Chapter 3

What should a maiden be? Merry, whene'er Merriment comes with a natural air; But let not mirth be an every-day guest, Quietness sits on a maiden the best.

Like a fair lily, sequestered and meek, She should be sought for, not others should seek; But, when the wild winds of trouble arise, She should be calm and courageous and wise,

What should her words be? Her words should be few, Honest and genuine, tender and true; Words that overflow from a pure heart within, Guiltless of folly, untainted by sin.

What should her dress be? Not gaudy and vain, But unaffectedly pretty and plain; She should remember these few simple words-- "Fine feathers flourish on foolish young birds."

Where should a maiden be? Home is the place Which a fair maid is most fitted to grace; There should she turn, like a bird to the nest, There should a maiden be, blessing and blest.

There should she dwell as the handmaid of God, And if He bid her 'pass under the rod,' Let her each murmur repining suppress, Knowing He chasteneth that He may bless.

But if earth's blessings each day He renew, Let her give glory where glory is due; Deem every blessing a gift from above, Given, and designed for a purpose of love,

What will her future be? If she become Matron and mother, may God bless her home! God to the matron all blessings will give, If as God's maiden the young maiden live.

What will her future be? If she should die, Lightly the earth on her ashes will lie; Softly her body will sleep 'neath the sod, While her pure spirit is safe with her God.

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 bloody 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 Napoléon! vive l'Empire (c'est la paix); "Vive la France, the land of beauty! vive la Rue St. Honoré!" 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 glassy mere; Foaming torrents hoarsely 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 Géant, 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-arête,' 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 crevasses, 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 glass 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 crevasse 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 "arêtes" 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 crevasses; 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, Passes, 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 passes, 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 Géant 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 Géant 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? "The Alpine Muse her iciest tears shall shed, And 'build a stone-man' o'er your honour'd head, Chamois and bouquetins the spot shall haunt, With eagles, choughs, and lammergeyers gaunt; The mountain marmots, marching o'er the snow, Their yearly pilgrimage shall ne'er forego; Tyndall himself, in grand, prophetic tones, Shall calculate the movement of your bones; And your renown shall live serene, eternal, Embalmed in pages of the Alpine Journal!"

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By reasoning such as this, year after year, I overcome my men's unreasoning fear: Twice has my guide by falling stones been struck, Yet still I trust his science and my luck. A falling stone once cut my rope in twain; We stopped to mend it, and marched on again. Once a big boulder, with a sudden whack, Severed my knapsack from my porter's back. Twice on a sliding avalanche I've slid, While my companions in its depths were hid. Daring all dangers, no disaster fearing, I carry out my plan of mountaineering. Thus have I conquered glacier, peak, and pass, Aiguilles du Midi, Cols des Grandes Jorasses. Thus shall I onward march from peak to peak, Till there are no new conquests left to seek. O the wild joy, the unutterable bliss To hear the coming avalanche's hiss! Or place oneself in acrobatic pose, While mountain missiles graze one's sun-burnt nose! And if some future season I be doom'd To be by boulders crushed, or snow entombed, Still let me upward urge my mad career, And risk my limbs and life for honour dear! Sublimely acquiescent in my lot, I'll die a martyr for--I know not what!

(1876)

[1] Written in 1876.

THE CLIMBER'S DREAM.

I made an ascent of the Eiger Last year, which has ne'er been surpassed; 'Twas dangerous, long, and laborious, But almost incredibly fast. We started at twelve from the Faulberg; Ascended the Monch by the way; And were well at the base of our mountain, As the peak caught the dawn of the day.

In front of me Almer and Perren Cut steps, each as big as a bucket; While behind me there followed, as Herren, George, Stephen, and Freshfield, and Tuckett. We got to the top without trouble; There halted, of course, for the view; When clouds, sailing fast from the southward, Veiled over the vault of dark blue.

The lightning shone playfully round us; The thunder ferociously growled; The hail beat upon us in bullets; And the wind everlastingly howled. We turned to descend to the Scheideck, Eyes blinded, ears deafened, we ran, In our panic and hurry, forgetting To add a new stone to the _man_.

Palinurus himself--that is Almer-- No longer could make out the track; 'Twas folly, no doubt, to go onward; 'Twas madness, of course, to go back. The snow slope grew steeper and steeper; The lightning more vividly flared; The thunder rolled deeper and deeper; And the wind more offensively blared.

But at last a strong gust for a moment Dispersed the thick cloud from our sight, And revealed an astonishing prospect, Which filled not our hearts with delight: On our right was a precipice awful; On the left chasms yawning and deep; Glazed rocks and snow-slopes were before us, At an angle alarmingly steep.

We all turned and looked back at Almer. Who then was the last on the rope; His face for a moment was clouded, Then beamed with the dawn of a hope; He came to the front, and thence forward In wonderful fashion he led, Over rocks, over snow-slopes glissading, While he stood, bolt upright on his head!

We followed, in similar fashion; Hurrah, what a moment is this! What a moment of exquisite transport! A realization of bliss! To glissade is a pleasant sensation, Of which all have written, or read; But to taste it, _in perfect perfection_, You should learn to glissade _on your head_.

Hurrah! with a wild scream of triumph, Over snow, over boulders we fly, Our heads firmly pressed to the surface, Our heels pointing up to the sky! We bound o'er the bergschrund uninjured, We shoot o'er a precipice sheer; Hurrah, for the modern glissader! Hurrah, for the wild mountaineer!

* * * * *

But, alas! what is this? what a shaking! What a jar! what a bump! what a thump! Out of bed, in intense consternation, I bound with a hop, skip, and jump. For I hear the sweet voice of a "person" Of whom I with justice am proud, "_My dear, when you dream about mountains, I wish you'd not jodel so loud!_"

THE BEACONSFIELD ALPHABET.

A's my new policy called Annexation; B is the Bother it causes the nation. C is Lord Chelmsford, engaged with Zulus; D the Disasters which give me 'the blues.' E is the Effort I make to look merry; F is my Failure--deplorable very! G is Sir Garnett, alas, not ubiquitous! H stands for H----t, an M.P. iniquitous. I stands for India, a source of vexation: J are the Jews, a most excellent nation. K is the Khedive, whose plan is to borrow L _L. s. d._--I'll annex him to-morrow! M's the Majority, which I much prize; N are the Non-contents whom I despise. O's the Opposition, so often defeated; P is P----ll, that Home-ruler conceited. Q are the Questions put by noble Lords; R my Responses, more cutting than swords. S is the Sultan, my friend true and warm; T are the Turks, whom I hope to reform. U's my Utopia--Cyprus, I mean: V is Victoria, my Empress and Queen. W's the World, which ere long I shall own; X is the sign of my power unknown. Y is the Yacht I shall keep in the Red Sea: Z the Zulus, whom I wish in the Dead Sea.

(1879).

THE GLADSTONE ALPHABET.

A's Aristides, or Gladstone the Good; B is Lord B., whom I'd crush if I could. C are Conservatives, full of mad pranks; D are the Dunces who fill up their ranks. E stands for Ewelme, of some notoriety; F for the Fuss made in Oxford society. G stands for Gladstone, a hewer of wood; H is my Hatchet of merciless mood. I is the Irish Church which I cut down: J are the Jobs which I kill with a frown, K are the Knocks which I give and I take: L are the Liberals whom I forsake. M are the Ministry whom I revile; N are the Noodles my speeches beguile. O is the Office I mean to refuse: P is the Premier--I long for his shoes. Q are the Qualms of my conscience refined; R is the Rhetoric nothing can bind, S is Herr Schliemann who loves much to walk about T ancient Troy, which _I_ love much to talk about. U is the Union of Church and State; V are my former Views, now out of date. W is William, the People's 'True Bill,' X is the Exit from power of that 'Will.' Y is Young England, who soon will unite Z in fresh Zeal for the 'People's Delight.'

(1879)

SOLITUDE IN SEPTEMBER.

O BEATA SOLITUDO; O SOLA BEATITUDO.

(_Inscription in the Grounds of Burg Birseck, near Basel._)

Sweet Solitude where dost thou linger? When and where shall I look in thy face? Feel the soft magic touch of thy finger, The glow of thy silent embrace? Stern Civilization has banished Thy charms to a region unknown; The spell of thy beauty has vanished-- Sweet Solitude, where hast thou flown?

I have sought thee on pampas and prairie, By blue lake and bluer crevasse, On shores that are arid and airy, Lone peak, and precipitous pass. I have sought thee, sweet Solitude, ever Regardless of peril and pain; But in spite of my utmost endeavour I have sought thee, fair charmer, in vain.

To the Alps, to the Alps in September, Unconducted by Cook, did I rush; Full well even now I remember How my heart with emotion did gush. Here at least in these lonely recesses With thee I shall cast in my lot; Shall feel thy endearing caresses, Forgetting all else and forgot.

But I met a young couple "proposing" On the top of the sunny Languard; I surprised an old gentleman dozing, "Times" in hand, on the heights of Fort Bard. In the fir woods of sweet Pontresina Picnic papers polluted the walks; On the top of the frosty Bernina I found a young mountain of--corks.

I trod, by the falls of the Handeck, On the end of a penny cigar; As I roamed in the woods above Landeck A hair-pin my pleasure did mar: To the Riffel in vain I retreated, Mr. Gaze and the Gazers were there; On the top of the Matterhorn seated I picked up a lady's back hair!

From the Belle Vue in Thun I was hunted By "'Arry" who wished to play pool; On the Col du Bonhomme I confronted The whole of a young ladies' school. At Giacomo's Inn in Chiesa I was asked to take shares in a mine; With an agent for "Mappin's new Razor" I sat down at Baveno to dine.

On the waves of Lake Leman were floating Old lemons (imagine my feelings!), The fish in Lucerne were all gloating On cast-away salads and peelings; And egg-shells and old bones of chicken On the shore of St. Moritz did lie: My spirit within me did sicken-- Sweet Solitude, where shall I fly?

Disconsolate, gloomy, and undone I take in the "Dilly" my place; By Zurich and Basel to London I rush, as if running a race. My quest and my troubles are over; As I drive through the desolate street To my Club in Pall Mall, I discover Sweet Solitude's summer retreat.

MEDITATIONS OF A

CLASSICAL MAN ON A MATHEMATICAL PAPER

DURING A LATE FELLOWSHIP EXAMINATION.

Woe, woe is me! for whither can I fly? Where hide me from Mathesis' fearful eye? Where'er I turn the Goddess haunts my path, Like grim Megoera in revengeful wrath: In accents wild, that would awake the dead, Bids me perplexing problems to unthread; Bids me the laws of _x_ and _y_ to unfold, And with "dry eyes" dread mysteries behold. Not thus, when blood maternal he had shed, The Furies' fangs Orestes wildly fled; Not thus Ixion fears the falling stone, Tisiphone's red lash, or dark Cocytus' moan. Spare me, Mathesis, though thy foe I be, Though at thy altar ne'er I bend the knee, Though o'er thy "Asses' Bridge" I never pass, And ne'er in this respect will prove an ass; Still let mild mercy thy fierce anger quell! oh Let, let me live to be a Johnian fellow!

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