Returned to my school friends in due season, I thought to tell them of this new and splendid joy that had come to me, but a few attempts cured me of any such endeavour. It was impossible. My words fell upon deaf ears, or rather I had no words. What I said failed to raise a picture in their minds, as what had before been said to me had failed. I have never repeated the attempt; I shall not do so now. The prophet who saw the vision of the Almighty could speak only by aid of types and shadows. The great revelations of nature's majesty are not describable. Who that had never seen a thunderstorm could learn its majestic quality from description? Who can enter into the treasures of the snow by way of words? The glory of a great desert must be seen to be realised. The delicate magnificence of the Arctics none can translate into language. We may speak of that we do know, and testify that we have seen, but no one receives our testimony, because words cannot utter the essential facts.
[Illustration: 3. VIEW OF THE BERNESE ALPS FROM THE GURTEN, NEAR BERN.]
In writing about the Alps, therefore, we write and paint primarily to remind those who know; to suggest further visions of a like character to those they possess within themselves. Even the greatest master of descriptive writing can only manifest his mastership by knowing what to omit and where to stop. "Suddenly--behold--beyond!" That is enough for those who know. For those who do not know, no words can embody and transmit the unfelt emotion.
Since the first day when I saw the snowy mountains, I have seen them again and again in all parts of the world, and have come to know them from above as well as from below. I have penetrated them in all directions and grown to understand the meaning of their smallest details of couloir, crevasse, ice-fall, cornice, arête, and bergschrund. It has not been all gain. Gladly would some of us be able to shed our knowledge of detail, if it were but for a moment, and once again behold the great wall of white as ignorantly as we first beheld it--a thing, vast, majestic, and above all mysterious--unapproachable as the clouds--a region not for men but fairies--the rose-clad tops of the mountains where dance the spirits of the dawn. Fairest of all is ever the first vision, not completest. Later we know more, we understand more, we may even come to love more, but the first vision of a young man's love is surpassed by no future splendour, and the first glory of a mountain view never comes again.