WINTER EXPEDITION TO THE MER DE GLACE, 1859.
(27.)
Having ten days at my disposal last Christmas, I was anxious to employ them in making myself acquainted with the winter aspects and phenomena of the Mer de Glace. On Wednesday, the 21st of December, I accordingly took my place to Paris, but on arriving at Folkestone found the sea so tempestuous that no boat would venture out.
FIRST DEFEAT, AND FRESH ATTEMPT. 1859.
The loss of a single day was more than I could afford, and this failure really involved the loss of two. Seeing, therefore, the prospect of any practical success so small, I returned to London, purposing to give the expedition up. On the following day, however, the weather lightened, and I started again, reaching Paris on Friday morning. On that day it was not possible to proceed beyond Macon, where, accordingly, I spent the night, and on the following day reached Geneva.
Much snow had fallen; at Paris it still cumbered the streets, and round about Macon it lay thick, as if a more than usually heavy cloud had discharged itself on that portion of the country. Between Macon and Roussillon it was lighter, but from the latter station onwards the quantity upon the ground gradually increased.
GENEVA TO CHAMOUNI. 1859.
On Christmas morning, at 8 o'clock, I left Geneva by the diligence for Sallenches. The dawn was dull, but the sky cleared as the day advanced, and finally a dome of cloudless blue stretched overhead. The mountains were grand; their sunward portions of dazzling whiteness, while the shaded sides, in contrast with the blue sky behind them, presented a ruddy, subjective tint. The brightness of the day reached its maximum towards one o'clock, after which a milkiness slowly stole over the heavens, and increased in density until finally a drowsy turbidity filled the entire air. The distant peaks gradually blended with the white atmosphere above them and lost their definition. The black pine forests on the slopes of the mountains stood out in strong contrast to the snow; and, when looked at through the spaces enclosed by the tree branches at either side of the road, they appeared of a decided indigo-blue. It was only when thus detached by a vista in front that the blue colour was well seen, the air itself between the eye and the distant pines being the seat of the colour. Goethe would have regarded it as an excellent illustration of his 'Farbenlehre.'
We reached Sallenches a little after 4 p.m., where I endeavoured to obtain a sledge to continue my journey. A fit one was not to be found, and a carriage was therefore the only resort. We started at five; it was very dark, but the feeble reflex of the snow on each side of the road was preferred by the postilion to the light of lamps. Unlike the enviable ostrich, I cannot shut my eyes to danger when it is near: and as the carriage swayed towards the precipitous road side, I could not fold myself up, as it was intended I should, but, quitting the interior and divesting my limbs of every encumbrance, I took my seat beside the driver, and kept myself in readiness for the spring, which in some cases appeared imminent. My companion however was young, strong, and keen-eyed; and though we often had occasion for the exercise of the quality last mentioned, we reached Servoz without accident.