And then when they come down they are stared at by the last arrivals, and laughed at by the old ones, and they go to a shop around the corner, and pay several francs to have the name and date of the ascent of the mountains in the neighborhood burned in upon their Alpenstocks, which they cart all over Europe, and finally hang up in their homes as “souvenirs.”
There ought to be an Alpenstock shop in New York, where all this could be done. It would save a deal of annoyance to a great many people and do just as well.
A PROPER ASCENT OF MONT BLANC.
Did I ascend any of these mountains? I did not. Some of my party did, but I preferred not to essay it. The heat was intense, the paths are not good, and lifting one’s self by sheer strength up sixteen thousand feet is not the thing to do, especially when you may read it, see it in engravings, and even make the ascent yourself—with a telescope—at the cost of a franc. I did it by telescope, and have never regretted it. I could buy an Alpenstock just the same, and have burned in it, “Mont Blanc, July 20, 1881,” just as well. And, as they all lie about it, anyhow, why not, if you are going to lie, commence lying at the beginning, and save labor? If tongue work is to do it, why not use your tongue, and save your legs? Were I to lie at all, I would sooner lie from the door of the hotel than half way up the mountain.
But I will not lie at all. I did go up Mt. Blanc, perhaps five hundred feet, to the very foot of one of the glaciers, and saw and touched it. That did me. I had seen all that was to be seen, and I was glad enough to get back. I was willing that anybody who chose should do the remaining fifteen thousand feet; five hundred was quite enough for me.
