But there is very much to be said in favour of this vocation. The hero of the Alpine Club, when at his work, is always a happy man. When he is defeated, his defeat is only an assurance of future enterprise, and when he is victorious his triumph knows no alloy. There is nothing ignoble or sordid in his work. He requires no money reward to instigate him to excellence, as do those who deal in racehorses and run for prizes. His Ascot Cup is a fragment of rock from some pointed peak, his Derby is the glory of having stood where man never stood before him. The occupation which he loves has in it nothing of meanness; it is never tainted with lucre; nor does his secret joy come from the sorrow of another. What father wishes his son to be great as a billiard-player? What father does not fear to see his son too great, even as a cricketer, or on the river? But the Alpine Club entails no such fears. The work is all pure,—pure in its early practice and pure in its later triumphs. Its contact is with nature in her grandest attire, and its associations are with forms that are as suggestive of poetry to the intellect as they are full of beauty for the senses.
[TOURISTS WHO DON'T LIKE THEIR TRAVELS.]
After all it should be our first object in our autumn tourings to like the business that we have in hand. In all that we do, whether of work or play, this should be a great object with us, seeing that the comfort or discomfort—we may almost say the happiness or unhappiness—of our life depends upon it. But one would suppose that in these vacation rambles of ours, made for the recreation of our health and the delectation of our spirits, there would be no doubt on this head,—no doubt as to our taking due care that our amusement should be to our own liking, and that we so journeyed as to be able to enjoy our journeyings. But there is reason to fear that such enjoyment does not always result from the efforts made. We see, alas, too many of our countrymen struggling through the severe weeks of their annual holiday with much of the agony but with little of the patience of martyrs. We see them thwarted at every turn and cross because they are thwarted. We see them toiling as no money-reward would induce them to toil at home, and toiling with very little of that reward for which they are looking. We see them hot and dusty, ill at ease, out of their element, bored almost past their powers of endurance, so weary with work as to drag along their unhappy limbs in actual suffering, dreading what is to come, and looking back upon what they have accomplished as though to have done the thing, to have got their tour over and finished, was the only gratification of which they were susceptible. And with many tourists this final accomplishment of the imposed task is the only gratification which the task affords. To have been over the railroads of the Continent, to have touched at some of those towns whose names are known so widely, to have been told that such a summit was called by one name and such another summit by another name, to have crossed the mountains and heard the whistle of a steamer on an Italian lake,—to have done these things so that the past accomplishment of them may be garnered like a treasure, is very well;—but oh and alas, the doing of them!—the troubles, the cares, the doubts, the fears! Is it not almost a question whether it would not be better to live at home quietly and unambitiously, without the garnering of any treasure which cannot be garnered without so much discomfort and difficulty? But yet the tourists go. Though the difficulties are great, their ambition is greater. It does not do to confess that you have not seen an Alp or drunk German beer.
So much may be taken for granted. Whether we are capable of enjoying it or not, the tour has to be made. In all probability many tours have been made. Those who can be allowed to enjoy themselves quietly at home, or eat shrimps through their holiday pleasantly at Ramsgate, are becoming from year to year, not fewer in number, but lower down in the social scale: so that this imperative duty of travelling abroad,—and of doing so year after year,—becomes much extended, and embraces all of us who are considered anybody by those around us. Our wives feel that they owe it to ourselves to enforce from us the performance of so manifest a duty, even when from tenderness of heart they would fain spare us. And we, who are their husbands, cannot deny them when they put before us so plain a truth. Men there are bold enough to stay from church on Sundays, to dine at their clubs without leave, to light cigars in their own parlours, and to insist upon brandy-and-water before they go to bed; but where is the man who can tell his wife and daughters that it is quite unnecessary that they should go up the Rhine?
If this be so,—if the necessity for going be so great, and the power of enjoying the journey be so rare, it must be worth our while to inquire into the matter, with the object of seeing whether the evil may not be in some degree remedied. The necessity which presses upon the tourist is granted; but there may be a question whether the misery of those who suffer cannot be remedied. If we examine the travelling practices of those who do suffer, and see why it is that they do not enjoy their work, we may perhaps get a lesson that shall be serviceable to us.
The great trouble of those who travel and do not like it,—the overpowering parent grief,—is in the language. The unfortunate tourist cannot speak to those among whom he is going. This simply, without the composite additions to the fact which come to him from the state of his own mind upon the subject, would be a misfortune,—a want to be lamented. But the simple misfortune is light, indeed, in comparison with that to which it is increased by those composite additions of his own fabrication. The tourist in question can speak no word of German or Italian, but unfortunately he can speak a word or two of French, and hence comes all his trouble. Not to speak German or Italian is not disgraceful, but to be ignorant of French is, in his eyes, a disgrace. Shall he make his attempts and save himself by his little learning? or shall he remain mute and thus suggest the possibility of positive knowledge? Doubting between the two he vacillates, and can obtain neither the comparative safety of absolute dependence, nor the substantial power of responsible action. For the first fortnight he stumbles along with his broken words, making what effort is in his power; but it seems to himself that from day to day the phrases become more difficult rather than easier, and at last he gives himself up into the hands of some more advanced linguist, revenging himself upon his friends by a solemn and enduring melancholy, as though he were telling every one around him that, in spite of his incapacity to speak French, he had something within him surpassing show.