PREFACE. A PREFACE is a thing of inconsistencies. Though it comes first in the Book, it is last in the Author's thoughts; the first thing with the reader, it is the last with the writer and the printer. Though it is the shortest part of the Book, it is by far the most difficult. And though it is no part of the Book, it is sometimes the only part read, and the longest remembered. It is always demanded by custom, though oftentimes wholly unnecessary. It is like a visit of ceremony, with half an excuse for not calling sooner, and half an apology for calling at all. It is like the title Esq., which is no part of any man's name, and yet every man writes it on a letter to his neighbour. It is like notes at the bottom of the page, which, if they contain anything important, had better be put in the body of the work. Finally, it is like standing at the door in a rain-storm, and sending in the servant to announce your name. A Preface in the present case might have been spared, inasmuch as there is an introductory chapter. But perhaps it may be set down as one of those graces in book-life, like the touch of your hat to a friend across the street, which softens the manners, and does not permit men to be brutes. This doubtless is the philosophy of it, though the etymology intimates that it is simply the art of putting the best face foremost. It may be questioned whether it were not better not to have published at all; but this should have been thought of before. When I first wrote, I was thinking of dear friends, just as in collecting my Alpine Flowers, and of the pleasure I would give them, if ever permitted to show them my mountain treasures. To write merely for the public is but poor business; it makes a sort of commercial traveller out of a man, who goes about like an Argus, seeing with a hundred eyes, not one of which is his own; seeing everything for the public, nothing for himself; a kind of commission agent to trade with nature, and drive the best speculations. "These tourists, Heaven preserve us, needs must lead They climb the crags, and beat about the bushes, for mares' nests, that they may show and sell the eggs. What can they see of Nature's own, of Nature's hidden treasures, which come to view all spontaneously, just as the graceful attitudes of children are seen only when you are not watching for them, and before they have been taught to dance. On the other hand, to write for dear friends, and then publish, if need be, as an after thought, is not so bad. Nor need the Author tell his reasons for so doing. If the public are pleased, that is reason enough; if not, they care nothing at all about it. For his own gratification and benefit, it is better for the traveller in so glorious a region as that of the Alps, always to write, whether he publishes or not; and then, the copying and filling up of his journal is as pleasing as the revisiting of a beautiful gallery of paintings. If he could make the description as interesting to his reader, as the visit was to himself, he! would never need an apology for a Book. I do quite despair of this, and yet I have attempted my Pilgrim Story. In speaking of the shadow of Mont Blanc, and of Day and Night, of Morn and Eve, of Sun and Moon and Stars upon the Mountain, I could adopt what Danté says of the light of Paradise, except that my dream of glory is better remembered; and this shall be my Preface. "As one who from a Dream awakened, straight, t Whose height what reach of mortal thought may soar? Of what thou then appearedst; give my tongue Power, but to leave one sparkle of thy glory, The record sound of this unequal strain." -1 CAREY'S DANTE, Paradise, Canto xxxiii. WANDERINGS OF A PILGRIM IN THE SHADOW OF MONT BLANC. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION.-INTERPRETATION OF NATURE. HE Fasciculus of leaves from the journal of a summer's THE travel here presented to the reader is more like a familiar letter than a book; it was written at first for the perusal of a few friends, and it makes no pretensions to depth or greatness, but is a quiet expression of thoughts and feelings, which any man may experience amidst the wonders of Alpine scenery. There is neither political economy, nor geology, nor botany, nor musical nor theatrical nor statistical information much attempted in it. And yet it is possible to find in such a journal a book which may beguile and benefit both the traveller among the Alps and the pilgrim at home; a book "which meets us like a pleasant thought when such is wanted." Mere descriptions, be the scenery ever so grand, are cloying and tiresome, and soon become tame. It is like living upon poundcake and cream, or rather upon whip-syllabub. But if, while the eye is pleased, the heart may be active, and the mind awakened into deep thought-if the thought be such as befits the immortal tenant of a world so beautiful, then will the mind and heart be at harmony with nature, and the language, which the very frame of the world speaks, will be understood, and the spirit which pervades such a world will imbue the being as a calm and gentle element. Nothing is more desirable than for a traveller so to converse with nature as well as with mankind. We do not con men's |