instinct, which accounts for the pa.s.sion of historical and scientific investigation, for the eagerness of politicians, for the enthusiasm of explorers and excavators, for the inquisitiveness of psychical societies, for the prosperity of fortune-tellers, and for the energy of mountaineers. What!

There is a height looking down on me and I cannot attain it? There is a mountain wall around me and I cannot look over it? Perish the thought!

There is an historical limit behind which I know nothing about the human race? Give me a spade, that I may dig out some yet earlier ancestor and discover something about him. There is an unmapped region at the south pole? What is my Government made of that it does not send forth an expedition to describe it?

[Ill.u.s.tration: 4. THE PIER AT SCHERZLIGEN, LAKE OF THUN--EVENING. The Niesen on the right.]

In face of the unknown all men are of one mind. They cannot but endeavour to replace ignorance by knowledge. What is true of the ma.s.s is true to some extent of each individual. There exists in the unit the same tendency at all events as in the mult.i.tude. Each man wants to see what he has not seen, to stand where he has not stood, to learn more than he knows. In the presence of mountains this desire urges him upward. He does not start as a mountaineer intending to climb, and climb. He starts for a single expedition, just to see what high peaks and glaciers are like. The snowy regions beheld from a distance puzzle him. Evidently they are not like the places he is familiar with. He will for once go and take a nearer look. He will climb somewhither and get a sight all round. Little does he suspect what the outcome of his venture may be. A week ago he was perhaps laughing at the tattered-faced climbers he met, as mad fools, going up to mountain-tops just to come down again and say they had been there. Of such folly he at any rate will never be guilty. Climbing has no fascinations for him; he is merely going to have a look at the white world, so that he may know what it is that he hears people talking about--their corridors and their couloirs, creva.s.ses, snow-bridges, seracs, and bergschrunds.

So he hires a guide and sets forth for the Breithorn, perhaps, or some such high and safe-reputed peak. He hits upon a day when the weather turns bad. Winds buffet him; rain and snow drench him; he labours through soft snow; he is bewildered by fog. If the sun shines for a few moments, it is only long enough to scorch the skin off his face and ensure him a few days of great discomfort to follow. He has no view from the summit. He returns wearied out to his inn.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 5. MELCHIOR ANDEREGG. Born 1828. A celebrated Alpine guide; with the late Sir Leslie Stephen made many first ascents, including the Rympfischhorn, Alphubel, Oberaarhorn. Also well known for his wood-carving.]

Yes!--and thenceforward the alpine fever masters him. He is caught and makes no effort to escape. His keenest desire is to be off once more into those same high regions--once more to feel the ice beneath his feet--once more to scramble up clean crags fresh from nature's sculpturing and undefiled by soil or vegetation. With each new ascent he becomes eager for more. The summers are all too short for his satisfaction. He goes home to read about other people's climbs, to study maps and guide-books, to lay out schemes for future seasons. Dauphiny, the Graians, the Engadine and Tirol--he must give a season or seasons to each. Thus is the climber fashioned out of an ordinary man.

Each new votary of the peaks in turn experiences the same sudden conversion, expects to be able to explain his new delight to his lowland friends, and in turn discovers the same impossibility. He learns, as we all have learned, that the delight is not translatable into words; that each must experience it for himself and each must win his own entrance into the secret alone. The most we can do is to awaken the inquisitive sense in another, who beholds the visible evidence of our enjoyment and wonders what its source may be. In that fashion the infection can be spread, and is spread with the extraordinary rapidity that the last half-century has witnessed.

What climber does not recall the enthusiasm of his first seasons? the pa.s.sionate expectation of the coming summer, the painful awaiting for the moment when his foot should once again crunch the ice-corn of the glacier beneath its hob-nailed sole? Gradually that enthusiasm pa.s.ses and is replaced by a settled mood of calmer, but no less intense, satisfaction. But does the aesthetic delight in the beauty of the mountains remain through all these experiences undimmed? Not always. In the first view of them it is the beauty of the snowy peaks, of the great white walls, that appeals to the eye. Ignorant of the meaning of every detail, the details are almost unseen. It is the whole that is beheld in the glory of its whiteness. The wonder of the silver snow beyond the green and beneath the sky invades the mind of every new spectator. Small need be our surprise that unsophisticated, semi-civilised peoples have always believed the snowy regions to be part of the other world--the home of ghosts and fairies, or of demons and dragons. "Not more awful, round heaven, the walls of sacred Death," says Ruskin in the pa.s.sage above quoted, thereby manifesting how close in its instincts is the sympathy between genius and the purely natural man. Almost universal is the feeling aroused by a first sight of a great snowy range that it is unearthly. Mystery gathers over it. Its shining majesty in full sunlight, its rosy splendours at dawn and eve, its pallid glimmer under the clear moon, its wreathed and ever-changing drapery of cloud, its terrific experiences in storm, all these elements and aspects strike the imagination and appeal broadly to the aesthetic sense. Nor are they ever quite forgotten even by the most callous of professional mountaineers.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 6. STORM COMING UP OVER LAKE OF LUCERNE. Sketch made from Fluelen.]

But with increase of experience on the mountains themselves come knowledge and a whole group of new a.s.sociations. A man does not climb a mountain without bringing some of it away with him and leaving something of himself upon it. Returned to the level and looking back, he does not see his peak as before. Every feature of the road he traversed is remembered, and he instinctively tries to fit the features to the view.

That velvet slope above the trees is the stony tract up which he toiled before dawn and where he stumbled in the fitful lantern-light. That grey band beside the glacier is the moraine, whose big rocks were unstable beneath his tread. That glacier--how slippery it was before the sun smote it! There are the creva.s.ses that made his track so devious; and there began the snowfield so hard and pleasant under foot in the early hours, so toilsome to wade through as the day advanced. In the upper part of the mountain all the little features, that seemed unimportant from below, take on a new meaning. He finds it hard to identify different points. Can that tiny thread of snow be the broad gully up which so many steps had to be cut? He looks at it through a telescope, and the actual traces of his staircase become visible. The mountain judged by the scale of remembered toil grows wonderfully in height. The eye thus trained begins to realise and even to exaggerate the vast scale on which peaks are built. But along with this gain in the truthful sense of scale comes the loss of mystery. The peak which was in heaven is brought down to earth. It was a mere thing of beauty to be adored and wondered at; it has become something to be climbed. Its details have grown intelligible and interesting. The mind regards it from a new aspect, begins to a.n.a.lyse its forms and features, and to consider them mainly in their relation to man as a climber. As knowledge grows this att.i.tude of mind develops. Each fresh peak ascended teaches something.

The nature of the climbing on peaks not yet ascended can to some extent be estimated from below. The inquiry naturally arises, How shall that peak be climbed? Which is the way to attack it? The eye traces possible routes and foresees probable difficulties. It rejects or modifies proposed ways. It observes all kinds of structural details. It notes the path of avalanches and the signs of falling stones. It concentrates its attention upon ice-falls and endeavours to thread the maze of their seracs. Thus the intelligence replaces the aesthetic sense and the enjoyment of beauty becomes or is liable to become dimmed.

The longer a climber gratifies his instincts and pursues his sport, the larger becomes his store of reminiscences and the greater his experience. If he confines his attention to a single range of mountains such as the Alps, he is almost always in sight of mountains he has climbed and glaciers he has traversed. Each view shows him some route he has once pursued, some glacier basin he has explored, some pa.s.s he has crossed. The labyrinth of valleys and the crests of successive ridges do not puzzle him. He knows how they are grouped and whither they lead.

Beyond those mountains is the Zermatt valley; that peak looks down on Zinal; that col leads to Saas. Thus there grows in him the sense of the general shape and arrangement of the country. It is no longer a tangled chaos of heights and depths, but an ordered anatomy, formed by the action of definite and continuous forces. So far as his knowledge extends this orderliness is realised. He has developed a geographical sense. That in its turn poses problems for solution. He notes some corner of his map where a deep-lying valley is intricately fitted in amongst ridges which he has seen from without. He becomes desirous to visit it, so that he may complete the map in his own understanding.

When he goes to a new district he cannot but be eager to obtain a geographical grasp of its form and arrangement. The instinct that desires to see round corners and over walls has now new food to grow on.

In a fresh district the geographical problem is always fascinating, but in one that has been explored by no mountaineer before, its fascination is overwhelming, especially if the explorer be a surveyor and cartographer, as I can attest. To see the sketch-map of a previously unsurveyed country grow upon the paper is an intense satisfaction. The aspect of every peak gives rise to a twofold problem. Can it be climbed, and if so by what route? How should it be depicted on the map? These questions are ever present. The solution of them is the thought of every hour, the first point of interest in every view. As it is with the explorer, so to a less extent is it liable to be with every climber; for all climbers are to some extent explorers, even though they are but exploring previously described and mapped territory. It is new to them, at any rate, and that is the important fact. Climbers, when they begin to exhaust a district, move to another in hunger after the unknown.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 7. LOOKING UP VALLEY TOWARDS ZERMATT FROM NEAR RANDA.

Theodulhorn and Furggengrat in distance.]

Hence, as the seasons go by, it happens that the aesthetic interest, which was at first the climber's main delight, begins to fade. If he be a man of scientific interests it is liable to an even quicker evanescence than if he be not, for problems of geological structure, or of botanical distribution, or of glaciology and the like, are a keen source of intellectual enjoyment. At length, perhaps, the day comes when the loss is felt. There is a gorgeous range of snow mountains with every effect of cloud and sunshine that the eye can desire, displayed about and upon them, yet the climber finds with dismay that his heart is cold.

The old glory has vanished from the scene and the old thrill is an unfelt emotion. What is the matter? Have his eyes grown dim? Has he lost the faculty of delight? Is he growing old? Whatever the cause, the effect is painful in the extreme. It is one that many of us have felt, especially towards the close of a long and successful climbing season, or extensive journey of exploration. There is but one remedy--to quit the mountains for a while and attend to the common business of life.

When winter months have gone by and summer is again at hand, the old enthusiasm is liable to return. Sooner or later the true mountain-lover will begin to starve for sight of the snows.

When age comes upon him and his limbs grow stiff and his heart enfeebles, the desire to climb may slacken, but the love of mountains will not diminish. Rather will it take on again something of its first freshness. Then it was purely objective; now it becomes objective once more. The desire to obtain and to possess pa.s.ses away. We know what it is like to be aloft. We foresee the toil with no less, perhaps with even greater clearness of prevision than we foresee the triumph and the delight. We have learnt the secret of the hills and entered into the treasures of the snow. Now we can afford to rest below and gaze aloft.

If the mystery of our first views can never return, the glow of mult.i.tudinous memories replaces it not unworthily. The peaks have become inaccessible once more. They again belong to another world, the world of the past. The ghosts of our dead friends people them, and the ghosts of our dead selves. When the evening glow floods them at close of day it mingles with the mellow glories of the years that are gone. The old pa.s.sionate hopes and strivings, the old disappointments and regrets, the old rivalries, and the old triumphs, vaguely mingling in a faint regret, beget in the retired mountaineer an att.i.tude of peace and aloofness. He feels again the incommunicable and indescribable delight that thrilled him at the first; but now, though it is less pa.s.sionate, less stimulating, less overwhelming than of yore, it is mellower and not a whit less beautiful and true.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 8. EIGER, MoNCH, AND JUNGFRAU, FROM SCHERZLIGEN, NEAR THUN.]

One precious thing beside memory the retired mountaineer possesses, which he who has never climbed must lack: it is knowledge. The keenest mountain-lover who never climbed does not really know the nature of what he is looking at. Even Ruskin, the most gifted mountain-lover that never climbed, constantly reveals in his writings failures to understand. The true scale of things was never apparent to his eye. Like all beginners, at first underestimating, he presently came to overestimate the size of cliffs and ridges. Ability to see things truly is a great possession.

None but an experienced mountaineer can ever so see mountains. He instinctively recognises the important features and distinguishes them from the unimportant. He is conscious of what is in front and what behind. He does not mistake foreshortened ridges for needle-pointed peaks. A range of mountains is not a wall to him but a deep extending ma.s.s. He feels the recesses and the projections. He has a sense of what is round the corner. The deep circuits of the hills are present in his imagination even when unbeheld. He knows their white loneliness. The seen end of a glacier-snout implies to him all the unseen upper course and expanse of its gathering ground. Thus every view to him is instinct with implications of the unseen and the beyond. Such knowledge well replaces the mystery of his youthful ignorance. If time has taken something away, it has amply repaid the theft. It is not his debtor. He may mingle now with the crowd who never quit the roads, and no external sign shall distinguish him from them, but the actual difference between them is fundamental. For the snows are beyond their ken and belong to the same region as the sky; but they are within his area; they form part of his intellectual estate; they hold his past life upon their crests.

Where the lowlander looks and wonders, the mountaineer possesses and remembers, nor wonders less for being able to realise the immensity of the ma.s.s of beauteous detail that unites to form a mountain landscape.

To attain such ripe fruition, however, does not come to every man, nor to any without taking thought. The most callous person will feel some thrill from a first view of a snowy range, but it may soon become a commonplace sight, its beauty soon be unperceived. Only by taking thought can this be avoided. Unless we can learn from year to year to see more, and more recondite, beauties in nature, we are yearly losing sensitiveness to nature's beauty. There is no standing still in this matter. We must advance or we must go back. A faculty must be used or it will atrophy. It is not enough to go to the mountains in order to grow in their grace. Sensitiveness to beauty increases in the man who looks for beauty and greatly desires to find it. Pure nature is always and everywhere beautiful to the eye that knows how to see. The perception of the beauty of a thing is, however, not the same as the mere sight of a thing. Many may behold a view, and of them all only one may see beauty in it. He does so because he brings with him the innate or trained capacity for seeing that kind of beauty. But how is that capacity to be acquired or emphasised by training? This question might be answered in a volume and even then the answer would be incomplete and would not compel a.s.sent from all. We can only afford a single phrase here for the reply--"by taking thought." If, when a sight produces on the spectator the thrill that comes from the recognition of beauty, he will concentrate his attention upon it and remember it (as a youth remembers the beautiful face of a girl he has merely pa.s.sed in the street), and if he will be on the alert to find it again and yet again, he will a.s.suredly obtain by degrees a completer understanding and a more sensitive recognition of that particular kind of beauty. He will find more sides and aspects of it than he at first suspected. It will lead him on to a larger knowledge and a wider sympathy. His aesthetic capacity will be increased and his powers of delight continuously developed. All this in the case of mountain-beauty will come to him, not merely because he wanders among or upon mountains, but because being there he retains towards them a definite att.i.tude of mind,--an att.i.tude, however, which is not that of the climber, and which mere climbing and exploration do not by themselves encourage. He that looks for structure will find structure; he that studies routes will find routes. To find beauty it is beauty that must be searched for as a prospector searches for gold. More priceless than gold, beauty abundantly rewards those who find her. With that guerdon in mind let the mountaineering reader ask himself, "Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: 9. LUCERNE AND LAKE FROM THE DREI LINDEN. Pilatus with storm breaking over mountain and town.]

CHAPTER II

HOW TO SEE MOUNTAINS

I have borrowed the t.i.tle of this chapter from that of an excellent book, recently published, called _How to Look at Pictures_. The natural man might suppose that such were questions on which there is nothing to say. The picture is before you, and all you have to do is to open your eyes and let the image of it fall on your retina. What can be more simple? Yet that is not all, because the eye only sees that which it brings with it the power of seeing. How much more one sees in the face of a friend than in that of a stranger! It is similar with all objects.

In order to see aright and to see fully, the power of seeing must be acquired. Some learn more easily than others, but all must learn. It is admittedly so with music. The most self-satisfied person cannot refuse to admit that even a short tune is better grasped, better _heard_, on a second hearing than the first time. What is true of a simple tune is more obviously true of a complicated work. The most accomplished musician does not grasp a Wagner opera at a first hearing. Man is a creature with faculties that need training. He is not born with faculties fully trained by instinct.

To perceive beauty in a scene implies a power of selection. There is beauty in every view if you know how to find it, but the eye has to sift it out. Open your eyes at random. They are saluted by an infinite mult.i.tude of details. You can pa.s.s from one to another, but you cannot see them all at once. Looking at a tree, you can see a few leaves and twigs surrounded by a green spludge, which experience has taught you is made up of leaves or twigs, but you do not see all the leaves at once; so with blades of gra.s.s, flowers in a field, strata edges on a cliff, or creva.s.ses in a glacier. In a broad effect of sunset you cannot be simultaneously conscious of more than a few forms and colours, and, of those you are simultaneously conscious of, one will be more important than the rest--one will give the key-note. Nor can you be equally conscious at one moment of forms and colours, or of colours and light and shade. If a view strikes you at all, it strikes you by some effect in it which you perceive, even though you may not be able to state in words what that effect is. It is clear, however, that any effect is the result of selection by the eye. The effect upon the eye would be unchanged if a quant.i.ty of details were blotted out, so long as none of those details formed part of the effect. Thus if you were attracted by the bright effulgence of a snow slope seen against a clear sky (to take a simple instance), and if your mind were concentrated upon that contrast, you would not notice the sudden obliteration of a creva.s.se in the slope. That detail would form no part of the effect.

As you gaze at any scene you may be continually and rapidly changing the effects you are observing, and that without altering the direction of the eye. Such, in fact, is what every view-gazer is always doing. He is searching for a satisfying effect of beauty out of the mult.i.tude of possible effects that could be found, such possible effects being always practically infinite in number. Ultimately it is probable that some one effect will obtain the mastery within him, an effect that his eye is specially capable of seeing and his mind of comprehending. He pa.s.ses on his way, and a day afterwards recalls yesterday's view. What rises in his memory is not the whole scene with all its details, but the special effect that ultimately impressed him, the result of a kind of survival of the fittest within him of a mult.i.tude of competing effects that he saw or almost saw.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 10. THE JUNGFRAU FROM INTERLAKEN. First ascended 1811.]

Take, for example, a very simple instance, the view of the Jungfrau from Interlaken on a clear day. What most people see is a roughly triangular white ma.s.s below a blue sky, and limited on either hand and below by green slopes and foreground. Suppose the looker to be a meteorologist whose special study is the atmosphere and its clouds.

Probably the first thing he will notice will be the quality of the blueness of the sky and the tone of the lower atmosphere between him and the white mountain and green hills. He will, in fact, observe the air-tones, and consciously or unconsciously they will be the key-note of his impression. Next comes an East Londoner with a Toynbee Hall party, let us say. What strikes him is the novelty of the white mountain. Its whiteness is his main impression, the blue and the green being perceived as mere contrasts to that, and the forms of mountain and hills being unimportant shapes of the colour limits. The size of the mountain may be a subsidiary impression, but it will depend still upon the white colour, the wonder being that so large a natural object should be of snow. Anon comes a lover of woods and trees and of the green world. The white mountain for him will merely emphasise and dignify the pine woods and the gra.s.sy swards. He will note the draping of the hills by the pine-trees, and the character of the woods. The white peak will have value in the view to him, but only a value subordinate to that of the forest. After him comes a climber, trained, let us say, in the Canadian Rockies, and now for the first time visiting the cla.s.sic land of climbers. When, on a clear day, the Jungfrau bursts upon his vision, he will give all his eyes to her and her only. He will not observe the greater or lesser blueness of the sky, nor the forms and features of the foreground hills--that is to say, they will not be the first object of his attention, the key-note of the effect he perceives. No! he will notice the form of the snow peak, the modelling of the glacier surface, the striping of the avalanche tracks, the character of the outlining ridges and minor b.u.t.tresses. He will be subtly conscious of what is snow and what ice, of how and why rocks emerge from the snowy envelope. Where the ignorant will conceive the peak to be a great mound of snow, the newly-arrived climber will feel it to be a ma.s.s of rock draped in snow and ice, and his attention will be caught and held by that drapery, its forms and foldings.