TURGIDUS ALPINUS.
My miserable countrymen, whose wont is once a-year To lounge in watering-places, disagreeable and dear; Who on pigmy Cambrian mountains, and in Scotch or Irish bogs Imbibe incessant whisky, and inhale incessant fogs: Ye know not with what transports the mad Alpine Clubman gushes, When with rope and axe and knapsack to the realms of snow he rushes.
O can I e"er the hour forget--a voice within cries "Never!"-- From British beef and sherry _dear_ which my young heart did sever?
My limbs were cased in flannel light, my frame in Norfolk jacket, As jauntily I stepped upon the impatient Calais packet.
"Dark lowered the tempest overhead," the waters wildly rolled, Wildly the moon sailed thro" the clouds, "and it grew wondrous cold;"
The good ship cleft the darkness, like an iron wedge, I trow, As the steward whispered kindly, "you had better go below"-- Enough! I"ve viewed with dauntless eye the cattle"s b.l.o.o.d.y tide; Thy horse, proud Duke of Manchester, I"ve seen straight at me ride; I"ve braved chance ram-rods from my friends, blank cartridges from foes; The jeers of fair spectators, when I fell upon my nose; I"ve laughed at toils and troubles, as a British Volunteer; But the thought of that nigh"s misery still makes me pale with fear.
Sweet the repose which cometh as the due reward of toil; Sweet to the sea-worn traveller the French or British soil; But a railway-carriage full of men, who smoke and drink and spit, Who disgust you by their manners, and oppress you with their wit; A carriage garlic-scented, full of uproar and of heat, To a sleepy, jaded Briton is decidedly not sweet.
Then welcome, welcome Paris, peerless city of delights!
Welcome, Boulevards, fields Elysian, brilliant days and magic nights!
"Vive la gloire, et vive Napoleon! vive l"Empire (c"est la paix); "Vive la France, the land of beauty! vive la Rue St. Honore!"
Wildly shouting thus in triumph, I arrived at my Hotel-- The exterior was palatial, and the dinner pretty well: O"er the rest, ye muses draw a veil! "Twas the Exhibition year-- And everything was nasty, and proportionately dear, Why should ye sing how much I paid for one poor pint of claret-- The horrors of my bedroom in a flea-frequented garret-- Its non-Sabaean odours--Liliputian devices For washing in a tea-cup--all at "Exhibition prices?"
To the mountains, to the mountains, to their snowy peaks I fly!
For their pure, primeval freshness, for their solitude I sigh!
Past old Dijon and its Buffet, past fair Macon and its wine, Thro" the lime-stone cliffs, of Jura, past Mont Cenis" wondrous line; Till at 10 A.M., "Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,"
And I take outside the diligence for Chamonix my place.
Still my fond imagination views, in memory"s mirror clear, Purple rock, and snowy mountain, pine-wood black, and gla.s.sy mere; Foaming torrents hoa.r.s.ely raving; tinkling cowbells in the glade; Meadows green, and maidens mowing in the pleasant twilight shade: The crimson crown of sun-set on Mont Blanc"s majestic head, And each lesser peak beneath him pale and ghastly as the dead: Eagle-nest-like mountain chalets, where the tourist for some sous Can imbibe milk by the bucket, and on Nature"s grandeur muse: Mont Anvert, the "Pas" called "mauvais," which I thought was "pas mauvais,"
Where, in spite of all my boasting, I encountered some delay; For, much to my amazement, at the steepest part I met A matron who weighed twenty stones, and I think must be there yet: The stupendous Col du Geant, with its chaos of seracs; The procession into Cormayeur, with lantern, rope, and axe: The sweet girl with golden ringlets--her dear name was Mary Ann-- Whom I helped to climb the Jardin, and who cut me at Lausanne: On these, the charms of Chamonix, sweeter far than words can tell, At the witching hour of twilight doth my memory love to dwell.
Ye, who ne"er have known the rapture, the unutterable bliss Of Savoy"s sequestered valleys, and the mountains of La Suisse; The mosquitos of Martigny; the confusion of Sierre; The dirt of Visp or Minister, and the odours everywhere: Ye, who ne"er from Monte Rosa have surveyed Italia"s plain, Till you wonder if you ever will get safely down again; Ye, who ne"er have stood on tip-toe on a "knife-like snow-arete,"
Nor have started avalanches by the pressure of your weight; Ye, who ne"er have _packed_ your weary limbs in sleeping bags at night, Some few inches from a berg-schrund, "neath the pale moon"s freezing light: Who have ne"er stood on the snow-fields, when the sun in glory rose, Nor returned again at sun-set with parched lips and skinless nose; Ye, who love not masked creva.s.ses, falling stones, and blistered feet, Sudden changes from Siberia"s cold to equatorial heat; Ye, who love not the extortions of Padrone, Driver, Guide; Ye, who love not o"er the Gemmi on a kicking mule to ride; You miserable creatures, who will never know true bliss, You"re not the men for Chamonix; avoid, avoid La Suisse!
THE ALPINE CLUB MAN.
"Up the high Alps, perspiring madman, steam, To please the school-boys, and become a theme."
_Cf. Juv. Sat. x, v. 106._
We who know not the charms of a gla.s.s below Zero, Come list to the lay of an Alpine Club hero; For no mortal below, contradict it who can, Lives a life half so blest as the Alpine Club man.
When men of low tastes snore serenely in bed, He is up and abroad with a nose blue and red; While the lark, who would peacefully sleep in her nest, Wakes and blesses the stranger who murders her rest.
Now blowing their fingers, with frost-bitten toes, The joyous procession exultingly goes; Above them the glaciers spectral are shining, But onward they march undismay"d, unrepining.
Now the glacier blue they approach with blue noses, When a yawning creva.s.se further progress opposes; Already their troubles begin--here"s the rub!
So they halt, and _nem. con._ call aloud for their grub.
From the fountain of pleasure will bitterness spring, Yet why should the Muse aught but happiness sing?
No! let me the terrible anguish conceal Of the hero whose guide had forgotten the veal! [1]
Now "all full inside" on the ice they embark: The moon has gone down, and the morning is dark, Dreary drizzles the rain, O, deny it who can, There"s no one so blest as the Alpine Club man!
But why should I dwell on their labours at length?
Why sing of their eyelids" astonishing strength?
How they ride up "aretes" with slow, steady advance, One leg over Italy, one over France.
Now the summit is gained, the reward of their toil: So they sit down contentedly water to boil: Eat and drink, stamp their feet, and keep warm if they can-- O who is so blest as the Alpine Club man?
Now their lips and their hands are of wonderful hue, And skinless their noses, that "erst were so blue: And they find to their cost that high regions agree With that patient explorer and climber--the flea.
Then they slide down again in a manner not cozy, (Descensus baud facilis est Montis Rosae) Now spread on all fours, on their backs now descending, Till broad-cloth and bellows call loudly for mending.
Now harnessed together like so many--horses, By bridges of snow they cross awful creva.s.ses; So frail are these bridges that they who go o"er "em Indulge in a perilous "Pons Asinorum."
Lastly weary and Jaded, with hunger opprest, In a hut they chew goat"s flesh, and court gentle rest; But entomological hosts have conspired To drive sleep from their eyelids, with clambering tired.
O thou, who with banner of strangest device Hast never yet stood on a summit of ice, Where "lifeless but beautiful" nature doth show An unvaried expanse of rock, rain, ice, and snow.
Perchance thou may"st ask what avails all their toil?
What avails it on mountain-tops water to boil?
What avails it to leave their snug beds in the dark?
Do they go for a view? do they go for a lark?
Know, presumptuous wretch, "tis not science they prize, The lark, and the view ("tis all mist) they despise; Like the wise king of France with his ten thousand men, They go up their mountain--to come down again.
[1] Cf. Peaks, Pa.s.ses, and Glaciers, 1st Series, p. 296.
THE MODERN CLIMBER.
Year after year, as Summer suns come round, Upon the Calais packet am I found: Thence to Geneva hurried by express, I halt for breakfast, bathe, and change my dress.
My well-worn knapsack to my back I strap; My Alpine rope I neatly round me wrap; Then, axe in hand, the diligence disdaining, I walk to Chamonix, by way of training.
Arrived at Coutlet"s Inn by eventide, I interview my porter and my guide: My guide, that Mentor who has dragg"d full oft These aching, shaking, quaking limbs aloft; Braved falling stones, cut steps on ice-slopes steep, That _I_ the glory of _his_ deeds might reap.
My porter, who with uncomplaining back O"er pa.s.ses, peaks, and glaciers bears my pack: Tho" now the good man looks a trifle sadder, When I suggest the ill-omened name of "ladder."
O"er many a pipe our heads we put together; Our first enquiry is of course "the weather."
With buoyant hearts the star-lit heaven we view; Then our next point is "What are we to "_do_"?"
My pipe I pocket, and with head up-tossed My listening followers I thus accost:-- "Mont Blanc, we know, is stupid, stale, and slow, A tiresome tramp o"er lumps of lifeless snow.
The Col du Geant is a trifle worse; The Jardin"s fit for babies with their nurse: The Aiguille Verte is more the sort of thing, But time has robbed it of its former sting; Alone the Dent du Geant and the Dru [1]
Remain "undone," and therefore fit to "_do_."
Remember how I love, my comrades tried, To linger on some rocky mountain"s side, "Where I can hear the crash of falling stones, Threatening destruction to the tourist"s bones!
No cadence falls so sweetly on my ear As stones discharged from precipices sheer: No sight is half so soothing to my nerves As boulders bounding in eccentric curves.
If falling stones sufficient be not found, Lead me where avalanches most abound.
Ye shake your heads; ye talk of home and wife, Of babes dependent on the Father"s life.
What! still reluctant? let me then make clear The duties of the guide and mountaineer; Mine is to order, yours is to obey-- For you are hirelings, and "tis I who pay.
I"ve heard, indeed, that some old-fashioned Herren, Who"ve walked with Almer, Melchior, and Perren, Maintain that mountaineering is a pleasure, A recreation for our hours of leisure: "To be or not to be" perhaps may matter To _them_, for they may have some brains to scatter; But _we_, I trust, shall take a higher view, And make our mountain motto "die or do."
"Nay, hear me out! your scruples well I know: Trust me, not unrewarded shall ye go.
If ye succeed, much money will I give, And mine unfaltering friendship, while ye live.
Nor only thus will I your deeds requite; High testimonials in your books I"ll write.
Thee, trusty guide, will I much eulogize As strong and cautious, diligent and wise, Active, unhesitating, cheerful, sure-- Nay, _almost_ equal to an Amateur!
And thou, my meekest of meek beasts of burden, Thou too shalt have thine undisputed guerdon: I"ll do for thee the very best I can, And sound thy praise as "a good third-rate man."
But if ye fail, if cannonading stones, Or toppling ice-crag, pulverize your bones; O happy stroke, that makes immortal heroes Of men who, otherwise, would be but zeroes!
What tho" no Alpine horn make music drear O"er the lone snow which furnishes your bier; Nor Alpine maiden strew your grave with posies Of gentian, edelweiss, and Alpine roses?