“Source of the Arveron” [essay]
What a delicious thing is a reverie, that total abstraction
from all things present, that stilly dreamy waking vision
that places where you are not, that carries you where you
wish tobe, that presents the past to your recollection, and
the future to your fancy, so forcibly, so impressively, so lovelily,
throwing a glow on every circumstance, a halo on every feature
giving the vivid, the magic colouring of the dream to the defined
and distinct recollection of the reality It is thus that I look
back upon our first walk at Chamouni, to the Source of
the Arveron. 1 What variaties of childish beauty we met with
i
picture, one little fellow insisted upon conducting us to the source
and as notre guide principale piloted us proudly through the
crowd of little fry who were lying in wait, all expecting
a similar distinction, but who, finding the post of honour
preoccupied, followed grav very gravely, en suite 2 Voila la
source quoth our petit conducteur, as we emerged from
a dark wood of pines bordering on the waves of the flashing
Arveron It was exceeding lovely. The day had been
one continued succession of storms but the eve was breaking
and giving fair promise of a clou sunny morrow right
in front a few exhausted, but lingering thundering
tempest clouds shadowed the dark masses of pine that
girdle the Montanvert, 3 but farther the to the whe west
broke away into fleecy masses scarcely distinguishable from
the eternal snow that flashed through their openings and farther
still a serene evening sky glowed peacefully A lurid ominous
light pervaded the whole air, that stormy and murky lume
the effect of the strange combat between the sun and tempest
the one casting the whole body of mo gigantic mountains into
a dreary darkness, the other shootin pouring a stream of red ghostly
lu dusky light up the valley that caught as it past the projecting
pinnacled spires of the glacier des Bossons which flashed dazzling
forth from the gloom of the ribbed crags as the lightning leaps
from the thunder cloud A low hollow melancholy echoing was
heard issuing from the recesses of the mountains, the last sighing
of the passing away tempest the last murmers of the storm
spirit as he yielded up his reign, it past away and the
blue rigidness of the transparent grotto cavern of the glacier
woke rosily to the kiss of the departing sun
from all things present, that stilly dreamy waking vision
that places where you are not, that carries you where you
wish tobe, that presents the past to your recollection, and
the future to your fancy, so forcibly, so impressively, so lovelily,
throwing a glow on every circumstance, a halo on every feature
giving the vivid, the magic colouring of the dream to the defined
and distinct recollection of the reality It is thus that I look
back upon our first walk at Chamouni, to the Source of
the Arveron. 1 What variaties of childish beauty we met with
i
n
t
that short walk, every little power mountaineer was a perfectpicture, one little fellow insisted upon conducting us to the source
and as notre guide principale piloted us proudly through the
crowd of little fry who were lying in wait, all expecting
a similar distinction, but who, finding the post of honour
preoccupied, followed grav very gravely, en suite 2 Voila la
source quoth our petit conducteur, as we emerged from
a dark wood of pines bordering on the waves of the flashing
Arveron It was exceeding lovely. The day had been
one continued succession of storms but the eve was breaking
and giving fair promise of a clou sunny morrow right
in front a few exhausted, but lingering thundering
tempest clouds shadowed the dark masses of pine that
girdle the Montanvert, 3 but farther the to the whe west
broke away into fleecy masses scarcely distinguishable from
the eternal snow that flashed through their openings and farther
still a serene evening sky glowed peacefully A lurid ominous
light pervaded the whole air, that stormy and murky lume
the effect of the strange combat between the sun and tempest
the one casting the whole body of mo gigantic mountains into
55
a dreary darkness, the other shootin pouring a stream of red ghostly
lu dusky light up the valley that caught as it past the projecting
pinnacled spires of the glacier des Bossons which flashed dazzling
forth from the gloom of the ribbed crags as the lightning leaps
from the thunder cloud A low hollow melancholy echoing was
heard issuing from the recesses of the mountains, the last sighing
of the passing away tempest the last murmers of the storm
spirit as he yielded up his reign, it past away and the
blue rigidness of the transparent grotto cavern of the glacier
woke rosily to the kiss of the departing sun