Scrambles Amongst the Alps in the Years 1860–69 quotes

Amongst the peaks which were upon the list was Mont Pelvoux, in Dauphiné. The sketches that were required of it were to celebrate the triumph of some Englishmen who intended to make its ascent.

They came⁠—they saw⁠—but they did not conquer.

By a mere chance I fell in with a very agreeable Frenchman who accompanied this party, and was pressed by him to return to the assault. In 1861 we did so, with my friend Macdonald—and we conquered.

This mountain was reputed to be the highest in France, and on that account was worthy of attention; and it was believed to be the culminating point of a picturesque district of great interest, which was then almost unexplored!

The Matterhorn attracted me simply by its grandeur.

It was considered to be the most completely inaccessible of all mountains, even by those who ought to have known better.

and it will doubtless be pointed out that our practice must have been bad if the principles which are laid down are sound, or that the principles must be unsound if the practice was good. We were not immaculate.

Our blunders are not held up to be admired, or to be imitated, but to be avoided.

These Scrambles amongst the Alps were holiday excursions, and as such they should be judged. They are spoken of as sport, and nothing more. The pleasure that they gave me cannot be transferred to others.

These Scrambles amongst the Alps were holiday excursions, and as such they should be judged. They are spoken of as sport, and nothing more. The pleasure that they gave me cannot be transferred to others.

The ablest pens have failed, and I think must always fail, to give a true idea of the grandeur of the Alps.

The most minute descriptions of the greatest writers do nothing more than convey impressions that are entirely erroneous—the reader conjures up visions, it may be magnificent ones, but they are infinitely inferior to the reality.

In 1864, there were no signs of decay about the base of this huge pinnacle. In 1895 it seemed to me that it would not be long before it would collapse.

Woe betide those who may be beneath the Great Tower when it falls.

By reference to this section in Appendix C, it will be seen that Jean-Antoine Carrel, upon his descent of the Matterhorn, on July 17, 1865, came down at one part of the way by a somewhat easier route than that which was taken upon the …

It was filled with workmen who were employed on the road, and with noxious vapours proceeding from them. The inclemency of the weather was preferable to the inhospitality of the interior.

Outside, it was disagreeable, but grand; inside, it was disagreeable and mean.

The walk was continued under a deluge of rain, and I felt the way down—so intense was the darkness—to the village of La Grave, where the people of the inn detained me forcibly. It was perhaps fortunate that they did so;

Down we went to the bureau; but it was closed; we halloed through the slits, but no answer. At last the postmaster was discovered endeavouring (with very fair success) to make himself intoxicated. He was just able to ejaculate,

“France! ’tis the first nation in the world!”

which is a phrase used by a Frenchman at times that a Briton begins to shout, “We won’t go home till morning”—national glory being uppermost in the thoughts of one, and home in those of the other. The baton was produced;

Nothing but the heavy breathing of our already sound asleep comrades broke the solemn stillness of the night.

It was a silence to be felt.

Nothing? Hark! what is that dull booming sound above us? Is that nothing? There it is again, plainer—on it comes, nearer, clearer; ’tis a crag escaped from the heights above! What a fearful crash! We jump to our feet. Down it comes with awful fury;

When that was over, Macdonald endeavoured to dry his socks by the lamp, and then the three lay down under my plaid to pretend to sleep. Reynaud’s woes were aggravated by toothache; Macdonald somehow managed to close his eyes.

The longest night must end, and ours did at last.

We got down to our rock in an hour and a quarter, and found the lad not a little surprised at our absence. We feasted at the cave, and performed some very necessary ablutions.

The third quarter was finished by the end of 1868, and upon the 26th December 1870 the junction of the advanced galleries was successfully effected.

The engineers shook hands through a hole made in the centre of the drifts, and then blew away the narrow wall which separated France from Italy.

Four weeks before this took place, the men who were employed in the advanced gallery on the French side heard distant rumbling sounds, and leaving off work, could distinctly hear their comrades firing blasts in the other gallery.

There seemed to be a cordon drawn around it, up to which one might go, but no farther.

Within that invisible line gins and effreets were supposed to exist⁠—the Wandering Jew and the spirits of the damned.

The superstitious natives in the surrounding valleys (many of whom firmly believed it to be not only the highest mountain in the Alps, but in the world) spoke of a ruined city on its summit wherein the spirits dwelt;

The Matterhorn looks equally imposing from whatever side it is seen.

It never seems commonplace; and in this respect, and in regard to the impression it makes upon spectators, it stands almost alone amongst mountains.

It has no rivals in the Alps, and but few in the world.

on the other, steep, glassy slopes of hard snow descended to the Glacier du Lion, furrowed by water and by falling stones. On the north there was the great peak of the Matterhorn and on the south the cliffs of the Tête du Lion.

Throw a bottle down to the Tiefenmatten⁠—no sound returns for more than a dozen seconds.

… “how fearful And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!”

But where could the other two men be obtained? Carrel was the only man who exhibited any enthusiasm in the matter; and he, in 1861, had absolutely refused to go unless the party consisted of at least four persons.

Want of men made the difficulty, not the mountain.

The weather became bad again, so I went to Zermatt on the chance of picking up a man, and remained there during a week of storms.

It was sufficiently dull during this time.

I was chiefly occupied in meditating on the vanity of human wishes, and in watching my clothes being washed in the tub which was turned by the stream in the front of the house

; and I vowed that if an Englishman should at any time fall sick in the Val Tournanche, he should not feel so solitary as I did at this dreary time.

He did not hesitate, and in a few hours we stood—for the third time together—upon the Col du Lion; but it was the first time Meynet had seen the view unclouded.

The poor little deformed peasant gazed upon it silently and reverently for a time, and then, unconsciously, fell on one knee in an attitude of adoration, and clasped his hands, exclaiming in ecstasy, “Oh, beautiful mountains!”

His actions were as appropriate as his words were natural, and tears bore witness to the reality of his emotion.

The rocks also were in a better state than I had ever seen them, being almost entirely free from glaze of ice.

Meynet was always merriest on the difficult parts, and, upon the most difficult, kept on enunciating the sentiment, “We can only die once,” a thought which seemed to afford him infinite satisfaction.

We arrived at the inn early in the evening, and I found my projects summarily and unexpectedly knocked on the head.

… suggestive of housebreaking, for, besides these, there were several coils of rope, and numerous tools of suspicious appearance, and it was reluctantly admitted into France, but it passed through the customhouse with less trouble than I anticipated, after a timely expenditure of a few francs.

I am not in love with the douane. It is the purgatory of travellers, where uncongenial spirits mingle together for a time, before they are separated into rich and poor.

The douaniers look upon tourists as their natural enemies; see how eagerly they pounce upon the portmanteaux! One of them has discovered something! He has never seen its like before, and he holds it aloft in the face of its owner, with inquisitorial insolence.

I am not in love with the douane. It is the purgatory of travellers, where uncongenial spirits mingle together for a time, before they are separated into rich and poor.

The douaniers look upon tourists as their natural enemies; see how eagerly they pounce upon the portmanteaux!

One of them has discovered something! He has never seen its like before, and he holds it aloft in the face of its owner, with inquisitorial insolence. “But what is this?” The explanation is only half satisfactory. “But what is this?”

The rope was to keep back the spectators, and an Englishman in my company was the agent. “Monsieur is acrobat then?” “Yes, certainly.”

“Pass the effects of Monsieur the acrobat!”

These ladders were the source of endless trouble.

and when those happy moments are over, which always fly with too great rapidity, the summit is left with an impression that is seldom durable, because it is usually vague.

No views create such lasting impressions as those which are seen but for a moment, when a veil of mist is rent in twain, and a single spire or dome is disclosed.

The peaks which are seen at these moments are not, perhaps, the greatest or the noblest, but the recollection of them outlives the memory of any panoramic view, because the picture, photographed by the eye, has time to dry, instead of being blurred, while yet …

I may be wrong in supposing that the falls in the night are greater than those in the daytime, since sound is much more startling during darkness than when the cause of its production is seen.

Even a sigh may be terrible in the stillness of the night.

In the daytime one’s attention is probably divided between the sound and the motion of rocks which fall; or it may be concentrated on other matters.

“Why,” said Favre, the innkeeper, “we have had no snow; it has been fine all the time you have been absent, and there has been only that small cloud upon the mountain.”

Ah! that small cloud! None except those who have had experience of it can tell what a formidable obstacle it is.

Why is it that the Matterhorn is subject to these abominable variations of weather? The ready answer is, “Oh, the mountain is so isolated; it attracts the clouds.” This is not a sufficient answer.

I know what my friend meant.

Croz was happiest when he was employing his powers to the utmost.

Places where you and I would “toil and sweat, and yet be freezing cold,” were bagatelles to him, and it was only when he got above the range of ordinary mortals, and was required to employ his magnificent strength, and to draw upon his unsurpassed …

Who is Melchior Anderegg? Those who ask the question cannot have been in Alpine Switzerland, where the name of Melchior is as well known as the name of Napoleon.

Melchior, too, is an Emperor in his way⁠—a very Prince among guides. His empire is amongst the “eternal snows,”⁠—his sceptre is an ice-axe.

Melchior Anderegg, more familiarly, and perhaps more generally known simply as Melchior, was born at Zaun, near Meiringen, on April 6, 1828.

It would be almost an easier task to say what he has not done than to catalogue his achievements. Invariable success attends his arms.

He leads his followers to victory, but not to death.

I believe that no accident has ever befallen travellers in his charge. Like his friend Almer, he can be called a safe man. It is the highest praise that can be given to a first-rate guide.

In fact, the game here was not worth the risk. The guides felt it as well as ourselves, and as Almer led off, he remarked, with more piety than logic,

“The good God has brought us up, and he will take us down in safety,” which showed pretty well what he was thinking about.

The ridge down which we now endeavoured to make our way was not inferior in difficulty to the other.

… d’Entraigues, and found that it was not possible to see into the corner, our faith in its existence became less and less, until the telegraphing of Almer, who was sent up the opposite slopes to search for it, assured us that we were true prophets.

Snow couloirs are nothing more or less than gullies partly filled by snow.

They are most useful institutions, and may be considered as natural highways placed, by a kind Providence, in convenient situations for getting over places which would otherwise be inaccessible.

They were quite invisible to each other from the mist, and looked spectral even to us. But the strong man could be heard by all hewing out the steps below, while every now and then the voice of the steady man pierced the cloud—

“Slip not, dear sirs; place well your feet; stir not until you are certain.”

For three-quarters of an hour we progressed in this fashion. The axe of Croz all at once stopped. “What is the matter, Croz?” “Bergschrund, gentlemen.” “Can we get over?” “Upon my word, I don’t know; I think we must jump.”

A downward jump of 15 or 16 feet, and a forward leap of 7 or 8 feet had to be made at the same time. That is not much, you will say. It was not much.

It was not the quantity, but it was the quality of the jump which gave to it its particular flavour.

You had to hit a narrow ridge of ice. If that was passed, it seemed as if you might roll down forever and ever.

untied himself and sent up the rope to Walker, who followed his example. It was then my turn, and I advanced to the edge of the ice. The second which followed was what is called a supreme moment. That is to say,

I felt supremely ridiculous.

The world seemed to revolve at a frightful pace, and my stomach to fly away. The next moment I found myself sprawling in the snow, and then, of course, vowed that it was nothing, and prepared to encourage my friend Reynaud.

We saw that it was right to do so.

The Pointe des Plines did not exist.

We had ocular demonstration of the accuracy of his previous observations.

We passed many tired pedestrians toiling up this oven, persecuted by trains of parasitic children.

These children swarm there like maggots in a rotten cheese.

They carry baskets of fruit with which to plague the weary tourist. They flit around him like flies; they thrust the fruit in his face; they pester him with their pertinacity. Beware of them!—taste, touch not their fruit.

But they have gone on, fascinated, and at last have brought their unhappy countenances to a state of helpless and complete ruin. Their lips are cracked; their cheeks are swollen; their eyes are bloodshot; their noses are peeled and indescribable.

Such are the pleasures of the mountaineer!

Scornfully and derisively the last comer compares the sight with his own flaccid face and dainty hands; unconscious that he too, perhaps, will be numbered with those whom he now ridicules.

Information was sought from those who could give it, and the defeats of others were studied, that their errors might be avoided. The results which followed came not so much, perhaps, from luck, as from forethought and careful calculation.

For success does not, as a rule, come by chance, and when one fails there is a reason for it.

But when any notable, or so-called brilliant thing is done, we are too apt to look upon the success alone, without considering how it was attained. Whilst, when men fail, we inquire why they have not succeeded.

But when any notable, or so-called brilliant thing is done, we are too apt to look upon the success alone, without considering how it was attained. Whilst, when men fail, we inquire why they have not succeeded.

So failures are frequently more instructive than successes, and the disappointments of some become profitable to others.

Up to a certain point, the programme was completely and happily carried out. Nothing but success attended our efforts so long as the excursions were executed as they had been planned.

They are entirely unprotected, and are attacked by the strongest blasts and by the most intense cold. The most durable rocks are not proof against such assaults.

These grand, apparently solid⁠—eternal⁠—mountains, seeming so firm, so immutable, are yet ever changing and crumbling into dust.

These shattered ridges are evidence of their sufferings. Let me repeat that every principal ridge of every great peak in the Alps amongst those I have seen has been shattered in this way;

The wonder is, not that they are sometimes so great, but that they are not always greater. Irrespective of lithological considerations, one knows that this debris cannot have been excavated by the glaciers.

The moraines are borne by glaciers, but they are born from the ridges. They are generated by the sun, and delivered by the frost.

“Fire,” it is well said in Plutarch’s life of Camillus, “is the most active thing in nature, and all generation is motion, or at least, with motion;

However, “confining the action of glaciers to the simple rubbing away of the rocks, and allowing them sufficient time to act, it is not a matter of opinion, but a physical certainty, that they” would produce cavities or depressions of one sort or another.

Given eternity, glaciers might even grind out valleys of a peculiar kind.

Such hollows would bear little resemblance to the valleys of the Alps. They might be interesting, but they would be miserably unpicturesque. The hobnailed boots of Alpine tourists would be useless in them; we should have to employ felt slippers or skates.

Almer is a quiet man at all times. When climbing he is taciturn—and this is one of his great merits.

A garrulous man is always a nuisance, and upon a mountainside he may be a danger, for actual climbing requires a man’s whole attention.

Added to this, talkative men are hindrances; they are usually thirsty, and a thirsty man is a drag.

they pant; their throats and tongues become parched, they drink and perspire copiously; and, becoming exhausted, declare that the dryness of the air, or the rarefaction of the air (everything is laid upon the air), is in fault.

On several accounts, therefore, a mountain-climber does well to hold his tongue when he is at work.

At the top of the small gully we crossed over the intervening rocks into the large one, and followed it so long as it was filled with snow. At last ice replaced snow, and we turned over to the rocks upon its left.

Glissading is a very pleasant employment when it is accomplished successfully, and I have never seen a place where it can be more safely indulged in than the snowy valley on the right bank of the Glacier de Triolet.

In my dreams I glissade delightfully, but in practice I find that somehow the snow will not behave properly, and that my alpenstock will get between my legs.

Then my legs go where my head should be, and I see the sky revolving at a rapid pace; the snow rises up and smites me, and runs away; and when it is at last overtaken it suddenly stops, and we come into violent collision.

There have been joys too great to be described in words, and there have been griefs upon which I have not dared to dwell; and with these in mind I say,

Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are nought without prudence, and that a momentary negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime.

Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end.

and with these in mind I say, Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are nought without prudence, and that a momentary negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime.

Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end.

In 1886, another life was lost on the East Face. Two friends, named Borckhardt and Davies, resolved to climb the mountain. We knew, said the latter, that it had been done by ladies and youths.

“It was the regular thing to go up the Matterhorn, and we accordingly determined to make the ascent.”

Accompanied by Fridolin Kronig and Peter Aufdemblatten, they left Zermatt on Aug. 16, in fine weather; and at 3 a.m. on the 17th started from the hut on the Hörnli ridge, arriving on the summit at about 9 a.m.

When telegrams came in, at the beginning of September 1890, stating that Jean-Antoine Carrel had died from fatigue on the south side of the Matterhorn, those who knew the man scarcely credited the report.

It was not likely that this tough and hardy mountaineer would die from fatigue anywhere, still less that he would succumb upon “his own mountain.”

But it was true. Jean-Antoine perished from the combined effects of cold, hunger, and fatigue upon his own side of his own mountain, almost within sight of his own home.

He took a nobler course; and, accepting his responsibility, devoted his whole soul to the welfare of his comrades, until, utterly exhausted, he fell staggering on the snow. He was already dying.

Life was flickering, yet the brave spirit said “It is nothing.”

They placed him in the rear to ease his work. He was no longer able even to support himself; he dropped to the ground, and in a few minutes expired.

It rained as far as our camp, and thenceforward we had to fight our way up through continuously-falling snow, against an easterly gale. It blew dead in our teeth, and our progress was painfully slow.

The snow was writhing all around, as if tormented; or caught by whirlwinds, and sent eddying high aloft; or seized by gusts and borne onwards in clouds which seemed to be driven right through us.

The wind was appalling; once I was fairly blown down, although tied to Biener, and many times we were sent staggering back for ten or a dozen paces against our will. Our track was obliterated at the summit, and we could not find the pit.

I scrambled up, and found the remarkable natural pillars which are represented in the annexed engraving. They were formed out of an unstratified conglomerate of gritty earth, boulders, and stones.

Some of them were more thickly studded with stones than a plum-pudding usually is with plums, whilst from others the stones projected like the spines from an echinoderm.

The earth (or mud) was extremely hard and tenacious, and the stones, embedded in it, were extricated with considerable difficulty. The mud adhered very firmly to the stones that were got out, but it was readily washed away in a little stream near at hand.