Only Bleak, Purplish Crags, Rising All Around Us, And
Silent, Silver Mountains Looking Over Them.
"That one directly before you is the Monk," says C., calling to me
from behind, and pointing to a great snow peak.
Our guide, with animation, introduced us by name to every one of these
snow-white genii - the Falhorn, the Schreckhorn, the Wetterhorn, the
great Eiger, and I cannot remember what besides. The guides seem to
consider them all as old friends.
Certainly nothing could be so singular, so peculiar as this ascension.
We have now passed the limit of all but grass and Alpine flowers,
which still, with their infinite variety, embroider the way; and now
the _auberge_ is gained. Good night, now, and farewell.
That is to say, there we stopped - on the summit, in fair view of the
Jungfrau, a wall of rock crowned with fields of eternal snow, whose
dazzling brightness almost put my eyes out. My head ached, too, with
the thin air of these mountains. I thought I should like to stay one
night just to hear avalanches fall; but I cannot breathe well here,
and there is a secret sense of horror about these sterile rocks and
eternal snows. So, after dinner, I gladly consent to go down to
Grindelwald.
Off we start - I walking - for, to tell the truth, I have no fondness
for riding down a path as steep in some places as a wall; I leave that
to C., who never fears any thing. So I walked all the way to
Grindelwald, nine miles of a very rough road. There was a lady with
her husband walking the same pass, who had come on foot the whole way
from Lauterbrunn, and did not seem in the least fatigued. My guide
exhausted all his eloquence to persuade me that it was better to ride;
at last I settled him by saying, "Why, here is a lady who has walked
the whole route." So he confined himself after that to helping me find
flowers, and carrying the handkerchief in which I stowed them. Alas!
what herbarium of hapless flowers, laid out stark, stiff, and
motionless, like beauty on its bier, and with horrible long names
written under them, can ever give an idea of the infinite variety and
beauty of the floral crown of these mountains!
The herbarium resembles the bright, living reality no more than the
_morgue_ at St. Bernard's is a specimen of mountain travellers.
Yet one thing an herbarium is good for: in looking at it you can
recall how they looked, and glowed, and waved in life, with all their
silver-crowned mountains around them.
After we arrived at Grindelwald, tired as I was, I made sketches of
nine varieties, which I intend to color as soon as we rest long
enough. So much I did for love of the dear little souls.
One noticeable feature is the predominance of _yellow_ flowers.
These, of various kinds, so abound as to make a distinct item of
coloring in a distant view.
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