From the streets of Chamonix the sides seem to be as smooth as a frozen pond, as the sun glistens on the ice and snow; but viewed through the powerful telescope great crags are seen. Wide chasms, no one knows how deep, yawn on every side. Blank, inaccessible walls shoot straight up in the air, hundreds of feet. There are impassible glaciers and great gullies where, centuries ago, a great landslide occurred. All this can be seen through the telescope, but not till one attempts the ascent can he realize the nature of Mt. Blanc's formation. Then he finds his path beset with dangers he never dreamed of. He sees the glaciers, which by the glass seemed only rough places, are full of deep crevices hundreds of feet wide. He hears the rumbling of wild streams of water far down in the ice, as they swirl and swish round and round in the cavities formed by the everlasting action of the water against the flinty ice. He comes upon solid mountains of ice, around or over which it is next to impossible to go. He finds bridges of ice, where one misstep would launch him down a crevice, so far that his body could never be recovered. In short, he finds that Mt. Blanc is only smooth and safe and pleasant when seen at a distance through a telescope. CHAPTER XXXV. GOING UP THE MOUNTAIN. I cannot see why any one should desire to ascend Mt. Blanc. It is a trip of great danger, is very fatiguing, and, it is said, even when the summit is reached the view is unsatisfactory, on account of the great distance from all objects save the jagged peaks of the big mountain. Yet there are quite a number of ascents made every year. [Illustration: THE PRESUMED CHAMOIS HUNTER.] [Sidenote: ALPINE ASCENTS.] Why? Because the innocents who do it dearly love to start out, the males with their knee breeches and horrible spiked shoes, and the females with their hideous dresses, and after the ascent is either made, or not made, it is a pleasant thing to be photographed in groups in these costumes. Thousands of these photographs are taken, for home consumption. Everybody likes to be photographed in the act of doing what they can't do. The stupid man who never looks into a book always wants to be taken with one elbow upon a pile of books, and his fore finger thoughtfully upon his forehead, as though he were devising a plan for the payment of the national debt; the young sprout who buys a double-barreled shot-gun, which is destined never to take animal life, always rushes to be photographed in complete sporting costume, shot-gun, game-bag, dog and all; and where was there ever a militia officer who did not want to be photographed in full uniform, as though he had served with credit through the great rebellion? So these Alpine climbers, these Mt. Blanc ascenders, would no more leave Chamonix without being photographed in costume than they would leave their letters of credit behind them. Photography is an unconscious liar. It is as unreliable as history.