“It is evident that we have no direct intellectual vision or beholding of

God. The soul is separated from him by an infinite and impassable

abyss.”(100) “God affirms himself originally to the reason by the creative

act, which is first _apprehended by the reason_(101)_through the medium of

the sensible_.... Thus we know God by creation, and creation comes into

the most immediate contact with us on its sensible side.”(102) “The

knowledge of God is limited to that which he expresses by the similitude

of himself exhibited in the creation.”(103) “It is of the essence of a

created spirit that its active intuition or intellective vision is limited

to finite objects as its immediate terminus, commensurate to its finite,

visual power. _It sees God only mediately_, as his being and attributes

are reflected and imaged in finite things, and therefore its highest

contemplation of God is _merely abstractive_.”(104)

More passages might be quoted, but these may suffice. The form of

expression is frequently Giobertian, especially in the early chapters. But

the author understood Gioberti in an orthodox sense. In our opinion Dr.

Brownson, as well as ourselves, failed to a very great extent to

understand his artfully‐expressed meaning. We used language similar to

that of ontologism, but the sense in which we asserted the intuition of

God was that of an infused idea of necessary and eternal truths; having

their foundation and _eminent_, but not _entitative_ existence in God, as

Father Kleutgen teaches; by virtue of which the mind can rise by

discursive reasoning through the creation to an explicit conception of

_what_ God is, and make the judgment _that_ he is. All that introductory

part of his work which treats of ontology was, however, suppressed by the

author when the _Problems of the Age_ was published in book‐form,

precisely on account of the tincture of ideas and phraselogy, which too

nearly resembled those of ontologists, and were too obscure and ambiguous.

We do not suppose that the ideology of those Catholic philosophers whom we

may call Platonisers, for want of a more specific term, has been

condemned; or the Peripatetic ideology enjoined as the only one which can

safely be taught in the schools; by any positive precept of the Holy See.

Nevertheless, we think the former ideology, in all its various shapes, has

received a back‐handed blow, by the condemnation of ontologism, which must

prove fatal to it. We see no logical alternative for those who reject

psychologism, except between ontologism and the ideology of S. Thomas. The

objective term of intellective conceptions must be, if it has real

existence, either in God, in created things outside the mind, or in the

mind itself. If it is the latter, a vague idealism which carries

philosophy into an abstract world, separated by a chasm from the real,

seems unavoidable. There is no real, concrete being, except in God and

that which God has created. Unless the universals are mere conceptions or

ideas, and unless ideas are, not that _by which_ the intellect perceives,

but that _which_ it perceives—and this is psychologism—they must have

their entitative existence in the essence of God, and be indistinguishable

from it; or they must have it in created objects. The former cannot be

safely held and taught. Therefore we must take the latter side of the

alternative, or fall into psychologism. There is no solid rational basis,

except that of scholastic philosophy, on which we can stand. The master in

this school is the Angelic Doctor. Our interpretation, or that of any

greater disciple of S. Thomas, has no authority, except that which is

intrinsic to the evidence it furnishes that it is really his doctrine. The

evidence is clear enough, however, to any competent person who examines

it, that we have stated his doctrine correctly, and that all the

criticisms upon the ideology we vindicate fall upon S. Thomas, and not

upon us. Any one who will read the great works of Kleutgen and Liberatore

can see this proved in the amplest manner from the writings of S. Thomas

and in his own distinct statements. And any person of ordinary common

sense will conclude that a man of the acute intelligence,

conscientiousness, and patient application which characterize Father

Liberatore, in a lifelong study of the clearest and most lucid author who

ever wrote, cannot have failed to understand his philosophical system.

Liberatore avowedly confines himself to an exposition of the philosophy of

S. Thomas pure and simple. And in his great work, _Della Conoscenza

Intellettuale_, he has given the most ample and lucid exposition of that

particular part of it, with a solid refutation of the other principal

theories. Kleutgen is more original, and not less erudite, though perhaps

not equal to Liberatore in the thorough mastery of the writings of the

Angelic Doctor; and he has given a most extensive and complete exposition

of scholastic philosophy, accompanied by an exhaustive appreciation of

modern systems, in his _Philosophie der Vorzeit_. It is very well for

those who can do so to study S. Thomas for themselves, though even they

cannot neglect his commentators. But it is idle to recommend this study to

the generality of students in philosophy and theology, as a substitute for

the study of the minor approved authors. Dogmatic and moral theology and

philosophy are real sciences, as they are taught in the Catholic schools,

and they can be and must be learned from text‐books and the oral

instruction of professors. The presumption is in favor of the books and

teachers approved by ecclesiastical authority, that they teach sound

doctrine. There cannot be anything more injurious to the interests of

ecclesiastical or secular education than to depreciate and undermine their

legitimate authority, and thus awaken distrust in the minds of those who

must receive their instruction from them, or else undertake the task of

instructing themselves. Such an undertaking usually results in a failure

which may have disastrous consequences. The greater number follow self‐

chosen and dangerous guides. The few of superior intelligence and activity

of mind; who throw off respect for all authority except that which they

recognize as absolutely infallible, or submit to through the worship which

they pay to genius and to ideas which have captivated their intellect and

imagination; are apt to indulge the futile and dangerous dream of

remodelling philosophy and theology. Such have been the leaders of

dissension, of heresy, and of apostasy. De Lamennais, St. Cyran, Gioberti,

and Döllinger are examples. They began to deviate by breaking away from

the common and present sense of the great body of authors in actual use

and living teachers of theology. Every one knows where they ended. Similar

tendencies and proclivities can be effectually suppressed only by a sound

theology and a sound philosophy, together with that spirit called the

_piety of faith_, which goes much beyond a mere submission to absolute and

categorical decrees in regard to faith and morals. In conclusion, we

venture very earnestly to advise all converts who have finished a liberal

education before entering the church, not to study theology without also

going through a careful course of philosophy, beginning with text‐books

such as those of Father Hill and Liberatore.

Reminiscences Of A Tile‐Field.

Once upon a time there lived a king and a queen in a grand old group of

Gothic towers that was called the Louvre. Nowadays we should call their

house a palace, but in those good old times kings built houses to fight in

as well as to live in, and their abodes had to do duty at once as palace,

fortress, and prison. At the time we speak of this mass of straggling

roofs and gables resembled a citadel mounting guard over Paris from the

western side, as the Bastile did from the east; but when Francis I. came

on the scene, he denounced the barbaric‐looking stronghold as a place too

like a dungeon for a king to live in, though it did well enough for a

hunting‐lodge. It was too venerable to be thrown down, and too stern in

its original character to bend to any architectural modifications, so he

decided to leave it as it was, and build a palace after his own fancy by

the side it. He began, accordingly, the florid Italian edifice which now

forms the western side of the old Louvre. He did not live to see the work

completed; but it was continued by his son, who died soon after it was

finished, and left his widow, Catherine de Médicis, in enjoyment of it.

But the wily queen, looking to the future, saw that her son would one of

these days be reigning in the Louvre, and that it might not suit her to

remain his guest; so she set about building a palace for herself, where in

due time she might plot and scheme, distil poisons, and light civil wars

unmolested by the king’s presence or the prying eyes of his court. West of

the Louvre, and in the then open country, was a tile‐field, which, from

the fact of _tuiles_ being manufactured there, was called _Les Tuileries_.

The Médicean sorceress touched the tiles with her wand, and up rose under

that magic stroke the stately palace which was to be the centre of so many

high and wonderful destinies, and which continued to bear through all

changes and vicissitudes its first homely title of Les Tuileries. One life

could not suffice for the completion of such a monument, however, and

Catherine left it to her three king sons, successively to finish. But

already in her own time the tile‐field was baptized in blood. From one of

its Gothic windows the mother pulled the trigger in the trembling hand of

the son which gave the signal for the massacre of S. Bartholomew. Thus in

its very cradle did the Tuileries sign itself Haceldama, a field where

blood should flow, where princes should sell and be sold, where a king

should wrestle with the powers of darkness, and be dragged forth in

ignominy to death. The two palaces, hitherto distinct and separate, were

united by Charles IX., who erected the long gallery by the river’s side.

It was not entirely finished when he died, leaving his brothers to make it

ready for Henry IV., who is represented as traversing the gallery, leaning

on De Guise, the day before Ravaillac’s dagger cut short the Béarnais’

career.

The idea of turning it into a museum was first suggested by Louis XVI.,

who reverted to the plan frequently, but was compelled by financial

difficulties to leave the glory of its execution to Bonaparte. Those who

have seen the beautiful old palace recently, before its partial

destruction, would hardly recognize it as the same which fifteen years ago

was choked up to its very windows by the rubbish of the encroaching town;

the space now cleared away between the two palaces, the Louvre proper and

the Tuileries, was filled with mean houses, for the most part shops. Even

the façade of the Tuileries was cumbered and disfigured by a variety of

shabby buildings, barracks, stables, and domestic offices, these latter

being necessary for the convenience of its inmates—since royalty must

dine—the original plan of the palace having made no provision for those

vulgar essentials for the carrying on of daily life. It was an unsafe

abode for royalty when safety needed to be thought of and the hearts of

the people had ceased to be the king’s best stronghold; but when the

Médicis reared the noble, picturesque old pile, they were troubled with no

such considerations. The ghosts of constitutionalism and _sans‐culottism_

were slumbering quietly unsuspected in the womb of the future, and no

provision was made for slaying or defying them. For nearly a century the

Tuileries had been uninhabited, when, on the wrathful day of the 6th of

October, the mob surged from Paris to Versailles, and dragged Louis Seize

and Marie Antoinette from their beds, and installed them within its empty,

neglected walls.

“Buildings, like builders, have their destiny.” Ever since the memorable

morning when insurrection reared its hydra‐head under the windows of the

Queen of France, and battered in the chamber door with clubs and tricolor‐

bedizened pikes, and sent her flying in terrified _déshabillé_ through

secret corridors and trap‐tapestries into the king’s room for safety; ever

since “rascality looked in the king’s face, and did not die,” but seized

royalty by the beard, and led it, amidst hootings of triumph, to lodge

where the people willed, the grand château of Versailles has stood vacant

of kings and queens, its polished floors reflecting the dead monarchs on

the walls, a great hush filling its broad galleries, grass growing in its

courts, the silence of the past brooding everywhere. Noisy demagogues may

scream and howl in the theatre where the Grand Monarch applauded the

verses of Corneille and Racine, and their nimble heels may tread down some

of the grass between the paving‐stones of the Cour du Roi, but they are

but jackdaws chattering in the deserted temple. Versailles has lived its

day, and outlived its generation.

Neglected and uncomfortable as the Tuileries was, the royal family had no

choice but to go there. The Louvre was partly dilapidated and quite

unfurnished, while the sister palace, though so long uninhabited, was

still furnished, and needed comparatively little to make it, even in this

sudden emergency, a suitable domestic residence. The discomforts of the

first few days were great, but the royal captives were absorbed in graver

cares, and bestowed no idle regrets on such small matters as personal

accommodation. Louis was satisfied with his truckle‐bed, hurriedly

provided by the nation in the tapestried room. “Where will your majesty

please to sleep?” inquired an obsequious municipal, entering the presence;

and majesty, with head bowed over his knees, answers, without deigning to

look around and choose, “I am well enough here; let each lodge as he may.”

So the truckle‐bed is got ready. Strange days followed this strange

beginning. Paris for a week was drunk with joy. The mob had got the king

in their possession. Loyal subjects looked on, not knowing whether to weep

or to rejoice. The Orleanist faction chuckled boldly over the degradation

of the crown, and over the fact that the persons of the king and, above

all, of the queen were safe in a gilded prison.

The queen was far too wise and keen‐eyed to be deceived by the pale

glimmer of popularity which, during the early days of their abode in

Paris, shone upon them. Louis took pleasure in the scanty _vivats_ that

greeted him when he sauntered out for a walk on the terrace—his only place

of exercise now—and within doors amused himself with carpentry and lock‐

making. The Dauphin played at soldiering, dressed in military uniform, and

gave the word of command to his men, a regiment of warriors from five to

eight years old. Marie Antoinette had her library brought from Versailles,

and sought refuge from thought in reading. Mme. Elizabeth, meanwhile,

watches the signs of the coming storm, prays, loves, and hopes.

The Assembly had followed the king to Paris, and installed itself in the

Salle de Manège, formerly the riding‐school of the Tuileries, and situated

within sight of the palace on the north terrace. This proximity, whether

accidental or designed, was a source of danger and humiliation to the

king. The members could see the royal prison‐house from the windows of the

Manège, and the prospect served to point many an insolent period in the

tribune. Mirabeau used it with fine effect. “I see,” he cried, “the window

whence a king of France, under the influence of execrable advisers, fired

the shot which gave the signal of the massacre of S. Bartholomew!”

But the Assembly did not content itself with pointing the arrows of its

rhetoric at the doomed Louis; it sought to give him more practical proofs

of disrespect. The riding‐school being situated on the Terrace des

Feuillants, the members declared that this terrace belonged to them, and

not to the king; it was therefore thrown open as a public thoroughfare,

the palace being thus exposed to the coming and going of the populace, who

availed themselves of the opportunity of flaunting their disloyalty under

the very windows of the sovereign. There was no longer any barrier on the

north side, and, the external posts being all sentinelled by National

Guards, the royal family had no control over either the courts or the

gardens. This scandalous violation of his privacy roused even Louis to

utter a mild protest to the Assembly, but it was met by one of the

Girondists retorting that “the people lodged Louis in the Tuileries, but

it nowise followed that they gave up to him the exclusive use of the

gardens.” The unhappy king had no resource henceforth but in dignified

patience, fed by the hope of escaping to the freedom and seclusion of St.

Cloud at Easter. We know how, just as he had entered his carriage to start

for that suburban castle, it was surrounded by the mob, and he himself

only rescued from personal violence by Lafayette and his troop, who were,

however, unable to effect his release. Louis re‐entered the Tuileries

crushed and humbled, but inwardly resolved on some desperate attempt to

escape from the insupportable bondage of his position. The abortive

attempt to leave the Tuileries, even for his usual summer residence,

roused a bitter feeling of suspicion against him, and more especially

against the queen, which was soon manifested by the increasing insolence

of the mob. They dared no longer show themselves in public, and even their

afternoon walk on the terrace by the river’s side became impossible. They

tried to avoid the humiliation and annoyance it provoked by rising at

daybreak, and taking an hour’s exercise in the early dawn; but this soon

became known, and had also to be abandoned. At last the queen complained

that she “could not even open her windows on these hot summer evenings

without being subjected to the grossest invectives and threats.”

When things came to this point, the king was forced to lend an ear to the

proposals which had up to this time met with a dogged and somewhat

contemptuous refusal. There was but one way of remedying the miseries of

their position, and that was by flight. It was no longer a question of

flying from humiliation, but from absolute and imminent danger. The most

sanguine or the most obtuse observer could not but see that things were

hastening to a fearful crisis, which, terminate how it may, must work ruin

to the royal family.

Many schemes were arranged, but for one reason or another they fell

through. Finally, it was settled that the sovereign should escape with his

wife and children and sister to Montmédy. This was the utmost that could

be wrung from Louis, even in this extremity. No arguments could induce him

to consent to leave France, or even to cross the frontier with the purpose

of re‐entering France the next day, though by so doing he would have

shortened the journey and lessened its dangers. If even then he had

consented to fly speedily, separately, instead of losing the precious days

and weeks in preparations that only awoke suspicion and proved hindrances

instead of helps! But in the race of destiny, who wins? Not he who flies,

but he who waits. Louis waited too long, or not long enough; fled too

late, if he should have fled at all.

The story of the flight to Varennes has been written by historians of all

shades and camps, but it is generally tainted with such vehement

partisanship that the simple, underlying facts become obscured, almost

obliterated, by hysterical reproaches of this one and that; whereas the

cause of the failure of that memorable expedition is to be sought rather

in the attitude of the entire population, the atmosphere of the times, or,

let us say at once, the mysterious leadings of the First Great Cause which

overrules human events, even while it leaves the human instruments free to

decide the issue. It is easy for one historian(105) to lay the blame on

Marie Antoinette, who “could not travel without new clothes,” showing us

how “Dame Campan whisks assiduous to this mantua‐maker and to that; and

there is clipping of frocks and gowns, upper clothes and under, great and

small—such clipping and sewing as might be dispensed with. Moreover,

majesty cannot go a step anywhere without her _nécessaire_, dear

_nécessaire_, of inlaid ivory and rosewood, cunningly devised, which holds

perfumes, toilet implements, infinite small, queenlike furniture necessary

to terrestrial life.” Poor Marie Antoinette! her grand, queenlike soul was

lifted far above such silly “terrestrial life” by this time, and it is not

likely that, when such tremendous stakes were impending, her care dwelt

with new clothes or perfume bottles—so misleading does prejudice make the

clearest mind, the most intentionally sincere witness. The plain truth is

that the difficulty of the new clothes existed, but from a very different

motive from that suggested by Mr. Carlyle. It was necessary that the queen

and the royal children should be disguised, and for this purpose new

clothes were essential, and it required all the ingenuity of Mme. De

Tourzel, and Mme. Campan, and every one connected with the affair to get

them made so as to fit the royal fugitives, and then conveyed into the

palace without exciting the keen lynx‐eyes that were fixed on every

incomer and outgoer passing through the queen’s apartments. As to the

_nécessaire_ over which the Scotch philosopher breaks the vials of his

scorn so loftily, it was wanted. Some box was wanted to hold the money,

jewels, and certain indispensable papers that were to be taken on the

journey, and the queen suggested that her dressing‐case should be used,

adding at the same time that she was loath to leave it behind her, as it

was almost the first present she had received from her husband—no great

subject for philosophical sneers, as far as we can see. Nor did either

_nécessaire_ or new clothes—though the obtaining and smuggling in of the

latter caused much delay—give rise to any of the accidents which worked

the failure of the scheme.

Then there was the new berlin to be provided—a lamentable mistake, but not

one that deserves Mr. Carlyle’s withering sarcasms any more than the

_nécessaire_. “Miserable new berlin!” he cries. “Why could not royalty go

in an old berlin similar to that of other men? Flying for life, one does

not stickle about one’s vehicle.” It was not for the newness or dignity of

the vehicle that the queen stickled, but for its capability of carrying

“all her treasures with her.” She positively refused to fly at all, unless

it could be so contrived that she was not separated for an hour of the way

from her husband, her children, and her beloved sister‐in‐law, the

Princess Elizabeth. She insisted, moreover, that the few faithful friends

who were to share her flight should be with them also, and not exposed to

solitary risks in a separate conveyance. This was characteristic enough of

the queen’s loyal heart towards those she loved, but it was unlike her

practical sense and intelligence. M. de Fersen, who was taken into

confidence from the first, declared that no travelling‐coach was to be

found large enough to answer these requirements, and that one must be

built on purpose. It so happened that the previous year he had ordered a

berlin, of just such form and dimensions as was now wanted, for a friend

of his in Russia; he therefore went to the coach‐maker, and desired him

with all possible speed to build another on the same model for a certain

Baronne de Korff, a cousin of his, who was about to return to St.

Petersburg with her family and suite. The berlin was built, and, to baffle

suspicion more effectually, was driven through some of the most public

streets in Paris, in order to try it. The result was most satisfactory,

and M. de Fersen talked aloud to his friends of the perfect coach he had

ordered and partly designed for his cousin, Mme. de Korff.

The journey was fixed for the 19th of June. Everything was ready, every

precaution had been taken, every possible obstacle anticipated. The

Marquis de Bouillé, almost the only general whose devotion the king could

trust to the death, was in command of the army of the Meuse, and Montmédy,

a small but well‐fortified town, was situated in the midst of it. Here the

royal family were sure of a safe and loyal asylum. The minor military

arrangements were entrusted to M. de Goguelat, an officer of engineers,

who was on Bouillé’s staff, and personally devoted to the king and queen.

The Duc de Choiseul, under De Goguelat’s orders, was to furnish local

detachments from his regiment of Royal Dragoons along the road, and to

precede the royal departure by a few hours, so as to ensure all being in

order at the various stations. M. de Goguelat made two experimental

journeys to Montmédy himself, to ascertain the exact hour of arrival at

each place. Unluckily, he forgot to calculate the difference between a

light post‐chaise and a heavily‐built, heavily‐laden “new berlin.” Relays

of horses were provided at each stage, and a detachment of cavalry from De

Bouillé’s army was to be there also, and, after a short interval, to

follow the new berlin, picking up each detachment successively, and thus

swelling the force at every stage. The utmost secrecy was observed with

all except the leaders of the expedition; the pretext alleged to the

troops for all this marching being that a treasure was on its way to the

north for payment of the army. All was waiting, when, at the last moment,

owing to some difficulty about getting Mme. de Tourzel into the berlin,

the king sent a counter‐order for the departure, saying it must take

place, not on the 19th, but on the 20th. It was a woful delay. But at

last, on the night of the 20th, behold the travellers under way. Mme.

Royale’s _Mémoires_ give us the most authentic account of the mode of

starting: “At half‐past ten, on the 20th of June, 1791, my brother was

wakened up by my mother. Mme. de Tourzel brought him down to my mother’s

apartment, where I also came. There we found one of the _gardes‐du‐corps_,

M. de Malden, who was to assist our departure. My mother came in and out

several times to see us. They dressed my brother as a little girl. He

looked beautiful, but he was so sleepy that he could not stand, and did

not know what we were all about. I asked him what he thought we were going

to do. He answered: ‘I suppose to act a play, since we have all got these

odd dresses.’ At half‐past ten we were ready. My mother herself conducted

us to the carriage in the middle of the court, which was exposing herself

to great risk.”

The _rôles_ were distributed as follows: Mme. de Tourzel, governess of the

children of France, was Baronne de Korff; Mme. Royale and the Dauphin, her

daughters. The queen was their governess, Mme. Rocher. The Princess

Elizabeth was _dame‐de‐compagnie_, under the name of Rosalie. The king was

Durand, the _valet‐de‐chambre_. The officers of the disbanded _gardes‐du‐

corps_ went as couriers and servants. This was a grievous mistake amidst

so many others. These gentlemen were totally inexperienced in their

assumed characters, and, by their personal appearance and ignorance of the

duties they undertook, proved a fatal addition to the party. The

preparations were altogether too cumbrous and elaborate, but it is

difficult to accuse any special portion of them as superfluous in a time

when the public spirit was strained to such a pitch of suspicion and

hatred; though prudence might have hinted that this heavy paraphernalia

was far more calculated to awake the jealous mistrust of the people than

to baffle or allay it.

All being now ready, the fugitives furtively left the Tuileries, and

proceeded to enter the hackney‐coach that stood in wait for them outside

the palace. “Mme. de Tourzel, my brother, and I got into the coach first,”

says Mme. Royale. “M. de Fersen was coachman. To deceive any one who might

follow us we drove about several streets. At last we returned to the Petit

Carrousel, which is close to the Tuileries. My brother was fast asleep in

the bottom of the carriage.”

And now another traveller steals softly out of the palace, her face

shrouded by a gypsy‐hat. As she steps on the pavement a carriage, escorted

by torch‐bearers, dashes past. An unaccountable impulse moves her to touch

the wheel with the end of her parasol. The occupant of the carriage is

Lafayette, on his way to the king’s _couchée_. He is late, having been

delayed by urgent matters. They tell him the king has already retired for

the night. Meantime the lady in the gypsy‐hat, leaning on M. de Malden,

one of the amateur couriers, loses her way in the dark street, and keeps

the occupants and driver of the hackney‐coach half an hour waiting in an

agony of suspense. At last, after crossing and recrossing the river, they

make their way to the coach, and start. Another presently follows them. So

they jog on through the dark night to the spot where the new berlin is

waiting; but, lo! they arrive, and no berlin is there. The king himself

alights, and prowls about in search of it. M. de Fersen at last finds it,

overturns the hackney‐coach into a ditch, mounts the berlin, and drives on

to Bondy. There the travellers find a relay waiting in a wood. The

chivalrous Swede stands bareheaded in the dewy dawn‐light, and bows his

loyal farewell to the king and Marie Antoinette. They press hands in

silent thanks, and the chevalier goes his way—to Stockholm, where that

same day, nineteen years hence, he will meet a more brutal end than that

which awaits the royal pair he has befriended—beaten to death with sticks

by a savage mob, who, on the impulse of the moment, accuse him of having

been accessory to the death of Prince Charles Augustus. But now he

breathes with a glad sense of victory and security, and stands with

bright, moistened eye watching the huge berlin lurching on its way, the

only thing that broke the stillness of the wood, sleeping yet under the

fading stars.

All went smoothly as far as Châlons‐sur‐Marne, about a hundred miles

beyond Bondy, and here the programme as arranged by the queen and De

Fersen ceased, to be taken up by the Duc de Choiseul and M. de Bouillé’s

detachments. The berlin rumbled on through Châlons at four in the

afternoon, and reached the next stage, Pont de Somme‐Velle at six, where

M. de Goguelat’s escort was to meet it. But no escort was to be seen. M.

de Choiseul had been there at the appointed time, but owing to the slow

pace of the berlin and the time lost in the early stages—one accident to a

wheel causing two hours’ delay—they were four hours behind time, and M. de

Choiseul, taking for granted something had occurred to change the plan

altogether, drew off his dragoons, without leaving even a _vedette_ to say

where he was going. Everywhere these unlucky troops turned out a hindrance

and a danger. The soldiers accepted without _arrière pensée_ the plausible

story of their being on duty to protect the transport of pay for the army

of the Meuse; but the municipal authorities looked on them with suspicion,

and, long before the idea of the real cause of their presence got wind,

the soldiers were eyed askance in the towns they passed through. At this

very place, Somme‐Velle, one detachment caused a panic. It so fell out, by

one of those disastrous coincidences which pursued the berlin on its

adventurous way, that some few days before there had been an affray

amongst the peasants of a neighboring estate, they having refused to pay

certain rates, in consequence of which the tax‐gatherers had threatened to

enforce payment by bringing down the troops. When therefore the population

beheld De Choiseul and his cavalry they fancied they had been summoned for

the above purpose, and a spirit of angry defiance was roused against them.

The municipality sent the _gendarmerie_ to parley with the troops and

compel them to withdraw; but they failed in this overture, and words began

to run dangerously high on all sides. Meanwhile De Choiseul was straining

eyes and ears for the approach of the berlin, in mortal dread of seeing it

arrive in the midst of the popular excitement. When, however, four hours

passed, and there was no sign of it, he said to an officer, loud enough to

be heard by those near, “I will draw off my men; the treasure I expected

must have already passed.”

The accounts of this particular hitch in the itinerary of the flight are

so conflicting—some envenomed by bitter reproach, others equally hot with

recrimination from the accused—that it is difficult to see who really was

in fault. The time lost in the first instance appears to be the main cause

of all the mishaps. Goguelat is blamed for not having taken better

measures for ensuring the relays being found at once at every stage; but

he throws the blame on De Choiseul, under whose orders he was, and who was

at any rate guilty of strange thoughtlessness in drawing off from the

point of rendezvous without leaving word where he could be found.

Little time, however, was lost at Somme‐Velle when the berlin at last

arrived there. It changed horses at once, and away to Sainte‐Ménéhould,

which it reached at half‐past seven. But here the incapacity of the _soi‐

disant_ couriers caused fresh delay and danger. M. de Valory, one of them,

not knowing where the post‐house was, went about inquiring for it,

exciting curiosity and some suspicion by his manner and uncourier‐like

appearance. He was still looking for it when a special escort of troops

rode up—a circumstance which was very unfortunate, as the angry feeling

excited in the neighboring village by De Choiseul’s huzzars the day before

had not yet subsided. The captain of the detachment, the Marquis

d’Andoins, sees the berlin, and tries to telegraph by glances to Goguelat

which way lies the post‐house; but Goguelat cannot read the signals, and

goes up to him and asks in words, keeping up the sham of his yellow livery

by touching his hat respectfully to the aristocrat officer. The king,

impatient and nervous, puts his head out of the carriage‐window, and calls

to Valory for explanations; the marquis advances and tenders them

respectfully, but with seeming indifference, as to ordinary travellers

asking information on their way. Unlucky Louis! Imprudent M. d’Andoins!

Patriots’ eyes are sharp, and there are hundreds of them fixed on your two

faces now. These sharp eyes are suggesting some vague memory, a likeness

to some forgotten and yet dimly‐remembered features. Whose can they be?

And the lady with the gypsy‐hat who bends forward to thank the gracious

gentleman, bowing in silence, but with a grace of majesty unmistakable, a

something in her air and carriage that startles even these heavy‐souled

provincials into wondering “who can she be?” The lady falls back in an

instant, and is hidden from further gaze; but that fat _valet‐de‐chambre_

keeps his head protruded for several minutes. The post‐house is found at

last, and the horses are coming. The postmaster and his son are busy at

their service. The son has lately been to Paris, and has seen that head

somewhere. He whispers suspicion to his father, old Drouet, one of Condé’s

dragoons in by‐gone days, and the two come closer, and steal a long,

sharp, look. Yes, it is the same as the head on the coins and the

assignats; there is no mistaking it. What is Drouet to do? He is a staunch

patriot; is he to connive at the king’s treachery to the nation, and let

him fly to the foreigner unimpeded? Never was the ready wit of patriotism

more severely tested. No need now to wonder at all this marching and

countermarching, this flying of pickets to and fro, this moving of troops

along the road to the frontier. Treasure to be transported! Ay, truly, a

greater treasure than gold or silver. But what was to be done? How was it

to be stopped? There were the soldiers and chivalrous aristocrat officers,

ready to cut all the patriot postmasters in France to pieces, and then be

cut to pieces themselves, rather than let a hair of one of those royal

heads be touched. A word, and the village would be in a blaze; but only so

long as it would take those glittering swords to quench the flame in

patriot blood. Drouet is a prudent man. He holds his tongue until the new

berlin is fairly on its way, with the village gaping after it, the

military escort lounging about yet a little longer in careless

indifference. M. de Damas was in command of the troops. Presently, after

the appointed interval, he orders them to move on in the wake of the

berlin. But short as the time was, it had sufficed to stir up the town to

terrified and resolute opposition. The people had flocked into the streets

in angry excitement, and would not suffer the cavalry to advance. M. de

Damas at first took a high tone of command, but it was of no use; his

weapon broke in his hand. The troops turned round on him and joined the

mob, and after a desperate struggle he was obliged to escape for his life,

unconscious, even at this crisis, of the danger that threatened his

master. Drouet, meanwhile, was flying after his prey to Clermont, the next

stage to St. Ménéhould, and which by a fatal chance he never reached; if

he had, the final catastrophe would, in human probability, have been

averted. On the road there he met his own postilions coming back, and they

informed him that the berlin had not gone on to Verdon—the next stage

beyond Clermont; that they had overheard the courier on the seat say to

the fresh postilions, “A Varennes!” Drouet, who knew every stone of the

roads, saw at once what a chance this gave him. He turned off the main

road, and started by a short cut across the country to Varennes. Varennes

was a small town, a village rather, where there was no post‐house, but

where M. de Bouillé had a relay waiting for the travellers, who, having

arrived before Drouet, and without any suspicion that he was pursuing

them, might have congratulated themselves on being at last safe over the

Rubicon. Yet it was here that danger was to overtake and overwhelm them.

In this secluded little dell, near midnight, when every one was asleep,

hushed by the lullaby of the river hurrying on its way beneath the silent

stars, no prying eyes to peer at them, no patriots to take offence or

fright, with fresh horses waiting in the quiet wood, and young De Bouillé,

the general’s loyal son, to superintend the relays, with a guard of sixty

staunch huzzars lodged in an old convent of the upper town, at hand in

case of now seemingly impossible accident—it was here that the thunderbolt

fell, and, as the king expressed it, “the earth opened to swallow him.”

Valory, the clumsy courier in the gaudy gold livery, has been blamed for

it all; but let us remember at least that a man who has ridden one hundred

and fifty miles without breathing‐space in twenty‐three hours is entitled

to mercy if, at the end of the ride, his mind wanders and his thoughts

become confused. It was past eleven when he reached Varennes, and went

looking about for the relays, where he had been told he should find them,

at the entrance of the faubourg; but no relays were to be seen. He pushed

on through the faubourg to the town, which had gone to bed, and could find

no sign of the missing horses. After wandering about for nearly an hour,

he hears a sound of rumbling of wheels coming along the Paris road. Can it

be the berlin? And where, oh! where are the fresh horses? He hurries back

in the direction of the sound, and finds the fugitives at the entrance of

the suburb, looking about for the relays. There was nothing for it but to

wake up the village and make enquiries. The king and queen themselves got

out, and went, with the couriers, knocking at doors, and calling to the

inhabitants to know if they had seen horses waiting in the neighborhood.

Drouet, meantime, was not asleep; he was up with his game now, and flashed

past the berlin, like a man riding, not for life, but against life for

death, just as the king alighted. He shouted something as he passed, but

Louis did not hear it. It was an order to the postilions not to stir from

the spot. The relays all this time were ready waiting not at the entrance

of the suburb on the Paris side, as had been specified to the king in M.

de Goguelat’s programme, but at the entrance of the faubourg _beyond_ the

town—a safer and to all appearances more advantageous position, as the

change of horses would be sure to attract less notice out of the town than

within it. The grievous mistake on De Goguelat’s part was in not having

told the courier the exact place where the relays were to be found. But

where were the officers commanding the sixty huzzars all this time? Fast

asleep, it is said, though it is almost impossible to believe it. Certain

it is that they and their huzzars, as well as the detachment of dragoons

which, under command of M. Rohrig, was told off to keep watch over “the

treasure,” kept out of the way while all this commotion was going on, and

never appeared until the entire village was on foot, lights gleaming in

every window, and the streets filled with the inhabitants, lately snoring

in their beds. Drouet had managed his mission with a coolness and

cleverness worthy of a nobler cause. He made no row, but went quietly to

the houses of some half‐dozen good patriots, told them what was abroad,

and directed them how to act. Their first move was to hurry off to the

bridge, and throw up a loose barricade which would prevent the berlin

passing; they then flew to the other end of the town, and overturned some

carts that happened to be close by, and thus barricaded the exit by the

road. They were but “eight patriots of good‐will,” Drouet proudly asserts,

in these momentous preliminaries, so sagaciously and quickly executed.

The mob were by this time thoroughly roused. They surrounded the carriage,

and forced the travellers to alight. Mme. Royale thus describes the scene:

“After a great deal of trouble the postilions were persuaded that the

horses were waiting at the castle (at the other side of the town and

river), and they proceeded that way, but slowly. When we got into the

village, we heard alarming shouts of Stop! stop! The postilions were

seized, and in a moment the carriage was surrounded by a great crowd, some

with arms and some with lights. They asked who we were; we answered, ‘Mme.

de Korff and her family.’ They thrust lights into the carriage, close to

my father’s face, and insisted upon our alighting. We answered that we

would not; that we were common travellers, and had a right to go on. They

repeated their orders to alight on pain of being put to death, and at that

moment all their guns were levelled. We then alighted, and, in crossing

the street, six mounted dragoons passed us, but unfortunately they had no

officer with them; if there had been, six resolute men would have

intimidated them all, and might have saved the king. There were sixty

close at hand, but the two officers who commanded them were asleep; and

when at last the noise of the riot awoke them, they coolly rode away to

tell the Marquis de Bouillé that the king had been stopped, and all was

over; while M. Rohrig, who commanded the treasure escort, rode off

likewise, leaving his men under a disaffected non‐commissioned officer.”

M. de Raigecourt, in his account of this eventful “Night of Spurs,” tells

us how he and his brother officer, De Bouillé, “at half‐past eleven

returned to their bed‐rooms,” after strolling about the town, in hopes of

seeing the travellers arrive. “We extinguished our lights,” he says, “but

opened our windows and kept a profound silence. About twelve we heard many

persons passing and repassing, but without tumult; some even stopped under

our windows, but we could not distinguish what they were saying.” They

remained quietly in their rooms, “wondering what was the matter,” until

about half‐past twelve, when they were enlightened by signals which even

their unsuspicious minds could not mistake. The tocsin was rung, the drum

beat to arms, the tumult became very great. _Terror_ seemed to prevail. I

believe that at that moment ten, or even fewer, determined men would have

routed that scared populace. A general cry informed us that the king was

in Varennes, betrayed and a prisoner. Instead of now, at least, hastening

to call out their men (who, we said, were lodged above the town in an old

abbey), the two officers “took for granted that the huzzars had laid down

their arms, as otherwise they would have come to the rescue and liberated

the king,” and so they simply rode away to report the lamentable issue to

De Bouillé. It was about a quarter to one when they left Varennes.

At this juncture M. de Damas, who had escaped with a few faithful men from

the fray at Clermont, reached Varennes—not with the idea of succoring the

travellers, but of rejoining them. He believed that the uproar which so

suddenly exploded at Clermont had been merely against the troops, and that

the royal fugitives were now in security, past all further dangers or

hindrances. His consternation was therefore great when, on approaching the

village of Varennes, he beheld a barricade across the high‐road, held by a

band of peasants, who made an attempt to stop him. M. de Damas, however,

leaped the barricade, and dashed past them into the town. But the

chivalrous soldier was no war‐god descending on fire‐wings to save the

royal prisoners. He saw the huzzars walking about the streets, and in

answer to his question, “What were they doing?” they replied, “Nothing; we

have no orders.” Those who should have given the orders had fled. M. de

Choiseul was there with his drawn sword at the head of forty men; and

there was a detachment just arrived from another direction under M.

Deslons. There was therefore, even at this point of the disaster, no lack

of armed force to clear the way, if there had been but one vigorous will

to use it. But everybody seemed too bewildered to act. No one had the

courage or the presence of mind to take the initiative. As to Louis

himself, he was like one paralyzed; not with personal cowardice—that

odious charge his subsequent conduct amply disproved—but with a sort of

dazed, mental stupor. When Deslons went the length of asking him for

orders, he replied, “I am a prisoner, and have no orders to give!” Deslons

might have taken the hint, and acted without orders; but the two officers

present were his superiors, and he lacked the genius or the desperation to

seize the opportunity at the cost of a breach of military discipline. Even

the queen’s imperial spirit seems to have abandoned her in this critical

extremity, and she sat passive and dumb in Sausse the grocer’s bed‐room,

clasping her children to her heart, and taking with silent, humble thanks

the sympathy of Mme. Sausse, who forgets the queen in her pity for the

mother, and stands over the group weeping womanly, unavailing tears. Tears

even of “warlike men” cannot help now, for the soldiers have fraternized

with the mob, as their wont is in France; and even if Louis could be

electrified by the shock of despair to arise and assert himself,

remembering that he is a king, it is too late.

The journey so wisely planned, so deeply thought over, dreaded, and at

last attempted, had come to an end, and stopped at the first stage along

the road whose goal was the scaffold. The return to Paris resembled the

capture of a runaway malefactor. Every species of insult was poured out on

the unhappy victims of the popular fury. The brave men who stood by them

in their hour of humiliation, MM. de Choiseul, de Damas, and de Goguelat,

were disarmed and sent to prison; the three _gardes‐du‐corps_, who

faithfully but clumsily played their part as servants to the last, were

bound with ropes on the front seat of the berlin, and hooted at in their

glaring yellow liveries by the mob; the National Guard of Varennes claimed

the glory of escorting the fugitives back to the capital, and the National

Guard of all the towns the berlin had passed through on its ill‐starred

journey fell in with the _cortége_ one after another, swelling it to ten

thousand strong as it advanced. As these men were on foot, the journey

homewards lasted four days. When the king arrived at Sainte‐Ménéhould, M.

de Dampierre came out to salute him, and paid for the loyal act by being

massacred on the spot. A little further on the prisoners were met by

Barnave, Petion, and Latour‐Maubourg, members of the Assembly sent by

Lafayette to conduct them back to Paris. Barnave and Petion entered the

berlin, Mme. de Tourzel leaving to make room for them, and following in

another carriage. From this strange meeting grew the quasi‐friendship of

Barnave and the queen, which led to his honorable though futile efforts to

save her and all of them. At first the proud Austrian lady sat in sullen

silence, turned to stone, deaf to Petion’s coarse sneers, as he sat

opposite in ill‐suppressed jocularity of triumph; but Barnave’s

interference to save a priest from being butchered, like loyal Dampierre,

for saluting the king, moved her to speech, and soon to confidence in the

young representative of the nation. Barnave was surprised beyond measure

to discover in Marie Antoinette’s conversation such clear and strong

intelligence, and so thorough a comprehension of the existing state of

things. He was captivated by her grace, as well as impressed by the

serenity and courage that stamped her whole demeanor throughout that

terrible journey; while his prejudices received nearly an equal blow in

the person of the king. There was no approaching Louis XVI. without being

convinced of his single‐minded honesty and good sense.

In this sorry guise did the new berlin re‐enter Paris. It had departed on

Monday night, and behold it returning on Saturday towards sundown, a huge,

jolting, captured whale whom no miracle will compel to disgorge its prey.

In order to prolong the people’s jubilee and the king’s shame, it was

brought a league out of its direct way, so as to make an entry down the

Champs Elysées, and bear its occupants back to their gilded prison with

due pomp and emphasis by the front gate of the Tuileries gardens. So with

serried ranks of bayonets pointed at it on every side, it reappears in

Paris, and jogs on to deposit its burden on the old Médicean tile‐field,

an ignominious procession, royalty degraded and fettered, a spectacle of

joy to the king‐hating citizens. The royal family enter the Tuileries, now

a prison in the most cruel and literal sense. The queen and Mme. Elizabeth

are henceforth watched, even in their chambers—so watched that, as it is

recorded, the queen being one night unable to sleep, the National Guard on

duty at her open door offered to come in and converse with her majesty

awhile, conversation being sometimes conducive to sleep.

Even at this distance, when we read the history of the flight to Varennes,

it has the exciting effect of a fresh tale. We hold our breath, and fancy

that still at the last some deliverer will arrive just as all is lost;

some accident will prevent Drouet from reaching the scene in time; the

fugitives will clear the bridge, and the mob be prevented by the soldiers

from pursuing them. Never, even in the history of those most unfortunate

of princes, the Stuarts, was there a series of mishaps, blunders, and

accidents such as make up the chapter of the flight to Varennes. It is

idle to conjecture what would have happened if it had ended differently.

If, when the berlin was first surrounded and the travellers ordered to

alight, Louis had proudly defied the insolent command, and bade the

soldiers fire, how quickly the “pale paralysis” of baffled rage would have

seized Drouet and his eight patriots of good‐will; how the froth of

ruffianism they had evoked would have melted away before that imperial

word, and slunk out of sight, while the monarch fared on his way along the

high‐road, the troops sweeping back all possible pursuers, and landing the

destinies of France safe beyond the reach of regicidal hands! All this was

so much more likely to be than that which was! The reason why it was not

is so mysterious! Enough that it was not; that the bloody deed of January

the 20th was to consummate the outrages and sufferings of the Night of

Spurs; and that the fate of France was not shaped to a different issue, as

we, in our short‐sighted philosophy, fancy might so easily have been done.

The Ingenious Device.

“Doth no man condemn thee? And she answered, No man, Lord.”

“Woman! thou’rt over‐confident and sure

To answer thus the Infinitely Pure!

How knowest thou that He does not condemn,

And will not cast at thee th’ avenging stone?”

“The pure are merciful. His stratagem

Has left me to be judged by such alone.”

The Rigi.

The Golden Lion of Weggis can scarcely be said to resemble its now famed

namesake of Granpère. It shows neither coach‐house, stable, farmyard, nor

bustling village life around it, and yet there is the one point of a

certain homeliness in common which suggests that it too may have seen many

a simple romance acted out beneath its roof, and have had its share in

many a life’s heart‐story. It is difficult to imagine sentiment of any

kind in connection with the monster hotels, or rather caravansaries, of

modern Switzerland. But this is a true inn, in the olden acceptation of

the word; modest and sedate enough to feel elated at the arrival of new

guests, who are welcomed by the landlord himself, and instinctively made

to understand that he will personally see to their comfort and proper

attendance. At first sight it appears to be overshadowed by a new and

larger neighbor; but the Golden Lion does not care, for he enjoys the

advantage of mature age and well‐established fame, and justly prides

himself on his old customers, whose constancy is a good tribute to his

honesty and civility. Some who knew him in the quieter times of Rigi

history still come and spend two or three days here when going to, or

returning from, the mountain, and it was one of these faithful friends who

had recommended us to choose it in preference to the larger establishment

of more modern date. Truly, no spot seems more suitable for a romance.

Situated on the lake, surrounded by the most lovely views of land and

water, removed from the rush and bustle which somewhat jar on the

sentimental traveller at Vitznau, and even at Gersau, still with the

pleasant splash of the steamers as they halt alongside the shady pier,

only making just sufficient noise to remind him that, though not of the

world, he can still be in it whenever, or fly whithersoever, his fancy may

impel him. Yes; every steamer, backwards and forwards, stops at Weggis,

though generally merely to drop a stray traveller—a man with alpenstock

and knapsack, or two ladies with their waterproofs neatly strapped across

their shoulders, thereby betraying their recent arrival from “fatherland

beyond the Rhine.” And every one walks leisurely and with consequent

dignity on shore, as though life and plenty of time to enjoy it in were

still at their command. No feverish train is in the background; indeed, it

cannot be even seen on the mountain sky‐line from Weggis, so that

strangers may pause and dine at ease up‐stairs in the clean, airy _table‐

d’hôte_ room of the Golden Lion, sip their coffee on its wide balcony

facing the Uri‐Rothstock and Rigi‐Nasen, or lunch _à la carte_ in the

leafy arbor of the garden, which is more trim and inviting than its

counterpart at Granpère.

It was overpoweringly hot when we landed from the _Helvetia_, the sun

bearing down with that full force which so often follows a heavy shower;

and the leafy arbor in question irresistibly attracted us by its deep

shade and cool, refreshing shelter. Here we resolved to dine, in order to

strengthen the “inner being” and let the noonday hours of heat glide by

before attempting the ascent to Kaltbad, which promised to be a matter of

two and a half hours at the least. The landlord was loud in praise of his

horses and men—“well known before that Vitznau railway existed,” he said

in a tone rather contemptuous of such an upstart. “The price of each only

six francs to Kaltbad, fixed according to the tariff.” And here an

ejaculation in praise of this tariff system, penetrating even to the heart

of the mountain, may perhaps be allowed to us. None but those who have

benefited by it can understand the advantage of being able thus to

calculate beforehand the expense of every excursion, nor the unspeakable

comfort it brings when, on reaching the hotel at night, tired and sleepy,

you know that the guide cannot cheat you, and he feels you cannot cheat

him. No one thing contributes more to ensure peace or conduces to happy

wanderings. Nor does any man more surely “deserve well of his country”

than that Swiss, whoever he may have been, who first proposed this

arrangement; and after him we must be grateful to those authorities who

have so well carried it out. The dinner was the next matter for

consultation between Mr. C—— and mine host, which ultimately ended in the

latter promising to do his best, and to have it ready in three‐quarters of

an hour or thereabouts.

Besides the arbor, the Golden Lion boasts of a tea‐house and a swimming or

bath house projecting into the lake, and also many a well‐placed seat

inviting to a most enjoyable _dolce far niente_ close by the pellucid

waters, without sound to disturb poetic musings; bright coloring and full

foliage forming a framework to the exquisite landscape which extends

beyond. Nothing could be more romantic, rural, or tranquillizing to soul

and body; but before long, prompted by my “natural female curiosity,” as

Mr. C—— ungallantly styled it, I proposed a saunter through the village.

“There is nothing whatever to see,” he retorted. Still, with much good‐

nature, he immediately offered to accompany his wife and me in our

rambles. It certainly was true in the ordinary sense of the term. There

was nothing very remarkable to behold; still, the Swiss villages are

always pleasant to look at, especially in these forest cantons, and of

this class Weggis is an excellent specimen. It has probably seen its

palmiest days, and is at present thrust aside by the hitherto despised

sister, Vitznau, now in the spring‐tide of her charms, who seems to toss

her head at her elderly and _passée_ rival with the conceit of young life

and energy. Yet there no signs of decay. Far from it. It has a steady,

old‐fashioned _commune_ life of its own, quite independent of the tourist

element, which only comes in—very opportunely, no doubt—to help it on its

way. As at Gersau and many of these places, the population is much smaller

than appearances warrant, owing chiefly to the substantial size of the

houses and the straggling, independent manner in which they are placed.

Sometimes a dwelling stands endwise or sidewise to the road, just as the

whim of the ancestral great‐great‐grand‐father who built it centuries ago

dictated. The walls are now mantled with vines, bright blue eyes peep

through casements embosomed in leaves, gardens of glowing sun‐flowers and

fig‐trees laden with fruit surround the cottages, while here and there a

noble Spanish chestnut throws its deep shade on all around. The street‐

road was almost deserted as we passed along, on account of the strong sun;

but many buxom, pleasant‐faced matrons sat working at their doors, while

chubby children played beneath the trees hard by. Though innocent of

manufactories, and far more rural in its general aspect and atmosphere

than Gersau, the whole place breathes of prosperity and comfort. It gives

the impression, too, of greater space; for it is not shut in on all sides,

and the open slopes extend much further back before they reach the

precipitous mountain‐side.

And in accordance with this character is the church, which stands on a

slight eminence at the end of the village. The cemetery too, though large

and thoroughly well cared for, is more simple, and has none of those

pretty monuments that lend such poetry and beauty to the Camenzind‐Küttel

resting‐place. But, if not, it possesses a very handsome stone crucifix in

one angle—evidently a recent erection, and of which Weggis may well be

proud—with the following inscriptions on the base: “Praise be to Jesus

Christ in all eternity”; on the front facing the entrance: “See, is there

any sorrow like unto my sorrow?” and “In the cross is salvation and

benediction” on either side; whilst on the back, close to the Mortuary

Chapel, the words run thus: “Gentle Jesus, grant eternal rest to all

departed souls.” The children’s quarter, too, was remarkable for its fresh

flowers and superabundance of white ribbon; but not until quite near did

we notice a poor disconsolate mother decorating the grave of her child—her

little _engel_, or angel, as they are so often styled on the tiny

headstones or crosses. _She_ did not mind the sun, nor our presence

either, but went on with her work, while large tears rolled unchecked down

her cheeks. And this part is in a striking spot, right under the northern

angle of the Rigi, the straight rocks of which rise perpendicularly from a

green slope of pasture‐land behind the village church, covered with large

boulders and _débris_ that seem to corroborate all the stories of land‐

slips and stone‐rolling so common in this region. Standing here, it was

easy to understand the most noted of these events—the mud‐slide of 1795,

which threatened Weggis with destruction. Thirty‐one houses and eighty

acres of land were buried beneath the creeping mass. It occurred, like the

fall of the Rossberg, after a peculiarly rainy season. Though the story

says that the slide was preceded by ominous symptoms, the earth so much

resembles rich garden‐mould, and looks so loose and friable, that,

recollecting yesterday’s rain, it made me quite nervous to look at it. Had

I stayed gazing upwards much longer, I felt that I would certainly have

fancied it was beginning to move downwards. “What an idea!” exclaimed Mr.

C——, laughing—“the effect of nerves and sun combined! The church‐door is

open, and the sanctuary lamp burning; so it would be much wiser and better

for you to enter in!” Saying which, he preceded me into the sacred

building.

Large, clean, and simple, as a rural church should be, it had three

distinguishing points: first, an altar dedicated to S. Justus, one of the

patron saints of Weggis, who was an archbishop of Lyons in the first

centuries of its Christianity, thus affording, as in the case of S.

Leodegar, another proof of the early ecclesiastical connection between

Switzerland and the Frank Empire. Next, a large processional banner placed

near the altar, and composed simply of the national standard—the beautiful

white cross on the red ground—whose position in this spot it puzzled us to

explain. Lastly, the model of a boat suspended from the ceiling, with two

sailors rowing, whilst a bishop in full canonicals stood erect in the

stern, in the act of giving them his benediction. It looked like an _ex‐

voto_, but our communicative landlord later informed us that it was the

emblem of the Guild of S. Nicholas, “patron of all who navigate upon the

lake.” Every Weggis man who has anything to do with the water belongs to

the confraternity. Before steamers existed they numbered many hundreds,

and, though of late the village occupations have been turned into other

channels, the numbers are still numerous enough; for boats and smaller

craft are even now much used on the lake. The confraternity is still full

of life and vigor. The Feast of S. Nicholas is religiously kept in the

village. The members of the Guild often assemble, but on that day they go

in a body to church, accompanied by their wives and families, to offer

thanks for the past and implore protection for the coming year.

Who shall describe our charming little dinner in the deep‐shaded arbor,

with the glowing sun‐color lighting up the mountains, seen through its

leaf‐framed openings? Such a clean _Kellnerinn_ waited upon us, and the

_Gastherr_ himself all smiles and conversation! The beautiful trout too,

“fresh from the Muotta‐Thal, just brought by the steamer from Brunnen.”

The Muotta valley!

“But what’s in a name?” said Mrs. C——.

“A great deal more than we acknowledge,” I answered.

This one struck again the chord of Schwytz and the “Urschweiz” in our

minds, but perhaps much more that of Soovorof and the hard fighting on the

surrounding crags of the Muotta between his Russians and the French. Mr.

C—— knew the locality, and waxed eloquent on the subject, until

interrupted by an army of—wasps! attracted by some delicious cream with

which our landlord wound up the dinner. It became a regular battle, and a

doubtful one at first, waged in self‐defence. “Never had there been such a

year for wasps,” said our host, slaying a couple so dexterously with his

napkin that it betrayed considerable practice in the art. “But it had

altogether been a prosperous season”—two more knocked down by Mrs. C——.

“So no one had a right to complain”—three or four more timidly but

effectually killed by Mrs. C—— and myself. “The villagers had made a great

deal of money by their fruit and flowers carried up the mountain by their

children,” he continued; until at last, counting our victims by tens and

twenties during this running dialogue, we were left in peaceful possession

of the scene, and ready to hear wonderful reports of Weggis prosperity.

The Golden Lion evidently would have been pleased to keep us longer, but

the horses were waiting and the afternoon advancing; so, despite the

attractions—minus the wasps—we were obliged to depart.

Our path led at first up behind the hotel, through lanes, and meadows

enamelled with wild flowers, and dotted here and there with picturesque

cottages under magnificent chestnuts and walnut‐trees. The whole of this

portion is on the site of the former land‐slip, now the richest and most

highly‐cultivated district of the mountain. On every side the views were

enchanting; Mount Pilatus standing forth in all his grandeur just

opposite, displaying folds and tracts of pasture‐ground we had not

attributed to his rugged form. Lost in admiration, we rode on in

comparative silence, until we halted, to refresh the men and horses, at a

_café_ under a splendid tree, and soon after reached a chapel sheltered by

a rock, called in our hand‐book the Heiligenkreuz, or Church of the Holy

Cross. “The beginning of the Stations to Kaltbad,” said my guide, a dark‐

eyed, refined‐looking man, who had spoken but little hitherto. “Stations

to the _Wallfahrtort_, or place of pilgrimage at Kaltbad,” he repeated,

noticing my perplexed countenance. “Kaltbad is a _Gnadenort_, or ‘place of

grace,’ to us, madam,” he continued, “although you perhaps only know it as

a _Curort_.” And such was the sober truth. I had never heard it spoken of

as anything but a huge hotel with salubrious air. So now I entered into

conversation with my guide, and found that he constantly made the

Stations, in common with all the Weggis population, up this rugged ascent,

until they reach the church at Kaltbad. “Would I not go to see the

church?” he asked. “It was indeed a _Gnadenort_. But the feast of the year

I could not see, for it takes place in the middle of May, just before the

flocks are sent up to the summer pastures. Then there is a procession up

the mountain, with the banner we had noticed in the parish church—the

white cross on the red ground.”

So here was the explanation of its place of honor inside the sanctuary—one

more reason why the Weggis folks should hold it dear and we strangers

regard it with reverence. Nay more: should we not love and cherish a flag

which not only symbolizes, but is practically used by, a modern free

people in connection with their highest and noblest feelings? “In this

procession, headed by the priest,” my informant continued, “we, the

people, make the Stations with hymns and prayers as we go up, and, after

first visiting the Kaltbad church, all ends by the priest blessing the

pastures on all sides before the cattle are permitted to be brought up to

them for the summer season.” The higher we ascended, the steeper became

the road under a straight face of rock, and we could readily fancy how

picturesque, even from an artist’s point of view, such a procession must

be, headed by the red flag, winding its way up this rugged mountain‐road;

but, combined with the spirit and faith which animate it, it is impossible

to conceive anything more beautiful.

This peasant was a native of Weggis, and soon grew communicative. “Oh!

yes, he had often been to Einsiedeln; every one in that country had many,

many times made the pilgrimage there.” And in fervent language he

described the place to me. He had also been to Tell’s Chapel often, but

not yet to Tell’s Platform. That was the great object of his ambition,

what he most wished to accomplish, with a visit to Sachslen to see “Bruder

Klaus,” as so many of his neighbors had done; but another year should not

pass without his carrying out his intentions. Amidst conversation of this

kind we climbed up the straight wall of rock, which seemed to have no

issue, until suddenly we reached a curious group called the Felsenthor,

composed of large fragments fallen from above exactly in the semblance of

a “rocky gate,” as the name implies, and whence the view is magnificent.

The afternoon was lovely. At each turn one snowy peak after another had

been coming into view. The air, though warm, was fresher and brisker than

at Weggis, while the vegetation had sensibly changed from the luxuriant

chestnuts to the pines and fir‐trees of the Alpine heights. Nothing could

be more poetic and tranquil than our half‐hour’s repose at this beautiful

point, noticing the approach of sunset‐tints on the mountain‐wall just

opposite which overhangs Vitznau; watching the pretty steamers looking

like dragon‐flies hovering over the lake two thousand feet below; and then

reflecting on the faith and piety of our humble attendants, which shed a

vivifying atmosphere over the whole scene. Our minds were still full of

these thoughts as we set forth again for our last ascent to Kaltbad, about

three‐quarters of an hour distant, through a pretty dell of fallen rocks

and fresh verdure. We had quite forgotten the existence of the railway or

its feverish life, when all at once a turn in the road gave a rude shock

to our peaceful meditations. There were the trains laboring up a barren,

steep hill beside us—one that would be too steep for any horse without

three or four zigzag turns and windings. Three separate trains were coming

up at certain distances in succession, the engines puffing and snorting,

panting and laboring, in the effort to push the one carriage before each,

as though the struggle were too much for their fast‐failing strength. It

made one tremble to watch them, and it seemed impossible to comprehend how

the passengers looked so quiet and unconcerned. How Mrs. C—— and I

congratulated ourselves on having kept old‐fashioned ways and despised

“progress,” at least for once in our travels! And when I also thought of

the varied charms of our ride, and all that I had seen of the population

and their ways, I felt that no one who rushes through a country at high‐

pressure railway speed can ever hope to understand its people half as well

as those who come into closer contact with them.

Before we had time to recover from the impressions of the railway, Kaltbad

itself appeared in sight, high above our heads, like a green‐jalousied

monster of some German watering‐place lifted bodily up from the depths

below. Anything more unpoetic than its first view is not to be found;

though it must at once be admitted that first impressions are not to be

trusted in this particular case. It was a cruel shock, however, to our

visions of pious pilgrimages and processions; a return to the prose of

life we had never contemplated at four thousand four hundred and thirty‐

nine feet above the level of the sea.

Our young friends were anxiously awaiting us on the long terrace in front

of the hotel with such sensational accounts of their railway journey as

might well have obliterated all remembrance of the _Wallfahrtort_, or

“place of pilgrimage,” but for the parting reminder of my guide, that “the

church was behind the house, and he hoped I would be sure to see it.” But

the C——s’ only thought now was of the sunset about to take place, and they

hurried us off, without a moment’s delay, to a beautiful spot, called the

Käuzli, ten minutes’ distance from the hotel. Certainly no view could be

more glorious! Before us spread half the northern portion of

Switzerland—Mount Pilatus right opposite, Lucerne at our feet, Sempach,

the great lake, just beyond, bathed in a flood of crimson, as though in

harmony with its memories, and bringing back to our minds at one glance

Arnold von Winkelried and all the grand history related to us so recently

by Herr H——. The seven great peaks of the Oberland, including the

Wetterhorn, Monk, and Eiger, towered above the clouds to our right, while

the summits on the south, half facing the sunset, were lit up by the same

kaleidoscopic coloring that we had witnessed on the first evening of our

arrival at Lucerne. Spell‐bound by this fairy‐like scene, we lingered here

till nearly dark, and it seemingly became too late to seek out the little

church. But young C—— had discovered it that afternoon, and led me by an

intricate back pathway to its very door. Even at that late hour it was

open, the lamp burning before the altar, and many figures could be

distinguished devoutly praying in the twilight. These, as I afterwards

learned, were servants of the hotel—the laundresses, bath‐women, and

porters, who came to pay their visit to the Blessed Sacrament before

retiring to rest after their busy day’s work. Mass was celebrated every

morning at half‐past seven o’clock, they said. My own devotions over, I

was again led back to the hotel, where the brilliantly‐lighted rooms and

crowd of fashionably‐dressed ladies—although the material comforts are by

no means to be despised—were still in harsh discord with our ideas of

mountain life.

Next morning, as if we had been in the plain, the church‐bell tolled at

the stated hour, and found us ready to sally forth in answer to its call.

In the hotel all was bustle and clatter; but what wonder? Three hundred

guests and upwards have, on an average, to be provided for daily during

the season. In the middle of July four hundred and twenty were at one time

under this roof, but, happily for us, the numbers had now sensibly

decreased. No church, however, was visible, and it was only on inquiry

that I found a pathway in the rear of the house leading behind two rocks—a

true _Felsenthor_, or “rocky gate,” they made—hiding away their little

treasure. Once past them, there stood the church, with the sun shining on

its roof, small and simple, but perfect in all its proportions, nestling

amongst the encircling crags and overhanging trees, from amidst which,

opposite the door, trickled a stream of the clearest water. Mass had just

commenced at the centre altar, over which stood a statue of the Blessed

Virgin and Child, surrounded by a garland of flowers, and two bouquets

were laid, evidently as a pious offering, on the two side altars, which

were also adorned by excellent paintings. A handsome silver lamp hung in

the sanctuary, and there was a confessional, besides benches capable of

accommodating a couple of hundred people, all neatly painted and very

clean. To‐day the congregation was small, for the servants could not be

spared, we were told, at that hour from their work, and there were few

Catholic visitors in the house; but we noticed that the clerk rang the

church‐bell at the Gospel and the Elevation, so that the shepherds and

others scattered about on the mountain might join their intention with the

priest at the altar. Nothing could exceed the quiet of the spot. It might

have been miles away from the noisy world hard by, no sound audible but

the trickling of the stream outside, heard through the open door, and

enhancing the deep tranquillity of the scene. A most perfect haven of rest

it made for weary souls or pious pilgrims, and a worthy aim, with the

constant presence of the Blessed Sacrament, for any procession toiling up

the precipitous mountain‐side. When Mass was over, we lingered awhile,

and, looking round, a large, illuminated tablet caught our attention. What

was our delight to find it gave the whole history of the place in the

following words:

“KALTBAD ON THE RIGI.

“Amongst the venerated spots which the goodness of God seems to

have especially chosen for the distribution of rich spiritual and

temporal gifts, Kaltbad on the Rigi has for centuries enjoyed a

well‐founded reputation. The natural operation of the remarkably

cold water has in itself given life and health to thousands. But

far more effect has been produced by trustful prayers, joined with

the contrite and devout reception of the holy sacraments, and

aided by the powerful intercession of the pure Virgin‐Mother of

God and of other saints. Remarkable and often perfectly miraculous

cures of countless Christians, in the most different circumstances

of body and soul, have here taken place, which have partly been

recorded in writing, and partly live on in grateful remembrance.

“In former times this place was called the ‘Schwesterborn,’ or

‘Spring of the Sisters’; for the legend relates that in the reign

of the Emperor Albert of Austria—in the beginning of the XIVth

century—three pious sisters retired to this wilderness in order to

escape from powerful governors, or _Vogts_, and here led holy and

saintly lives. The first miraculous cure on record is that of a

devout _Landsassen_ of Weggis, named Balthasar Tolen, in the year

1540. From year to year the reputation of this spring increased.

In the year 1585, on the 20th of May, the first small chapel was

consecrated in honor of God, of the holy Archangel Michael and the

other angels, and of the holy shepherd Wendelin, by Balthasar,

Bishop of Ascalon. It proved, however, insufficient for the number

of Alpine inhabitants and pilgrims. Even after those belonging to

the canton Schwytz built themselves a chapel, a hundred years

later, at Mary in the Snow, or ‘Maria zum Schnee,’ the want of a

larger church was still felt. The present one, with three altars,

the middle one of which possesses the image of the ever Blessed

Mother of God, and the two side ones the pictures of the holy

martyr S. Lawrence and the father of the church, S. Jerome, was

built in the year 1779, and considerably renovated in the year

1861, when the two new side altars and their paintings by Theodore

von Deschwanden were added.

“On the 20th of July, 1782, His Holiness Pius VI. granted a

plenary indulgence to all the faithful, on any day whatsoever, on

the condition that after approaching the holy sacraments of

Confession and Communion, with contrite and worthy dispositions,

they here devoutly pray for the union of all Christian princes,

the extirpation of heresy, and the increase of the Holy Catholic

Church—an indulgence which can be applied to the souls in

purgatory.

“In order to afford the opportunity of assisting at divine service

on Sundays and holidays to the shepherds as well as to the

pilgrims, and also of approaching the holy sacraments, a special

priest is here appointed during the whole summer season.”

So here again, even here, the Austrians and imperial _Vogts_ were at the

root of all things—in this instance, however, and unconsciously, the

source of good to many poor sufferers; for numberless _ex‐votos_ filling

the end of the little church eloquently told that it had proved to them a

true “place of grace,” as my guide of yesterday had so beautifully called

it. And the little stream outside was the real “Kaltbad,” whose wonder‐

working effects had first given the place its name. Quaint and rude were

all the paintings, but full of life and feeling, mostly from the

neighborhood—from Weggis, Vitznau, and Gersau. Yes, there was a man in a

boat in danger on the lake, just as we had seen from the Gersau hotel two

evenings ago; but this one is praying fervently with clasped hands, and we

longed to know if those who were saved the other day had done likewise.

Then here is a family of boys and girls kneeling in rows, the father and

mother behind, all with their pink, and blue, and green rosaries twined

round their hands, in the selfsame manner that the Gersau children had

theirs during Mass! Above, a child of two years old, kneeling beside its

mother, has a rosary hanging on its arm; quaint little things in caps like

those of their elders, or infants tied on pillows with quantities of red

bows. Red was so much the prevailing color that it seemed as if it must

have some reference to their beloved national flag. And then there were

small waxen hearts, and ears, and a wooden hand with a fearful gash, the

offering, no doubt, of a grateful wood‐cutter. Some of these are upwards

of a hundred or a hundred and fifty years old, with inscriptions in the

native dialect, full of pathos and local color. But most striking of all

is a large painting of the very wall of rock up which we had climbed from

Weggis yesterday, bearing the following simple‐worded inscription:

“Be it known to all, that by the breaking up of the dangerous Rigirocks on

the Weggis mountain some of the inhabitants were threatened with the

complete destruction of all their possessions. In this extremity and

distress they turned to heaven, and, with firm confidence in the gracious

Mother of all the angels, they here sought and found help; for instantly

the loosening of the rocks ceased, and all became quiet again. Therefore,

as a perpetual memorial of praise and thanksgiving to God and the Mother

of Mercy, they have consecrated and hung up this tablet, _anno_ 1753.”

This was clearly forty‐two years before the fatal mud‐slide which

destroyed so much, and it would be most interesting to know whether the

later victims turned hitherward for succor; but of this no record exists

in the church. In the above painting the Blessed Mother, holding the

divine Infant in her arms, is represented standing in the centre of the

rock‐wall, with S. Michael on one side and S. Lawrence on the other, just

as if they had been visible. Had we only beheld this tablet before, with

what different eyes should we have looked at this face of rock yesterday

from the cemetery below, as also during our ascent! And what proof such a

picture and inscription give of the strong faith of the Weggis population

in the unseen world under whose blessed protection they live in peace and

confidence! Whilst we tarried, peasant after peasant came in. One, an old

woman, took out her rosary, and told her beads leisurely; another, younger

and busier, laid down her basket, prayed for a few minutes with

recollection, and then went on to her work; but what most struck us was a

little girl of about twelve, who also had her basket, full of fruit and

flowers, and had been there before we arrived for Mass. She waited until

we left, and then evidently thought that we had finally departed.

Unexpectedly, however, I returned to look at the tablet again, and I

beheld the little maiden in the act of dropping some money into the poor

box, blushing modestly when her eyes caught mine. I asked, and found that

she was a Weggis child—one of the number that climb the mountain like

antelopes up to this hotel daily to sell their “fresh figs,” “peaches,”

and “flowers”—for they offer them in good English—the majority of whom

first pay their visit to the Blessed Sacrament in this church, and leave

some little offering for themselves or their parents. She was a blue‐eyed,

intelligent girl—one who had made her first communion two years

previously, and approached the Holy Sacrament _manchmal_—many times, she

said, during the course of the year.

As time went on, experience taught us that the children of the Rigi are

one of its most distinctive characteristics. Intelligent, bright‐

countenanced, and yet modest, they are the most attractive race of

juveniles to be met with in Switzerland, and, as yet, are unspoiled by

contact with the stranger crowd. They form the most remarkable contrast to

those of the Bernese Oberland, where the grandeur of Grindelwald and other

spots is so much marred by the swarms of sickly beggar‐children that there

flock round one from all quarters. Here, on the contrary, they are brimful

of health and intelligence, and never once during all our wanderings in

the forest cantons did a beggar, old or young, ever cross our path. So

much for the popular fallacy, or rather calumny, which says that

prosperity, comfort, and thrift are alone to be found in the Protestant

cantons, and that beggary, want, and uncleanliness mark the entrance into

the Catholic districts. Like many such sayings, it does not bear

investigation; but when even the most just‐minded start on their travels

with prejudiced minds, it is astonishing how readily they accept the

opinions of men whose want of observation they despise at home. Above all,

should the question be anything concerning Catholicity, their wilful

blindness surpasses all belief. Some exceptions to this rule there

certainly are, increasing, too, each year, like the celebrated Dr. Arnold,

for instance, who frankly admitted that he had found nothing in

Switzerland to justify such a verdict being passed on its Catholic

population, and was generous enough to acknowledge this.

Nor are the children who cover the Rigi, selling fruit and flowers, idlers

in any way. The law requires their attendance at school up to the age of

eight all the year round, but from eight to twelve only during the winter

months. This arrangement has been made in order that they may accompany

their parents to the upland _châlets_, or, as often happens, mind the

cattle alone on the higher pastures. A most interesting class they are,

and one must ardently pray that nothing may ever change or modernize them,

according to the present ideas of so‐called “civilization”!

For several days we took up our abode at Kaltbad, and never had cause for

one moment’s regret. The hotel is in itself a marvel of material comfort

and luxury at such an altitude; the air brisk, invigorating, and yet

balmy, and the views simply lovely. Who can forget the terrace facing the

Uri‐Rothstock, Tittlis, and many another peak and pass, and overhanging

Vitznau, whence we could even distinguish my favorite red standard

floating over its hotel, as the steamers came and went to Lucerne or

Fluelen, and the light smoke of the engines told that the trains were

creeping up towards us? Sometimes, it is true, the lake and all below were

hidden by the clouds that settled in thick masses over the water or

floated beneath us in light, vapory forms, while the heights and summits

opposite shone, like Kaltbad, in brilliant sunlight; making us more fully

realize the great elevation we were inhabiting in such tranquillity.

Then, the mornings spent in the “Wilderness,” which is represented

_nowadays_ by fir‐trees, descendants of those the three sisters knew, but

at present embedded in velvety turf on the hillside, with seats and tables

carefully placed at the best points of view! And the dear little church to

turn into at all times and hours, with the lamp ever burning, and never

quite empty! The afternoons we devoted to longer excursions, ascents and

descents in all directions. That to the _Kulm_, or Summit, was made by

rail, despite its terrors and perils. The young people insisted on our

making the experiment, but they could not succeed in persuading us elders

to return, except on foot! The Kaltbad world seems to go through the

ordeal unconcernedly; but nervous and uncomfortable work it must always

be, no matter how custom may familiarize them with it. One spot especially

is most alarming, where the precipice seems to go straight down from the

railroad to the plain many thousand feet below. As a matter of course, the

sunset at the _Kulm_ is the great _event_ on the Rigi—one, however, which

altogether depends upon the weather. We were most fortunate in catching a

clear atmosphere, and consequently distinct horizon. Then, sleeping at the

large hotel at the top, we included the famed sunrise in the same

excursion. Oh! for the pen of poet to describe either of these sights

properly. They are among those grand scenes which nature holds so

completely in her own keeping that no rush of commonplace humanity can

ever lower or vulgarize them. Crowds from all countries were present, yet

we saw nothing save the glorious panorama before us—the sun sinking

grandly behind the Jura Mountains in the west, or rising majestically from

behind the Sentis far away in Appenzell, after having first heralded his

approach by coloring with the light touch of “rosy‐fingered morn” the

Finster‐Aarhorn, Wetterhorn, Monk, and Jungfrau, as they stand in gradual

succession, facing the east, in the Bernese Oberland.

Here, too, were all the scenes of that famous Swiss history which we had

been studying within the last few days—the town of Schwytz in the

Urschweiz, bright and cheerful on its fresh, green meadows; Lomerz, where

Stauffacher commenced the great revolution; the small lake of Egeri, the

site of the battle of Morgarten; Kappel, on this side of the Zurich line

of hills—the Albis—with its monument to Zwingle, who was killed here in

battle against the Schwytzers; Königsfelden, further north, the scene of

Albrecht’s murder, and, later, the site of the sanguinary Agnes’ convent;

Küssnacht at our feet, with Tell’s Chapel close by, the object of my

guide’s pilgrimages, and where the fatal arrow is said to have entered

Gessler’s heart; the Lake of Sempach, and Lucerne towards the

northwest—every spot, in short, hallowed by some memory sacred to Swiss

patriotism or piety.

A circumference of three hundred miles is said to be included in this

panorama, dotted here and there with thirteen lakes, distinguishable in

clear weather. But it needs a mountaineer’s eye to detect this number,

for, though they certainly do exist, as proved by the map, even the

youthful sight of George C—— and his sister failed to count more than

eleven. The other two had “to be taken on trust,” on the word of the

guides, who declared that particular gleams of sunlight rested on distant

waters. But it is not the number of lakes or the extent of view which

gives such renown to this favorite spot. It is the grand poetry of its

nature, the interest of its associations, and that great, indescribable

influence which the poet addresses as

“Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon.”

Amongst the pleasantest of many pleasant memories, that of Sunday at

Kaltbad stands forth pre‐eminent. The weather was brilliant, and high and

low appeared in corresponding costume. It cannot be said that in the hotel

proper the day was altogether sanctified or edifying; for, except the

Catholics, the English Protestants, and a rare few others, the foreigners

show little outward sign of remembering the day. Indeed, one lady

ingenuously confessed her surprise that we should be so careful about

attending church, considering that _she_ never thought of it whilst

“taking the waters,” as she liked to fancy she was doing at Kaltbad. “Who

did?” she asked; and certainly it looked as if the majority were of her

way of thinking. Not the peasants, however, and let us hope that their

example may yet influence the strangers. Alas! alas! how one trembles,

lest the reverse may be the result of this inroad of “civilized”

multitudes to their midst! But so far no harm seems to have come of the

contact. As the hour for Mass drew near, men and women were to be seen

coming from various points, and when we reached the church it was so full

that a large overflow of the congregation had taken up their position in

the little porch outside. It seemed as though the history of the past

century would repeat itself over again; that a new church would become

necessary, and another new tablet be put up, telling future generations

that the present one had “proved insufficient for the number of Alpine

inhabitants and pilgrims.” No sight could be prettier, considering the

locality, the bright sun, and all these people in their Sunday dress. In

the latter particular, however, one peculiarity had a singular effect,

namely, that on the Rigi “full dress” for the men seems to consist in the

absence of their outer coats, and the Sunday distinction is shown only by

the snow‐white linen of their shirt‐sleeves and collars. All had their

alpenstocks and their prayer‐books, which they read devoutly during the

whole time. Anna and I also remained outside, as there was no room within;

but we heard every word distinctly, and could see the altar through the

open door and windows. The service began by an oblation of the Mass and

the Acts of Faith, Hope, and Charity in German, in the very manner and

words used in so many other countries, but notably in all the churches of

Ireland. This was followed by a good sermon, in which the preacher chiefly

urged the necessity of “keeping holy the Sabbath day,” of living in peace

and concord, but likewise of holding fast to the principles of religion,

“like their forefathers of old,” of whose virtues and steadfastness he

spoke in glowing language. It was the first sermon we had had an

opportunity of listening to in these parts, and it was very curious to

hear, even in a small out‐of‐the‐way place of this kind, such allusions

thus brought in as a matter of course, and so thoroughly in accordance

with Herr H——’s predictions. At its termination we were surprised to see

half a dozen of the hotel guests rise and leave; but these, we later

learnt, were Lutherans, who, having no chaplain of their own, find no

difficulty in coming to the preliminary part of the Catholic service,

though they consider it their duty to leave before Mass commences. It was

a curious instance of liberalism, and of the little essential antagonism

German Protestants entertain towards the Catholic Church. At the end of

Mass a prayer was said in German in honor of the Five Sacred Wounds,

joined in by all, after which the congregation dispersed, some to the

front of the hotel, and others in various directions. On these days alone

a few picturesque costumes appear, but they are generally from other

parts, as the Rigi boasts of nothing special of this kind. To‐day two

women in bright bodices covered by silver buttons and crosses, and with

silvered head‐dresses, enlivened the group of women—relations of the clerk

coming, they said, to visit this spot from Bürglen, a long distance on the

other side of the lake, and beyond Sachslen, the sanctuary of “Bruder

Klaus.”

Not wishing to disturb our Anglican friends, who were singing hymns and

performing their service in one of the drawing‐rooms of the house, Anna

and I sauntered past the “Wilderness,” until we reached the Käuzli. The

atmosphere was most clear, and the landscape so enchanting that a rest

here seemed a fitting and heavenly portion of our morning worship. Weggis

lay below; its church and the children’s corner, where I had stood lately

gazing upwards in this direction, were at our feet, and Lucerne, with its

girdle of battlemented walls at the upper end of the lake, further north,

its houses and boats distinctly visible in the transparent atmosphere. The

peasants could be seen here and there returning to their gray‐roofed

_châlets_, but, save the tinkling bells of the light‐limbed cattle

browsing in our neighborhood, no sound broke the perfect stillness of the

scene. All at once the peal of Lucerne Cathedral came booming to us across

the waters! It was eleven o’clock, which in those cantons is the Angelus

hour, and in a moment the deep‐toned bell of Weggis sent its sound up to

our very resting‐place. Then swiftly the echo was caught up by the

churches of all the numberless pretty villages that here cover the land,

until the whole country seemed to sound as with but one note. A more

thrilling instance of faith and practice it were impossible to imagine,

and, looking down at such a moment at this fruitful, prosperous district,

one felt as if our Lord had already heard its prayers, and in his mercy

blessed it.

Our afternoon walk was this day directed to the other Rigi sanctuary,

“Maria zum Schnee,” or Mary of the Snow, the same mentioned in the Kaltbad

tablet, and which, from Wordsworth’s beautiful poem, has obtained a more

world‐wide name than its pretty neighbor; though in the locality itself no

difference in celebrity is admitted between the two. The only striking

distinction is that whilst Kaltbad has but the one simple appellation,

“Mary of the Snow” rejoices in a _pet_ name, by which it is more generally

known on the Rigi, where Klösterli, or “the little convent,” is its

familiar and every‐day title. It lies deep in a southern fold of the

mountain, unseen from Kaltbad, but only a couple of miles distant; so that

it is a favorite walk with those visitors whose strength is unequal to the

longer excursions. This year the charms of the mountain‐road have been

sadly interfered with by the blasting of rocks necessary to the making of

the railway branch to the Scheideck, and another line up from Arth to the

Staffel, besides the building of an additional hotel, all which modern

material improvements make one look forward with trepidation to their

future effect on the old inhabitants. In a few years more these heights

will be one vast mountain‐city—a new phase of life, which may have its own

poetic side, it is true, and bring health and advantage to humanity in

general, but which, during two or three months of the year, so completely

changes the old character of the beautiful mountain that its friends of

twenty and thirty years’ standing say they can no longer recognize its

former simplicity. Hence our musings were somewhat melancholy, as we

wandered on above the new railway‐line, until, from a bend in the hill, we

unexpectedly came in sight of a completely new scene, the curious _Mythen_

rocks rising above Schwytz, in the distance, and Klösterli itself lying

peacefully below us, as if sheltered from all harm in a dell beneath the

_Kulm!_ It seemed a spot exactly made for snow, and one could almost fancy

it buried at times under the soft embrace of some snow‐white drift.

Whether the name first came from this circumstance of its position, or

from its connection with the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore at Rome, we

had no opportunity of ascertaining; but, whatever the cause, the name and

connection seemed most appropriate. Certain it is that the painting which

is the chief ornament of S. Maria zum Schnee is a copy of the one at the

great basilica, and, moreover, that the church at Klösterli has been, as

is fitting, affiliated to the one in Rome. The festival is kept on the

same day, the 5th of August, and the Rigi church was consecrated by a

Papal Nuncio in 1700, and endowed since then with many privileges by Pope

Clement XII., so that the link in interest and connection has never been

wanting. Mr. C—— knew all the particulars, and as we descended the steep

pathway to Klösterli he recalled to us the beautiful tradition about the

foundation of Santa Maria Maggiore. He reminded us how a Roman senator and

his wife having been converted to Christianity, the latter had a dream

which made her believe they ought to build a church in honor of the

Blessed Virgin. Her husband, however, dismissed the idea as a fancy of her

brain, until, having had the same dream for three successive nights, his

wife on the last occasion understood that she ought to choose the site

which should be covered with snow on the following morning. Her husband,

still unwilling, accompanied her in the search, when, not far from the

house, they found the top of the Esquiline Mount completely covered with a

fine crust of snow! This occurred on the 5th of August, and, bringing

conviction to the husband’s mind, he at once consented to give up his

fortune for the purpose, and built on the spot the Basilica, which now

covers the extent of ground marked out by the fall of snow. Another

version states that it was the result of a vision which the pope, S.

Liberius, and John, the patrician, had on the same night, and which was

confirmed the following morning, the 5th of August, by a miraculous fall

of snow, which extended over the space the church was to occupy. Certain

it is that the fall of snow occurred, on this very spot too, and that the

recollection of this wonderful origin is still kept alive in Rome. On the

Feast of Santa Maria ad Nives, on the 5th of the hot month of August, a

shower of white leaves is made to fall on the congregation attending High

Mass at the great Basilica. What affiliation, therefore, could be more

fitting for a mountain chapel? With renewed interest we hurried to the

spot. The village consists entirely of a few inns, the convent—where live

the Capuchin fathers who have care of the church—and of the church itself,

much larger than that at Kaltbad, and which forms the centre of the whole

place. The old character is maintained up to the present time, these inns

being still most homely—very different from the luxurious abodes elsewhere

on the mountain—and the convent in reality an hospice for pilgrims, which

at once gives the impression of a higher aim than mere pleasure‐seeking.

The Capuchin fathers, who glide about with serious mien in their brown

habits, add to the solemnity, further increased by the depth of the valley

“making sunset,” as the sailors say, to the place long before it happens

on the surrounding heights. It has nothing cheerful or peculiarly

attractive to the general public, so one might hope that it would escape

the contagion of a worldly spirit. This year the gloom has been added to

by a dreadful accident connected with the unwelcome railway, and one heard

of little else on the spot. A young lady who was sitting with her father

outside the Sonne Hotel, writing at one of the small tables, was suddenly

struck by a large stone, thrown by the blasting of a rock close by, and

died in less than half an hour. She was to have gone away from Klösterli

on the previous day with the rest of her family, but had remained a while

longer merely to take care of him. His grief, consequently, was

overwhelming. It was a melancholy inauguration of the “iron road,” and for

the moment made a deep impression on all concerned. But it is much to be

dreaded that it will not be a lasting one. The father, to whom we spoke,

shook his head gravely, as he pointed to the railway works, expressing his

fears that from a place of pilgrimage they would soon convert his dearly‐

loved Klösterli into a simple _Curort_, or, in modern parlance, a

_Sanatorium_. He complained of its baneful influence already; for, though

the peasants are thoroughly good and pious, the immense influx of tourists

gives them little time for devotions during the summer season, especially

in the month of August, when the church festival occurs. They, the monks,

belong to the large Capuchin convent at Arth, from which two or three have

been sent here at the special request of the commune, ever since the

foundation, to take care of this church and attend to the wants of the

pilgrims. But the numbers of the latter are diminishing from the above

causes, and hospitality has this year been chiefly bestowed on invalid

priests, who here seek change of air for weeks at a time. The procession

similar to that from Weggis, which used to come up from Arth for the 5th

of August, making the Stations on the way, did not take place this time.

Nor had the people leisure, either, for their old games, which followed

the church services as a matter of course. Sad and melancholy, he seemed

fearful of this inroad of materialism and the many temptations to which

the poorer classes may be exposed. The tranquillity of the spot will

doubtless be ruined by the puffing engine and obtrusive railway, and we

could not but rejoice doubly that the “haven of rest” at Kaltbad lies

safely hidden away behind its rocks out of reach of such disturbance. But

so many have been the prayers answered and hearts cured within the last

two centuries by the intercession of holy “Mary of the Snow” that it is

hard to believe so favored a sanctuary, though this may perhaps be a

moment of transition, will be altogether swept away or lose its holy

influence on so essentially pious a population. The church is crowded with

_ex‐votos_, many of them the same seen by Wordsworth in 1820, when he sang

in the following strain of

“Our Lady Of The Snow.

“Meek Virgin Mother, more benign

Than fairest star upon the height

Of thy own mountain set to keep

Lone vigils thro’ the hours of sleep,

What eye can look upon thy shrine

Untroubled at the sight?

“These crowded offerings, as they hang

In sign of misery relieved,

Even these, without intent of theirs,

Report of comfortless despairs,

Of many a deep and cureless pang

And confidence deceived.

“To thee, in this aërial cleft.

As to a common centre, tend

All sufferings that no longer rest

On mortal succor, all distrest

That pine of human hope bereft,

Nor wish for earthly friend.

“And hence, O Virgin Mother mild!

Though plenteous flowers around thee blow,

Not only from the dreary strife

Of winter, but the storms of life,

Thee have thy votaries aptly styled

Our Lady of the Snow.

“Even for the man who stops not here,

But down the irriguous valley hies,

Thy very name, O Lady! flings,

O’er blooming fields and gushing springs,

A holy shadow soft and dear

Of chastening sympathies!

“Nor falls that intermingling shade

To summer gladsomeness unkind;

It chastens only to requite

With gleams of fresher, purer light;

While o’er the flower‐enamelled glade

More sweetly breathes the wind.

“But on!—a tempting downward way,

A verdant path, before us lies;

Clear shines the glorious sun above;

Then give free course to joy and love,

Deeming the evil of the day

Sufficient for the wise.”

In our walk hither along the brow of the hill we had talked to some

pretty, bright‐eyed children running about to call in their father’s

cattle, asking their names and other questions; but, returning the same

way, all our thoughts and attention were given to the distant sound of

avalanches, which the C——s declared came to us across the mountain‐tops

from the region of the great Oberland range. Anything more sublime it were

difficult to conceive in the fading light and soft hues of the sunset

twilight. We had quite forgotten the children, but they had been thinking

of us, and, passing on by their _châlet_, little Aloysius (a fair‐haired

boy of three years old) was seen skipping down the green slope with a

paper in his hand. It was a mysterious proceeding, especially when he came

and eagerly presented it to me. But my surprise was greater on reading it

to find that it consisted of prayers printed at Einsiedeln: the first

teaching how to offer up one’s intention with the Masses that are being

said all over the world; another to be said when present during the

offertory of the Mass; and a third, when unable to attend in person, for

daily recital at home in union with the priest at the altar. The little

fellow evidently prized it, as taught by his mother, and it was fortunate

that I was able to promise him it should hold a place amongst my

treasures, and that I would say the beautiful prayers daily, which I have

never failed to do. But he could not altogether know how much happiness

his act caused me, chasing away the gloomy fears of the Capuchin father,

and giving bright hope that a true spirit of piety will grow up with the

rising generation.

Church Song.

“And when they had said an hymn, they went forth to the Mount of

Olives.”—S. MARK xiv. 26.

“Hymnum cecinit, ut et nos similiter faciamus.”—S. CHRYSOSTOM.

The Disciple.

A world I’d give to hear thee sing

That song!

Too long

Is life until it bring

The breaking of the bonds that cling

About this deadly flesh.

Sweet Lord, refresh

My weary, longing soul;

And this sad banishment condole

With one faint echo of that strain

Of melody divine, which must remain

Yet murmuring through space

Of all creation’s bound;

And so controls

The harmony that rolls

In floods of majesty and grace

Throughout thy dwelling‐place,

From tuneful lyres

Of angel choirs,

From ceaseless rapturous songs

Of shining saintly throngs,

That every sound

Heaven hears doth merely seem

Made to accompany thy theme.

Wondrous Singer, O my Lord and King!

Tell me, who taught thee how to sing

So sweet a strain?

The Master.

I heard my Mother’s voice one morn,

Whilst yet in womb unborn,

Chanting the canticle of praise

She still in heaven doth raise;

And when a boy, oft at her knee,

She did the tuneful mystery

Unfold to me.

Wouldst hear me sing?

’Tis no hard thing.

Go, hearken to the singing of my Bride

With whom my Presence ever doth abide;

Who is a Mother unto thee,

Like as the Virgin, full of grace, to me.

Her voice, in melody her own,

If thou wilt mark its heavenly tone,

Hath cunning art

To make thy heart

Hear mine again.

A Discussion With An Infidel.