we squatted on the snow, we quickly came to the conclusion that, under some circumstances, even mountaineering is vanity and vexation of spirit. Firmly founded on this dictum of antiquity, Collie and I expressed an unalterable determination that when next we moved, it should be downwards. But Hastings, a scoffer at tobacco and otherwise wholly unregenerate, was insensible to the arguments with which a steep, wet snow slope appeals to weary limbs, and was equally resolved to continue the ascent.
"Have we not," he said, "toiled through the crevasses, filling our pockets with snow and shaking our digestive organs by long jumps and unexpected tumbles into concealed holes, and now, that we have reached an obvious and easy line, is it not the height of absurdity to turn back?"
His eloquence, however, was as nothing compared with the mute oratory of the slope. We could realise in every limb the pain of lifting a leg till the knee almost touches the chin, then the agony of tightening the various muscles till one's weight is fairly raised upon it, followed by the heartbreaking squash as the snow gives way, and a hole eighteen inches deep remains almost the only result of the effort. We were, in consequence, not to be persuaded, and as we fully recognised the grand truth that "language is given us that we may conceal our thoughts," we advanced fic-
