Dr. Hamel was the Russian gentleman of the party which made the ascent at the time of the famous disaster.  He left Chamonix as soon as he conveniently could after the descent; and as he had shown a chilly indifference about the calamity, and offered neither sympathy nor assistance to the widows and orphans, he carried with him the cordial execrations of the whole community.  Four months before the first remains were found, a Chamonix guide named Balmat—­a relative of one of the lost men—­was in London, and one day encountered a hale old gentleman in the British Museum, who said: 

“I overheard your name.  Are you from Chamonix, Monsieur Balmat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Haven’t they found the bodies of my three guides, yet?  I am Dr. Hamel.”

“Alas, no, monsieur.”

“Well, you’ll find them, sooner or later.”

“Yes, it is the opinion of Dr. Forbes and Mr. Tyndall, that the glacier will sooner or later restore to us the remains of the unfortunate victims.”

“Without a doubt, without a doubt.  And it will be a great thing for Chamonix, in the matter of attracting tourists.  You can get up a museum with those remains that will draw!”

This savage idea has not improved the odor of Dr. Hamel’s name in Chamonix by any means.  But after all, the man was sound on human nature.  His idea was conveyed to the public officials of Chamonix, and they gravely discussed it around the official council-table.  They were only prevented from carrying it into execution by the determined opposition of the friends and descendants of the lost guides, who insisted on giving the remains Christian burial, and succeeded in their purpose.

A close watch had to be kept upon all the poor remnants and fragments, to prevent embezzlement.  A few accessory odds and ends were sold.  Rags and scraps of the coarse clothing were parted with at the rate equal to about twenty dollars a yard; a piece of a lantern and one or two other trifles brought nearly their weight in gold; and an Englishman offered a pound sterling for a single breeches-button.

CHAPTER XLI [The Fearful Disaster of 1865]

One of the most memorable of all the Alpine catastrophes was that of July, 1865, on the Matterhorn—­already sighted referred to, a few pages back.  The details of it are scarcely known in America.  To the vast majority of readers they are not known at all.  Mr. Whymper’s account is the only authentic one.  I will import the chief portion of it into this book, partly because of its intrinsic interest, and partly because it gives such a vivid idea of what the perilous pastime of Alp-climbing is.  This was Mr. Whymper’s ninth attempt during a series of years, to vanquish that steep and stubborn pillar or rock; it succeeded, the other eight were failures.  No man had ever accomplished the ascent before, though the attempts had been numerous.