The vision of the Berenese Oberland when it breaks upon one from the crest of Jura has been impressed—­upon English people, at least—­in two fine passages:  the one written by Ruskin, the other, if I remember right, in a book called A Cruise upon Wheels.  The French have, I believe, no classical presentment of that view, nor perhaps have the Germans.  The line of the Alps as one sees it upon very clear days from the last of the Apennines—­this, I think, has never been properly praised in any modern book—­not even an Italian.  The great red mountain-face which St. Bruno called “the desert” I do not remember to have read of anywhere nor to have heard described; for it stands above an unfrequented valley, and the regular approach to the Chartreuse is from the other side.  Yet it is something which remains as vivid to those few who have suddenly caught sight of it from a turn of the Old Lyons road as though they had seen it in a fantastic dream.  That astonishing circle of cliffs which surrounds Bourg d’Oisans, though it has been written of now and then, has not, so to speak, taken root in people’s imagination.

Even in this country there are twenty great effects which, though they have, of course, suffered record, are still secure from general praise; for instance, that awful trench which opens under your feet, as it were, up north and beyond Plynlimmon.  It is a valley as unexpected and as incredible in its steepness and complete isolation as any one may see in the drawings of the romantic generation of English water-colour, yet perhaps no one has drawn it; there is certainly no familiar picture of it anywhere.

When one comes to think of it, the reason of such exceptions to fame as are these is usually that such and such an unknown but great sight lies off the few general roads of travel.  It is a vulgar reason, but the true one.  Unless men go to a mountain to climb because it is difficult to climb, or unless it often appears before them along one of their main journeys, it will remain quiet.  Among such masses is the Canigou.

Here is a mountain which may be compared to Etna.  It is lower, indeed, in the proportion of nine to eleven; but when great isolated heights of this sort are in question, such a difference hardly counts.  It can be seen, as Etna can, from the sea, though it stands a good deal more inland; it dominates, as Etna does, a very famous plain, but modern travel does nothing to bring it into the general consciousness of the world.  If Spain were wealthy, or if the Spanish harbours naturally led to any place which all the rich desired to visit, the name of the Canigou would begin to grow.  Where the railway skirts the sea from Narbonne to Barcelona, it is your permanent companion for a good hour in the express, and for any time you like in the ordinary trains.  During at least three months in the year, its isolation is peculiarly relieved and marked by the snow, which lies above an even line all along its vast bulk.