As a sailor knows every timber, rope, and spar of his ship, and seems
to identify his existence with her, so these guides their mountains.
The mountains are their calendar, their book, their newspaper, their
cabinet, herbarium, barometer, their education, and their livelihood.
In fine, behold us about eight o'clock, C., S., W., little G., and
self, in all the bustle of fitting out in the front of our hotel. Two
guides, Balmat and Alexandre, lead two mules, long-eared, slow-footed,
considerate brutes, who have borne a thousand ladies over a thousand
pokerish places, and are ready to bear a thousand more. Equipped with
low-backed saddles, they stand, their noses down, their eyes
contemplatively closed, their whole appearance impressing one with an
air of practical talent and reliableness. Your mule is evidently safe
and stupid as any conservative of any country; you may be sure that no
erratic fires, no new influx of ideas will ever lead him to desert the
good old paths, and tumble you down precipices. The harness they wear
is so exceedingly ancient, and has such a dilapidated appearance, as
if held together only by the merest accident, that I could not but
express a little alarm on mounting.
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