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The Modern Climber.

by Edward Woodley Bowling

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 G'ant 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 G'ant 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!"

* * * * *

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.