One thing more as to botanical names. What does possess botanists to
afflict the most fragile and delicate of earth's children with such
mountainous and unpronounceable names? Now there was a dear little
flower that I first met at St. Bernard - a little purple bell, with a
fringe; it is more particularly beautiful from its growing just on the
verge of avalanches, coming up and blossoming through the snow. I send
you one in this letter, which I dug out of a snow bank this morning.
And this fair creation - this hope upon a death bed - this image of love
unchilled and immortal - how I wanted to know it by name!
[Illustration: _of a tiny plant with a single flowering stem and two
simple circular leaves._]
Today, at the summit house of the mountain, I opened an herbarium, and
there were three inches of name as hopeless and unpronounceable as the
German of our guides, piled up on my little flower. I shut the
herbarium.
This morning we started early from Grindelwald - that is, by eight
o'clock. An unclouded, clear, breezy morning, the air full of the
sounds of cascades, and of the little bells of the herds. As we began
to wind upward into that delectable region which forms the first stage
of ascent, I said to C., "The more of beautiful scenery I see, the
more I appreciate the wonderful poetry of the Pilgrim's Progress." The
meadows by the River of Life, the Delectable Mountains, the land of
Beulah, how often have I thought of them! From this we went off upon
painting, and then upon music, the freshness of the mountain air
inspiring our way. At last, while we were riding in the very lap of a
rolling field full of grass and flowers, the sharp blue and white
crystals of the glacier rose at once before us.
"O, I want to get down," said I, "and go near them."
Down I did get, and taking what seemed to be the straightest course,
began running down the hill side towards them.
"No, no! Back, back!" shouted the guide, in unimaginable French and
German. _"Ici, ici!"_
I came back; and taking my hand, he led me along a path where
travellers generally go. I went closer, and sat down on a rock under
them, and looked up. The clear sun was shining through them; clear and
blue looked the rifts and arches, all dripping and beautiful. We went
down upon them by steps which a man had cut in the ice. There was one
rift of ice we looked into, which was about fifty feet high, going up
into a sharp arch. The inside of this arch was clear blue ice, of the
color of crystal of blue vitriol.
Here, immediately under, I took a rude sketch just to show you how a
glacier looks close at hand.
