The wonders of the world

by John Loraine Abbott

Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God!

“Thanks to thee, thou noble poet, for giving this glorious voice to Alpine nature, for so befitting and not unworthy an interpretation of Nature’s own voice, in words of our own mother-tongue. Thanks to God for his grace vouchsafed to thee, so that now thou praisest Him amidst the infinite host of flaming seraphs, before the mount supreme of glory, where all the empyrean rings with angelic hallelujahs! The creation of such a mind as Coleridge’s, is only outdone by its redemption through the blood of the Lamb. Oh, who can tell the rapture of a soul, that could give a voice for nations to such a mighty burst of praise to God in this world, when its powers, uplifted in eternity, and dilated with absorbing, unmingled, unutterable love, shall pour themselves forth in the anthem of redemption, Worthy is the Lamb that was slain!”

THE GLACIERS, OR ICE MASSES.

The three great glaciers, or ice-mountains, which descend from the flanks of Mont Blanc, add their ice to that of the Miage, and present a majestic spectacle, amid the astonishing succession of icy summits, of deep valleys, and of wide chasms, which have become channels for the innumerable torrents and cataracts with which these mountains abound. The view which the glacier of Talafre affords from its center, looking toward the north, is as extraordinary as beautiful. It rises gradually to the base of a semicircular girdle, formed of peaks of granite of a great hight, and terminating in sharp summits, extremely varied in their forms; while the intervals between these peaks are filled up by ice, which falls into this mass, and this mass of ice is crowned by masses of snow, rising in festoons between the black and vertical tables of granite, the steepness of which does not allow them to remain. A ridge of shattered wrecks divides this glacier lengthwise, and forms its most elevated part, being eight thousand, five hundred and thirty-eight feet, or upward of a mile and a half above the level of the sea. This prospect has nothing in common with what is seen in other parts of the world. The immense masses of ice, surrounded and surmounted by pyramidal rocks, still more enormous in magnitude; the contrast between the whiteness of the snow and the obscure colors of the stones, moistened by the water which trickles down their sides; the purity of the air; the dazzling light of the sun, which gives to these objects extraordinary brilliancy; the majestic and awful silence which reigns in these vast solitudes, a silence which is only interrupted at intervals by the noise of some great mass of granite, or of ice, tumbling from the top of the mountain; and the nakedness of these elevated rocks themselves, on which neither animals, shrubs, nor verdure are to be seen, combined with the recollection of the fertile country and rich vegetation which the adjacent valleys at so small a distance present; all tend to produce a mixed impression of admiration and terror, which tempts the spectator to believe, that he has been suddenly transported into a world forgotten by the great Author of nature. One of these glaciers, that of Triolet, is covered with the wrecks of another ice-mountain, which fell some years ago, and buried many huts, flocks, and shepherds beneath its ruins.

THE MER DE GLACE.

These glaciers have their foundation in the wonderful Mer de Glace, or Sea of Ice; shooting up from it their sharp peaks into the frozen air. “To get the best view of it as a whole,” says a modern Alpine tourist, “you cross the meadows in the vale of Chamouny, step over the furious Arve, and climb the mountain precipices to the hight of two thousand feet, by a rough, craggy path, sometimes winding amidst a wood of firs, and sometimes wandering over green grasses. At Montanvert you find yourself on the extremity of a plateau, so situated, that on one side you may look down into the dread frozen sea, and on the other, by a few steps, into the lovely green vale of Chamouny! What astonishing variety and contrast in the spectacle! Far beneath, a smiling and verdant valley, watered by the Arve, with hamlets, fields and gardens, the abode of life, sweet children and flowers; far above, savage and inaccessible crags of ice and granite, and a cataract of stiffened billows, stretching away beyond sight—the throne of death and winter.

“From the bosom of the tumbling sea of ice, huge granite needles shoot into the sky, objects of singular sublimity, one of them rising to the great hight of thirteen thousand feet, seven thousand above the point where you are standing. This is more than double the hight of Mount Washington in our country, and this amazing pinnacle of rock looks like the spire of an interminable colossal cathedral, with other pinnacles around it. No snow can cling to the summits of these jagged spires; the lightning does not splinter them; the tempests rave round them; and at their base, those eternal drifting ranges of snow are formed, that sweep down into the frozen sea, and feed the perpetual, immeasurable masses of the glacier. Meanwhile, the laughing verdure, sprinkled with flowers, plays upon the edges of the enormous masses of ice, so near, that you may almost touch the ice with one hand, and with the other pluck the violet. So, oftentimes, the ice and the verdure are mingled in our earthly pilgrimage; so, sometimes, in one and the same family, you may see the exquisite refinements and the coarse repugnancies of human nature. So, in the same house of God, on the same bench, may sit an angel and a murderer; a villain, like a glacier, and a man with a heart like a sweet running brook in the sunshine.

“The impetuous arrested cataract seems as if it were plowing the rocky gorge with its turbulent surges. Indeed, the ridges of rocky fragments along the edges of the glacier, called moraines, do look precisely as if a colossal iron plow had torn them from the mountain, and laid them along in one continuous furrow on the frozen verge. It is a scene of stupendous sublimity. These mighty granite peaks, hewn and pinnacled into Gothic towers, and these rugged mountain-walls and buttresses—what a cathedral! with this cloudless sky, by starlight, for its fretted roof; the chanting wail of the tempest, and the rushing of the avalanche for its organ. How grand the thundering sound of the vast masses of ice tumbling from the roof of the Arve-cavern at the foot of the glacier! Does it not seem, as it sullenly and heavily echoes, and rolls up from so immense a distance below, even more sublime than the thunder of the avalanche above us? We could tell better if we could have a genuine upper avalanche to compare with it. But what a stupendous scene! ‘I begin now,’ said my companion, ‘to understand the origin of the Gothic architecture.’ This was a very natural feeling; but, after all, it could not have been such a scene, that gave birth to the great idea of that ‘frozen poetry’ of the middle ages. Far more likely it was the sounding aisles of the dim woods, with their checkered green light, and festooned, pointing arches.