Alps from above Geneva he walked nine out of the twelve miles of the
descent: "My mind and heart were too full to sit still, and I found
some relief by exhausting my feelings through exercise." In the course
of time he reached Chamonix and went on a Sunday to the Montanvert
to see the Mer de Glace. There he wrote the following verses for the
visitors' book, which he considered, so he says, "suitable to the
day and scene":

     Lord, while these wonders of thy hand I see,

     My soul in holy reverence bends to thee.

     These awful solitudes, this dread repose,

     Yon pyramid sublime of spotless snows,

     These spiry pinnacles, those smiling plains,

     This sea where one eternal winter reigns,

     These are thy works, and while on them I gaze

     I hear a silent tongue that speaks thy  praise.

  Some poets always begin to get groggy about the knees after
running for seven or eight lines. Mr. Pontifex's last couplet gave him
a lot of trouble, and nearly every word has been erased and
rewritten once at least. In the visitors' book at the Montanvert,
however, he must have been obliged to commit himself definitely to one
reading or another. Taking the verses all round, I should say that Mr.
Pontifex was right in considering them suitable to the day; I don't
like being too hard even on the Mer de Glace, so will give no
opinion as to whether they are suitable to the scene also.

  Mr. Pontifex went on to the Great St. Bernard and there he wrote
some more verses, this time I am afraid in Latin. He also took good
care to be properly impressed by the Hospice and its situation. "The
whole of this most extraordinary journey seemed like a dream, its
conclusion especially, in gentlemanly society, with every comfort
and accommodation amidst the rudest rocks and in the region of
perpetual snow. The thought that I was sleeping in a convent and
occupied the bed of no less a person than Napoleon, that I was in
the highest inhabited spot in the old world and in a place
celebrated in every part of it, kept me awake some time." As a
contrast to this, I may quote here an extract from a letter written to
me last year by his grandson Ernest, of whom the reader will hear more
presently. The passage runs: "I went up to the Great St. Bernard and
saw the dogs." In due course Mr. Pontifex found his way into Italy,
where the pictures and other works of art- those, at least, which were
fashionable at that time- threw him into genteel paroxysms of
admiration. Of the Uffizi Gallery at Florence he writes: "I have spent
three hours this morning in the gallery and I have made up my mind
that if of all the treasures I have seen in Italy I were to choose one
room it would be the Tribune of this gallery. It contains the Venus
de' Medici, the Explorator, the Pancratist, the Dancing Faun, and a
fine Apollo. These more than outweigh the Laocoon and the Belvedere
Apollo at Rome. It contains, besides, the St. John of Raphael and many
other chefs-d'oeuvre of the greatest masters in the world." It is
interesting to compare Mr. Pontifex's effusions with the rhapsodies of
critics in our own times. Not long ago a much esteemed writer informed
the world that he felt "disposed to cry out with delight" before a
figure by Michael Angelo. I wonder whether he would feel disposed to
cry out before a real Michael Angelo, if the critics had decided
that it was not genuine, or before a reputed Michael Angelo which
was really by someone else. But I suppose that a prig with more
money than brains was much the same sixty or seventy years ago as he
is now.

  Look at Mendelssohn again about this same Tribune on which Mr.
Pontifex felt so safe in staking his reputation as a man of taste
and culture. He feels no less safe and writes, "I then went to the
Tribune. This room is so delightfully small you can traverse it in
fifteen paces, yet it contains a world of art. I again sought out my
favourite arm chair which stands under the statue of the 'Slave
whetting his knife' (L'Arrotino), and taking possession of it I
enjoyed myself for a couple of hours; for here at one glance I had the
'Madonna del Cardellino,' Pope Julius II., a female portrait by
Raphael, and above it a lovely Holy Family by Perugino; and so close
to me that I could have touched it with my hand the Venus de'
Medici; beyond, that of Titian... The space between is occupied by
other pictures of Raphael's, a portrait by Titian, a Domenichino,
etc., etc., all these within the circumference of a small
semi-circle no larger than one of your own rooms. This is a spot where
a man feels his own insignificance and may well learn to be humble."
The Tribune is a slippery place for people like Mendelssohn to study
humility in. They generally take two steps away from it for one they
take towards it. I wonder how many chalks Mendelssohn gave himself for
having sat two hours on that chair. I wonder how often he looked at
his watch to see if his two hours were up. I wonder how often he
told himself that he was quite as big a gun, if the truth were
known, as any of the men whose works he saw before him, how often he
wondered whether any of the visitors were recognizing him and admiring
him for sitting such a long time in the same chair, and how often he
was vexed at seeing them pass him by and take no notice of him. But
perhaps if the truth were known his two hours was not quite two hours.

  Returning to Mr. Pontifex, whether he liked what he believed to be
the masterpieces of Greek and Italian art or no, he brought back
some copies by Italian artists, which I have no doubt he satisfied
himself would bear the strictest examination with the originals. Two