had proved himself a helpful and kindly inmate. Marie was standing with her baby in her arms at an upper window; she was full in the light, not partly hidden, as a girl might be, looking her last on the man she loves. She was gazing down with her Madonna face, full of a high purpose and a calm serenity the war within her had been sharp and fierce, but the struggle was over, and she had accepted her fate as God had willed it. She had come forward into the window to bring peace and encouragement to Heinrich. : There was a divine tranquillity about her whole bearing that struck him as he glanced up with a sad disturbed face into the calm above him; he looked again, long and earnestly, and the shadow of a great grief seemed to pass away, and the drawn, hollow lines about his face softened into repose. She, out of the depths of her despair, had taught him that hard life lesson, que la liberté est l'obéissance volontaire." We are not sent into the world to rest in the haven of a great love, to seek and win our individual happiness; love comes, as spring comes, to renew all life, to cover the hard, cold earth with softness and sweetness, to bring the tender buds to blossoming perfection, to fill the clear air with fragrance and light. What if the spring passes is there not the long summer of twilight and peace? Marie had loved, and her love had made her stronger and better: she had suffered, and the suffering had raised and purified her whole nature; she was going to "live the life," not as she had planned it for herself, but as fate had decreed it. The beauty of renunciation shone out of her clear eyes, and in the majesty of her figure there breathed the restful calm that follows upon the tumult of a storm subdued. "They are not men, they are machines!" exclaimed a young girl scornfully, as she moved away from the little group at the door. She had threaded a red ribbon through her ebon hair, and had lifted up her bright eyes laughingly to look into Heinrich's face; he was adjusting his long, glittering lance in the stirrup at the time, and had either not noticed her glance, or had gazed at her vacantly with his dim, grief-ful eyes. I stood and looked after the three figures, sitting square and upright on their powerful horses. As they passed out from the village street on to the straight highway, bordered with stately trees, whose frozen branches, entwining with one another, formed a trellised arch in long perspective, one heard the clank of the horses' hoofs far up the road. The scene as I saw it, with the shadows of evening softening all harsh outlines, seemed like some dream-picture, bathed in the rose and amber light of a waning sun; there was no joyous rippling sound of running water, all the fountains were frozen dumb, thin clouds of vapoury mist wreathed slowly up into the air from above the rough-hewn crosses that bordered the roadside, marking the resting-place of those killed fighting for their fatherland. Heinrich turned to give one last look, and then the three horsemen passed out of sight. Jacques crossed the street, and caught sight of Marie at the window. She smiled, and held up the laughing baby. Jacques' face became radiant, as he stood leaning on his crutches, watching the mother and child, and then limped quickly back again into the house. Then Marie leant out for a moment, her whole face involuntarily changing as she looked for the last time into the misty distance, beginning perhaps to realize with something like despair the level dulness of her future daily lifeit was a passionate farewell look-a helpless, wistful gaze; she was young and eager, with throbbing pulses and an aching heart, that revolted against the woman's relentless will. The child looked up into the altered face, its gleeful crowing changed to a little weak scared cry; Marie started back, and, bending her head low over her baby, hushed its wailing sobs. And in the fading light I saw the indistinct outlines of Jacques' good-humoured, meaningless face he put his hand lightly on Marie's shoulder, and drew her into the room : he shut the window, and began to trim the evening lamp with his deft hands. And from behind the lamp I saw Marie's grand figure passing to and fro, as she hushed her child to sleep: there was silence in the room, and in the blessed stillness I knew that she would gain strength and calm-that peaceful calm that steals its way into a woman's soul, when she holds in her firm arms the sacred burden of a sleeping child. CONCLUSION. WHEN the snow had melted, and the tender blades of grass had sprung out from the brown mould in the fields and hedges, and small buds had dotted the slender shoots of the trees, I went to bid farewell to the villagers of Villefranche. It may be in the coming years I shall see them again in times of peace and plenty, when war is no longer devastating the rich gardens of the Ardennes, and fever and famine are passed away as a tale that is told. But never can I forget France as she appeared to me then, "beautiful amid her woes," her proud spirit unbroken, her faith in her old prestige unshaken, her children. silently suffering in her cause: how bright, how patient, how proudly uncomplaining they were; how soft, how winning, how warm-hearted; what quick sensibilities, what flashes of keen humour, what dignity and grace. Are the French indeed so callous and frivolous ?-these earnest, devoted husbands, these tender, helpful wives, supporting with their united, unwearied efforts large families of bright-eyed children? What a rich study were the faces of the old men and women! Life had not slipped idly past them; their old age was stored with rich memories. We wept for their sufferings, but no tears came from their eyes; they suffered in silence, waiting and hoping it was but a black cloud passing over the blue breadth of their sky,-it would break and disperse, and France would appear from behind it brighter, greater, more glorious than before. So thought the simple peasants as they faced starvation in their ruined homes. I found Marie's old mother sitting spinning outside the door, in the chequered sunlight. "And so you too are going, and Heinrich has gone: nothing is left, c'est la guerre, c'est la guerre." Within, Jacques was seated at a table, having a writing lesson; Marie stood at his elbow, guiding his pen. "It is never too late to mend," said Jacques, as he rose to give me his chair. "I ought to know how to write: I ought to have written to Marie when I was away. She has told me all. I do not blame her; the fault was mine." I put into his hand a letter that I had just received from an unknown correspondent, announcing the death. of Heinrich, who had been shot at Orleans. When he was dying he asked his doctor to write me a few lines: "he wishes you to know that he is at rest, Marie, and that his last prayer was for happiness for you and Jacques." Marie wept as she read the letter. Jacques drew her close to him, and sheltered the tear-stained face. "Marie," he said gently, "I suffer such pain, such constant gnawing pain, that I sometimes wish I too had been killed outright." Marie quickly raised her head; hot tears ceased to flow. the "No, dear Jacques; no, it is much better as it is." She supported him to a couch, and, sitting down beside him, held his thin suffering hand in hers. "When you touch me, Marie, the pain seems to pass away from me." "I am so glad," she whispered, bending over him her wistful, smiling face. I went out softly, I bade them no farewell; but as I left, I, too, like Heinrich, prayed that Marie and Jacques might be happy, with such happiness as God gives to those who do not question, nor struggle against destiny, but work and wait, earning that long rest which is the end of life. 304 MR. WHYMPER'S "SCRAMBLES AMONGST THE ALPS." 1 BY LESLIE STEPHEN. FEW Alpine travellers, I suppose, forget their first sight of the Matterhorn. I well remember for my own part how, as I was toiling up the hot valley of Zermatt one summer afternoon, the great mountain, till then unknown, suddenly started from behind a corner; and how I sat down in utter amazement upon an inviting hummock of turf, and gazed at its wondrous cliffs till the pain inflicted by certain red ants, who showed a brutal indifference to the view, overbalanced my sense of natural sublimity. For some years afterwards that remained a sacred spot, on which incense of a certain kind was regularly burnt to the great idol of mountaineers. An improvement in the road has swept away the hummock and the ants, and some change has passed over the mountain itself; but whether recent events have added to or detracted from its romance, the Matterhorn will always remain unique in its terrible majesty. Mr. Whymper prefaces the volume of which I am about to say a few words, with the rather discouraging remark that "the most minute Alpine descriptions of the greatest writers do nothing more than convey impressions that are entirely erroneous." If by "erroneous" is meant simply "inferior," the statement is of course correct; if Mr. Whymper means that it would be rash even for a great genius to attempt to describe so stupendous an object as the Matterhorn, there is much to be said for his opinion; yet even an ordinary writer, if he cannot paint the Matterhorn in words, can give more or less adequate expression 1 "Scrambles amongst the Alps, 1860-69." By E. Whymper. London: John Murray. 1871. to the emotions which it excited in his breast. At any rate, it may safely be said of the Matterhorn that, even in old times, there was something ominous and ghastly about its crags. Perhaps one had something of that feeling which is said to prevail amongst the dwellers in earthquake regions-a sense of insecurity from the apparent inversion of the natural order of things. When the solid earth rocks, or when a mountain rends itself into such strange shapes, the mental faculties seem to undergo a sudden wrench; our most trusted assumptions give way, and we feel an awe analogous to that produced by the dread of the supernatural. Indeed, I have heard a sensitive lady declare that she could not sleep in a room from the windows of which the Matterhorn was visible she fancied it in dreams to be a monstrous pale phantom of the heights just ready to stalk slowly down the valley. My own imagination is not so poetical; and as everybody must have a comparison good or bad, I will admit I can never look at the Matterhorn from the Swiss side without thinking of a diabolical cock of superhuman size crowing defiance to the world. The great pyramidal mass stands for the cock's head and neck, whilst the delicate snow-curve above the Zmutt glacier (one of the most exquisite designs in this or any other mountain) fairly represents the bird's tail. There, at any rate, when I knew him first, the Matterhorn proudly threw back his shoulders and contemptuously challenged all comers to a trial of strength. Looking at the mountain with our present knowledge, it is hard to fancy that a change has not taken place in it, as well as in us. The long ridge which runs down to the Hörnli appears to have become less steep, whilst the terrible cliffs above the Zmutt glacier have gathered additional gloom. The first has now the outward appearance of accessibility, because we know it to be accessible in fact; whilst the others have acquired a more painful association than any in the whole range of the Alps. The challenge has been accepted, and the mountain defeated; but it has taken a terrible revenge on its conquerors; and some of us will never look again at the torn glacier which lies at the foot of the fatal precipice, and descends in massive avalanches to the lower reaches of the Zmutt, without a sense of sadness that mars the exquisite beauty of the scenery. There fell Michel Croz, one of the best and bravest of guides, and Charles Hudson, as simple and noble a character as ever carried out the precepts of muscular Christianity without talking its cant. The stern and savage scenery in which they and their companions met their fate has a melancholy voice for mountaineers. Mr. Whymper, the only traveller who survived, has now told the story of that accident, and of the adventures which preceded it. Alpine literature, it is probable, has rather palled upon the world at large. Whatever merits were possessed by the records of climbing, considered simply as a sport, were not of a kind to be very enduring; and Mr. Whymper's book may perhaps come a little too late for the popular interest in the subject. It has, however, two merits which may raise it above the ordinary level of such records. The first of these is its artistic beauty. In the passage already noticed, Mr. Whymper goes on to say that his pencil may possibly do what his pen cannot. The proposition might be disputed in its strictest sense. Woodcuts are no more capable than letter-press of conveying to those who have not been eye-witnesses of its wonders the true magic of Alpine scenery. But whatever can be done by woodcuts-and more, as I believe, than has ever before been done by theinNo. 142.-VOL. XXIV. is successfully accomplished by Mr. Whymper. Nobody can tell without some experience what it feels like to crouch under a rocky ledge, and see huge masses of rock hurled in every direction down the flanks of the hill, whizzing like cannon-balls close to your head, shivering themselves to atoms like bursting bombs, and making the whole mountain quiver under the crashing thunder of their fall; or to lie at midnight on the bleak ridge, thousands of feet above the valley, and watch the great battlements of the mountain wall glaring out capriciously in the flashes of lightning, or standing black and grim above the storm at your feet; or, still less, to catch an inverted glimpse of peaks and snowfields bounding suddenly upwards, as you descend a steep snow-slope by a rapid and unpremeditated header through the air. Neither can all of us realize the process of creeping across a snow bridge suspended over the fathomless depths of a blue crevasse, or springing over the yawning chasm cut deeply through the knifeedge of crumbling rock, which forms the only available retreat to civilization. Nay, there are some people who will be puzzled by the view along the narrow backbone of the Mont Blanc range, where one side seems to have been carved out smooth and vertical by the sweep of some monstrous hatchet; nor even, though the least ambitious travellers may see the view, will any but the experienced traveller really decipher the meaning of the marks which represent the huge rocks of the Matterhorn rising majestically above the Théodule, barred and streaked by a few clinging patches of snow. Even in the least ambitious of these scenes, the observer must add something from his own stores. The wonders of the Alps cannot be put down in black and white on a page of 5 inches by 7. Still, Mr. Whymper has done all that can be done by such means. To mountaineers, who can interpret what is at best a kind of shorthand writing by the help of their own recollections, the illustrations will be thoroughly delightful and satisfactory, X whilst even the cynical in such matters may gather some hints which, let us hope, will serve to make them in future more indulgent to the lunatics of the Alpine club. The illustrations, in short, are really beautiful, and may attract those who have acquired the bad habit of pooh-poohing all mere narratives of mountain adventure. Upon this topic, however, I cannot linger. Mr. Whymper has another merit upon which I must dwell at a little greater length. There is, in short, a certain dramatic unity about the book. If it had been turned into verse, for which, to say the truth, it is not particularly well fitted, it might have been called the " Matterhorniad." From the beginning to the catastrophe the great peak looms before us, and the awful conclusion, which we know to be approaching, gives a certain seriousness to the narrative. The work is not, as I have said, precisely poetical, and indeed it differs from similar productions chiefly by a certain dogged and business-like tone by which it is pervaded. Whymper seldom indulges himself in Mr. the time-honoured facetiousness of Alpine climbers; he sternly represses any tendencies-supposing him to feel any -towards fine writing; and he seems to assume throughout, for a primary fact, that the ascent of the Matterhorn is worthy, as an investment of human energy, to be put beside the investigation into the laws of gravitation, or into the true theory of the development of species. Obviously he regards the whole affair in a grimly determined spirit, very unlike the frivolous dallying with excitement of some of his contemporaries. In this, indeed, lay the secret of his success; and though the story is an old one, and most people have heard enough of it, a few paragraphs may be devoted to setting forth some of its lessons. The full materials are now before us, and we may form as complete a judgment as will ever be in our power. The ascent of the Matterhorn was the culminating victory of the Alpine Club, and the record of that achievement will give the best notion of the spirit of the pursuit in its palmiest days. The most curious point in the whole story is one which has been often noticed; mountains were defended partly by their imaginative prestige, and partly by their intrinsic difficulties. The Matterhorn is a striking example of the efficiency of the first of these modes of defence. It was, in certain senses, not quite unlike that monument which, "Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies." This is true chiefly of the northern, or, as it is called, the Hörnli ridge. Thousands of visitors to Zermatt have looked at it, and assumed, without hesitation, that it was totally inaccessible. Many of them were experienced mountaineers, but were hopelessly deceived by the boldness of the imposition. Even when the veil was lifted for a moment, it always returned after a brief interval. Some years before the final assault, old Peter Taugwald, one of Mr. Whymper's guides, remarked to me that it would be tolerably easy to climb it to the point called the "shoulder," and his assertion turned out to be strictly true; but at the time neither he nor I fully realized the possibility. If we believed, it was with that faint and unsteady belief which only apes conviction. Three years before the ascent, Melchior Anderegg made the same remark to me on the Hörnli; and though for the instant the truth flashed upon us, it disappeared again under the influence of a short stroll to another point of view. Thus a comparatively easy and certain route to a point close below the summit had been staring mountaineers in the face for years before it was actually tried.1 The story reminds me of the ordinary anecdotes about apparently impregnable fortresses. All the proper methods of siege are carried on energetically and 1 The Messrs. Parker and some excellent amateurs tried this route at an early period, but were without guides, and did not reach any great height. |