Among The Clouds

THE MATTERHORN.

To Alpine travelers there is undoubtedly no mountain which has been of greater interest than the Matterhorn. We except not even the monarch Mont Blanc. This is probably due as much to its remarkable formation as to its great elevation. It rises fifteen thousand feet above the sea level, and the peak alone is eight thousand feet high. Three thousand feet above the beginning of the peak the Matterhorn glaciers flow, leaving five thousand feet of uninterrupted precipice of rock. The peak gives the general impression from most points of a volcanic-looking cone, set a little crooked, on a bed of rocks and glaciers. Its name, "horn of a leaf," is derived, of course, from this peculiar appearance.

A few sentences from the book entitled "Amongst the Alps," by Mr. Whymper—who was, I believe, the first to scale this height—will give us some idea of the configuration of this strange, rugged mountain. In speaking of the peak alone, he says: "There are precipices absolutely perpendicular. There are precipices overhanging. There are glaciers and hanging glaciers. There are ridges split by the frost and washed by the rain and melted snows into towers and spires. Everywhere there are ceaseless sounds of action, telling that the causes are still in operation which have been at work since the world began, reducing the mighty mass to atoms and effecting its disintegration."

It is probably these sounds of falling rock, of sliding avalanches, the noises attendant upon the work of atmospheric change, as well as the awe-inspiring appearance of the mountain, which has given rise to many stories and legends afloat among the natives. The terror inspired by its invincible appearance is complete. They tell of ruined cities and impregnable fortresses on its summit, of the spirits which guard the height, and which, if their towers and castles are invaded, will hurl down rocks and lightning upon their enemies. Whether haunted by spirits or not, the difficulties attendant upon climbing the mountain have been so great, that it was the last European mountain which men attempted to scale.

In 1858, the first attempt was made by a party of five to climb the Matterhorn. They reached a height of twelve thousand six hundred and fifty feet, and were obliged to return. After that, repeated attempts were made during the following seven years, but without success. Mr. Whymper himself made seven attempts before he was at last victorious, in 1865. The difficulties lie not only in the perpendicular walls of rock, which one is obliged to scale, but the rocks are constantly crumbling and sending down their showers of boulders. Great precipices are filled with snow, which forms a crust, and looks smooth and tempting to the human foot, but which proves treacherous, even unto death. Snow avalanches are easily started. It was in one of these that the guide Bennen perished, who attempted the Matterhorn with Mr. Tyndall in 1861. There is great danger too from lightning. Storms rise quickly, and the jutting crags of the high peaks are an easy prey to the destructive element.

On July 13, 1865, a party of four travelers with three guides started upon the ascent which was to conquer the heretofore unconquerable mountain. They started at 5:30 in the morning, climbed until 12 at noon, and then, finding a good place for a tent, settled there to remain until the next morning, when they would continue the journey. They had struck at last a possible path, and after starting at daybreak the following day, they climbed without serious interruption until 1:30 on the fourteenth, when the summit was gained. Mr. Whymper's account is quite inspiring, but it is too long to quote here.

A party of Italians had begun the ascent two days before his party, and as at length their feet were pressing the summit, they looked with intense eagerness to see if the Italians had reached there before them. But no! Peering down the mountain side, they saw them at last, mere dots on the ridge, at an immense distance below. Imagine their delight! They roared and shouted until they were hoarse; at length, prying the rocks, they sent down upon their rivals a torrent of small stones. The frightened Italians turned and fled, crying: "It is true! We saw them ourselves! They hurled stones at us! There are spirits on top of the Matterhorn!"

The day was a memorable one. The atmosphere was remarkably clear. Mountains fifty—nay, a hundred—miles off looked "sharp and near." They remained on the summit for one hour—"one crowded hour of glorious life." It passed away too quickly, and they began to prepare for the descent. Of the many heartrending tragedies which are told of Alpine climbers, there is assuredly none more pathetic than is recorded in the story of this descent. The seven men were descending, tied together by a rope, which was supposed to be of the strongest kind; but one man slipped; the second, third, and fourth followed; and while the last three braced themselves to support their fellows, the rope broke, and the first four fell upon the rocks below. Mr. Whymper and two guides alone lived to tell the story.

The account of the descent of these three after their comrades were lost is pathetic beyond words. About 6 p. m., they describe a wonderful natural phenomenon: "A mighty arch rising high into the sky, pale, colorless, and noiseless, but perfectly sharp and defined, in which at length developed two vast crosses."—Anne Kendrick Benedict in Our Young People.