In the body of the book there are also many delights.  The description of the ant might rank next to the German language almost in its humor, and the meeting with the unrecognized girl at Lucerne has a lively charm.

Of the serious matter, some of the word-pictures are flawless in their beauty; this, for instance, suggested by the view of the Jungfrau from Interlaken: 

There was something subduing in the influence of that silent and solemn and awful presence; one seemed to meet the immutable, the indestructible, the eternal, face to face, and to feel the trivial and fleeting nature of his own existence the more sharply by the contrast.  One had the sense of being under the brooding contemplation of a spirit, not an inert mass of rocks and ice—­a spirit which had looked down, through the slow drift of ages, upon a million vanished races of men and judged them; and would judge a million more—­and still be there, watching unchanged and unchangeable, after all life should be gone and the earth have become a vacant desolation

While I was feeling these things, I was groping, without knowing it, toward an understanding of what the spell is which people find in the Alps, and in no other mountains; that strange, deep, nameless influence which, once felt, cannot be forgotten; once felt, leaves always behind it a restless longing to feel it again—­a longing which is like homesickness; a grieving, haunting yearning, which will plead, implore, and persecute till it has its will.  I met dozens of people, imaginative and unimaginative, cultivated and uncultivated, who had come from far countries and roamed through the Swiss Alps year after year—­they could not explain why.  They had come first, they said, out of idle curiosity, because everybody talked about it; they had come since because they could not help it, and they should keep on coming, while they lived, for the same reason; they had tried to break their chains and stay away, but it was futile; now they had no desire to break them.  Others came nearer formulating what they felt; they said they could find perfect rest and peace nowhere else when they were troubled:  all frets and worries and chafings sank to sleep in the presence of the benignant serenity of the Alps; the Great Spirit of the mountain breathed his own peace upon their hurt minds and sore hearts, and healed them; they could not think base thoughts or do mean and sordid things here, before the visible throne of God.

Indeed, all the serious matter in the book is good.  The reader’s chief regret is likely to be that there is not more of it.  The main difficulty with the humor is that it seems overdone.  It is likely to be carried too far, and continued too long.  The ascent of Riffelberg is an example.  Though spotted with delights it seems, to one reader at least, less admirable than other of the book’s important features, striking, as it does, more emphatically the chief note of the book’s humor—­that is to say, exaggeration.