One of the what, maam?
Refrigerators, explained Mrs Stoutley; a refrigerator, Susan, is a freezer; and it is the special mission of Switzerland to freeze nearly all the water that falls on its mountains, and retain it there in the form of ice and snow until it is wanted for the use of man. Isnt that a grand idea?
The lecturers explanation had conveyed to Susans mind the idea of the Switzers going with long strings of carts to the top of Mont Blanc for supplies of ice to meet the European demand, and she admitted that it was a grand idea, and asked if the ice and snow lasted long into the summer.
Long into it! exclaimed her teacher. Why, you foolish thing, its lasts all through it.
Oh indeed, maam! said Susan, who entertained strong doubts in her heart as to the correctness of Mrs Stoutleys information on this point.
Yes, continued that lady, with more animation than she had experienced for many months past, so invigorating was the change of moral atmosphere induced by this little breeze of instruction; yes, the ice and snow cover the hills and higher valleys for dozens and dozens of miles round here in all directions, not a few inches deep, such as we sometimes see in England, but with thousands and millions of tons of it, so that the ice in the valleys is hundreds of feet thick, and never melts away altogether, but remains there from year to yearhas been there, I suppose, since the world began, and will continue, I fancy, until the world comes to an end.
Mrs Stoutley warmed up here, to such an extent that she absolutely flushed, and Susan, who had heretofore regarded her mistress merely as a weakish woman, now set her down, mentally, as a barefaced story-teller.
Surely, maam, she said, with diffidence, ice and snow like that doesnt fill all the valleys, else we should see it, and find it difficult to travel through em; shouldnt we, maam?
Silly girl! exclaimed her preceptress, I did not say it filled all the valleys, but the higher valleysvalleys such as, in England and Scotland, would be clothed with pasturage and waving grain, and dotted with cattle and sheep and smiling cottages.
Mrs Stoutley had by this time risen to a heroic frame, and spoke poetically, which accounts for her ascribing risible powers to cottages.
And thus you see, Susan, she continued, Switzerland is, as it were, a great ice-tank, or a series of ice-tanks, in which the ice of ages is accumulated and saved up, so that the melting of a little of itthe mere dribbling of it, so to speakis sufficient to cause the continuous flow of innumerable streams and of great rivers, such as the Rhone, and the Rhine, and the Var.
The lecture received unexpected and appropriate illustration here by the sudden lifting of the mists, which had hitherto blotted out the landscape.
Oh, aunt! exclaimed Emma, running in at the moment, just look at the hills. How exquisite! How much grander than if we had seen them quite clear from the first!
Emma was strictly correct, for it is well known that the grandeur of Alpine scenery is greatly enhanced by the wild and weird movements of the gauze-like drapery with which it is almost always partially enshrouded.
As the trio stood gazing in silent wonder and admiration from their window, which, they had been informed, commanded a view of the summit of Mont Blanc, the mist had risen like a curtain partially rolled up. All above the curtain-foot presented the dismal grey, to which they had been too long accustomed, but below, and, as it were, far behind this curtain, the mountain-world was seen rising upwards.
So close were they to the foot of the Great White Monarch, that it seemed to tower like a giant-wall before them; but this wall was varied and beautiful as well as grand. Already the curtain had risen high enough to disclose hoary cliffs and precipices, with steep grassy slopes between, and crowned with fringes of dark pines; which latter, although goodly trees, looked like mere shrubs in their vast setting. Rills were seen running like snowy veins among the slopes, and losing themselves in the masses of débris at the mountain-foot. As they gazed, the curtain rose higher, disclosing new and more rugged features, on which shone a strange, unearthly lightthe result of shadow from the mist and sunshine behind itwhile a gleam of stronger light tipped the curtains under-edge in one direction. Still higher it rose! Susan exclaimed that the mountain was rising into heaven; and Emma and Mrs Stoutley, whose reading had evidently failed to impress them with a just conception of mountain-scenery, stood with clasped hands in silent expectancy and admiration. The gleam of stronger light above referred to, widened, and Susan almost shrieked with ecstasy when the curtain seemed to rend, and the gleam resolved itself into the great Glacier des Bossons, which, rolling over the mountain-brow like a very world of ice, thrust its mighty tongue down into the valley.
From that moment Susans disbelief in her ladys knowledge changed into faith, and deepened into profound veneration.
It was, however, only a slight glimpse that had been thus afforded of the ice-world by which they were surrounded. The great ice-fountain of those regions, commencing at the summit of Mont Blanc, flings its ample waves over mountain and vale in all directions, forming a throne on which perpetual winter reigns, and this glacier des Bossons, which filled the breasts of our travellers with such feelings of awe, was but one of the numerous rivers which flow from the fountain down the gorges and higher valleys of the Alps, until they reach those regions where summer heat asserts itself, and checks their further progress in the form of ice by melting them.
Is it possible, said Emma, as she gazed at the rugged and riven mass of solid ice before her, that a glacier really flows?
So learned men tell us, and so we must believe, said Mrs Stoutley.
Flows, maam? exclaimed Susan, in surprise.
Yes, so it is said, replied Mrs Stoutley, with a smile.
But we can see, maam, by lookin at it, that it dont flow; cant we, maam? said Susan.
True, Susan, it does not seem to move; nevertheless scientific men tell us that it does, and sometimes we are bound to believe against the evidence of our senses.
Susan looked steadily at the glacier for some time; and then, although she modestly held her tongue, scientific men fell considerably in her esteem.
While the ladies were thus discussing the glacier and enlightening their maid, Lewis, Lawrence, and the Captain, taking advantage of the improved state of the weather, had gone out for a stroll, partly with a view, as Lewis said, to freshen up their appetites for dinneralthough, to say truth, the appetites of all three were of such a nature as to require no freshening up. They walked smartly along the road which leads up the valley, pausing, ever and anon, to look back in admiration at the wonderful glimpses of scenery disclosed by the lifting mists. Gradually these cleared away altogether, and the mountain summits stood out well defined against the clear sky. And then, for the first time, came a feeling of disappointment.
Why, Lawrence, said Lewis, didnt they tell us that we could see the top of Mont Blanc from Chamouni?
They certainly did, replied Lawrence, but I cant see it.
There are two or three splendid-looking peaks, said Lewis, pointing up the valley, but surely thats not the direction of the top we look for.
They certainly did, replied Lawrence, but I cant see it.
There are two or three splendid-looking peaks, said Lewis, pointing up the valley, but surely thats not the direction of the top we look for.
No, my lad, it aint the right point o the compass by a long way, said the Captain; but yonder goes a strange sail a-head, lets overhaul her.
Heave a-head then, Captain, said Lewis, and clap on stunsls and sky-scrapers, for the strange sail is making for that cottage on the hill, and will get into port before we overhaul her if we dont look sharp.
The strange sail was a woman. She soon turned into the cottage referred to, but our travellers followed her up, arranging, as they drew near, that Lawrence, being the best French scholar of the three (the Captain knowing nothing whatever of the language), should address her.
She turned out to be a very comely young woman, the wife, as she explained, of one of the Chamouni guides, named Antoine Grennon. Her daughter, a pretty blue-eyed girl of six or so, was busy arranging a casket of flowers, and the grandmother of the family was engaged in that mysterious mallet-stone-scrubbing-brush-and-cold-water system, whereby the washerwomen of the Alps convert the linen of tourists into shreds and patches in the shortest possible space of time.