wretched distinctions of class, and the modern guide inhabits the guide's room and sees his Monsieur only when actually on an expedition. Cut off from the intercourse of the old days, the guide tends more and more to belong to the lackey tribe, and the ambitious tourist looks upon him much as his less aspiring brother regards his mule.
The constant repetition of the same ascent has, moreover, tended to make the guide into a sort of contractor. For so many tens or hundreds of francs he will take you anywhere you like to name. The skill of the traveller counts for absolutely naught; the practised guide looks on him merely as luggage. Of course if he be of abnormal weight and bulk, he must pay an additional number of francs, precisely as a man who rides sixteen stone has to pay a high price for a hunter; but, apart from the accident of weight, the individuality of the Herr is not considered.
The guide, having undertaken a contract, naturally wishes to get it satisfactorily completed at the earliest possible time. To this end, the way up the mountain is mapped out with great minuteness. The contractor knows to a second the time at which he should arrive at each rock and every ledge. The slightest variation from these standard times hurts his feelings and ruffles the serenity of his temper. There is, of course, no fun or merriment during the ascent. The travellers, pushed
