The game is won when a mountain-top is
reached in spite of difficulties; it is lost when one is forced to
retreat; and, whether won or lost, it calls into play a great variety of
physical and intellectual energies, and gives the pleasure which always
accompanies an energetic use of our faculties. Still it suffers in some
degree from this undeniable characteristic, and especially from the
tinge which has consequently been communicated to narratives of mountain
adventures. There are two ways which have been appropriated to the
description of all sporting exploits. One is to indulge in fine writing
about them, to burst out in sentences which swell to paragraphs, and in
paragraphs which spread over pages; to plunge into ecstasies about
infinite abysses and overpowering splendours, to compare mountains to
archangels lying down in eternal winding-sheets of snow, and to convert
them into allegories about man's highest destinies and aspirations. This
is good when it is well done. Mr. Ruskin has covered the Matterhorn, for
example, with a whole web of poetical associations, in language which,
to a severe taste, is perhaps a trifle too fine, though he has done it
with an eloquence which his bitterest antagonists must freely
acknowledge.
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