down from morn to
dewy eve. It is in vain that one makes desperate efforts to procure
relief, that the inventive mind entraps the spinster into discussion
over ferns, tries the graduate on poetry, beguiles the squire towards
politics, lures the Indian officer into a dissertation on coolies, leads
the British mother through flowery paths of piety towards the new
vacancies in the episcopal bench. The British mother remembers a bishop
whom she met at Lucerne, the Indian officer gets back by the Ghauts to
the Schreckhorn, the graduate finds his way again through 'Manfred' to
the precipices. In an instant the drone recommences, the cataract pours
down again, and there is nothing for it but to wander out on the terrace
of six feet by four, and wonder what the view would be if there were no
fog.

But even a life like this must have its poetry and its hero, and at
seven thousand feet above the sea-level it is very natural to find one's
poetry in what would be dull enough below. The hero of the Bell Alp or
the OEggischorn is naturally enough the Alpine Clubbist. He has
hurried silent and solitary through the lower country, he only blooms
into real life at the sight of "high work." It is wonderful how lively
the little place becomes as he enters it, what a run there is on the
landlord for information as to his projects, what endless consultations
of the barometer, what pottering over the pages of 'Peaks, Passes, and
Glaciers.' How many guides will he take, has he a dog, will he use the
rope, what places has he done before?--a thousand questions of this sort
are buzzing about the room as the hero sits quietly down to his dinner.
The elderly spinster remembers the fatal accident of last season, and
ventures to ask him what preparations he has made for the ascent. The
hero stops his dinner politely, and shows her the new little box of
lip-salve with which he intends to defy the terrors of the Alps. To say
the truth, the Alpine climber is not an imaginative man. With him the
climb which fills every bystander with awe is "a good bit of work, but
nothing out of the way you know." He has never done this particular
peak, and so he has to do it; but it has been too often done before to
fill him with any particular interest in the matter. As to the ascent
itself, he sets about planning it as practically as if he were planning
a run from London to Lucerne. We see him sitting with his guides,
marking down the time-table of his route, ascerta