DAYS IN SWITZERLAND.
The Lake of Lucerne.--Days of rest in the
city.--An excursion up the Righi.--The crowd at
the summit.--Dinner at midnight.--Rising before
"the early worm."--The "sun-rise" according to
Murray.--Animated scarecrows.--Off for a tour
through Switzerland.--The lake for the last
time.--Gruetlii.--William Tell's
chapel.--Fluellen.--Altorf.--Swiss haymakers.--An
hour at Amsteg.--The rocks close in.--The Devil's
Bridge.--The dangerous road.--"A carriage has gone
over the precipice!"--Andermatt.--Desolate
rocks.--Exquisite wild flowers.--The summit of the
Furka.--A descent to the Rhone glacier.--Into the
ice.--Swiss villages.--Brieg.--The convent
inn.--The bare little chapel on the hill.--To
Martigny.
WHEN we forget the scene before our dazzled eyes as we stepped out upon
the balcony of the hotel Bellevue at Lucerne, earth will have passed
away. There lay the fair lake, the emerald hills rising from its blue
depths on every side, save where the queer old town sweeps around its
curve, or beyond Pilatus, where the chain is broken, and a strip of
level land lies along the water's edge, sprinkled with red-roofed
farm-houses set in the midst of grain-fields, and with rows of tall,
straight poplars extending to the water. This sight of peaceful homes
among the heavenly hills is like a vision of earth in mid-heaven.
Beyond, above, overlapping each other, rise these delectable hills. No
earthly air envelops them. No earthly feet tread their fair summits.
Upon the highest, among the eternal snows, rest the clouds. Truly, the
heavens declare the glory of God; but Switzerland showeth his handiwork!
Beautiful was the lake in the hazy morning light, when the hills cast
purple and green shadows over its bosom, when the breeze rippled its
surface, and the path in the wake of the little steamer widened into an
endless way; beautiful in the glare of the noonday sun, when a veil of
mist half hid the far-off mountains, and the water gleamed like molten
gold; but most beautiful of all when the mountains wrapped themselves in
the shadows of night, and stole away into the darkness, while upon their
white, still faces shone the rays of the setting sun. Then grim Pilatus
stepped forth; the moon, like a burnished globe, hung over the water,
across which the little steamer ploughed silver furrows, or tiny boats,
impelled by flashing oars, shot over the still surface, now near, now
far away; but dim, unreal, always.
It was a place of rest to us--this city of Lucerne; the "House
Beautiful," where we tarried for a time before setting out again upon
our pilgrimage. We wandered about the narrow streets, visited the dingy
shops full of wood carvings or ornaments cut in the many-hued crystals;
strayed over the low hills behind the town, through fields set with
painted shrines; paused before Thorwaldsen's Dying Lion, cut in the
living rock--the grandest monument that heroes ever won; and once, in
the stillness of a summer morning, sat in the cathedral and heard the
angels sing, when the old organist laid his hands upon the keys. Sabbath
mornings we sang the old versified psalms, and listened to the
exposition of a rigid faith from the lips of a Scotch Presbyterian
minister, in an old Roman Catholic church--the walls hung with pictured
saints and martyrs, the high altar only partially concealed, and a
company of women kneeling by the door to tell their beads. Not only
rest, but Christian charity, had we found here.
Almost every one who spends any time at Lucerne ascends the Righi to see
the sun rise. Accordingly, five of our number prepared to follow the
universal custom. In one of the little shops of the town we found some
light, straw hats, with wide rims, for which we gave the extravagant
price of three cents apiece, trimming them afterwards to suit individual
taste, with ribbons, soft white lawn, and even mountain ferns and
grasses. We slung our wraps over our shoulders by a strap,--a most
uncomfortable arrangement by the way,--discarded crinoline, brought into
use the shabbiest gowns in our possession, packed hand-satchels with
whatever was necessary for a night upon the mountain, and then declared
ourselves ready for any disclosures of the future or the Righi.
A little steamer bore us from Lucerne to Weggis--a half hour's sail. We
found Weggis to be only an insignificant village, almost pushed into the
lake by the crowding mountain, and seeming to contain nothing but guides
and shabby horses. As we left the steamer, the open space between the
pier and the hotel facing it was crowded with tourists, waiting for or
bargaining with the guides for these sorry-looking beasts. No matter of
what age, sex, or condition in life you may be, if you visit
Switzerland, you will make, at least one, equestrian attempt; but in
truth, there is nothing to fear for even the most inexperienced, as a
guide usually leads each horse. The saddles for the use of ladies are
provided with a rail upon one side, and the nature of the paths are
such, that it would be impossible to go beyond a walk. The only danger
is from over-fatigue in descending the rocky, slippery way, often like
flights of stairs; then, exhausted from trying to hold back in the
saddle, dizzy from gazing into frightful depths, one might easily become
unseated.
When our guides were secured, one dejected beast after another was led
to the wooden steps, always provided for mounting and dismounting; we
climbed to our several elevations with some inward quaking, fell into
line,--for single file is the invariable rule,--and passed out of the
village by immediately beginning the ascent, describing, in our saddles
every known curve and angle, as the path became more and more rough and
precipitous. For guides we had a man with a rakish air, and--we judged
from his gait--a wooden leg, who tragically wrung the perspiration from
his red flannel shirt at intervals; a boy, with one of those open
countenances only saved from complete lateral division by the merciful
interposition of the ears, and a wizen-faced old man of so feeble an
appearance as to excite my constant sympathy, since his place chanced to
be by my side. He assured me continually that he was not tired, though
before half of the three hours of the ascent had passed, his pale face
belied his words. He was quite ready to converse, but I could with
difficulty understand his English. We had paused at a wayside shed to
rest the horses, and offer some refreshment to the guides, when I
addressed him with,--
"What is that you are drinking? Is it goat's milk?"
"Noo, leddy," was his reply. "It is coo's;" at the same time, and with
the utmost simplicity and good will, offering me the glass from which he
had been drinking, that I might taste and judge for myself.
It is nearly nine miles to the summit, or Righi-Kulm. The bridle-path is
rocky, rough, and steep, with a grassy slope upon either side, sprinkled
at this season with dandelions, blue-bells, and odd yellow butter-cups.
Often this slope changed to a precipice, still smiling with flowers.
Upon every level spot orchards of pear trees and apricots had been
planted, while evergreens and shrubs innumerable clung to the mountain
sides, or sprang from among the rocks.
Tossed about wherever they could find a resting-place, were great
boulders of pudding-stone, overhanging the path, rising in our way, or
rolling in broken masses under the horses' feet. Sometimes, perched upon
a natural terrace, was a _chalet_, sheltered from sweep of wind or
avalanche by overhanging rocks half covered with ivy and dainty
clematis. Occasionally a beggar barred the way with outstretched hand,
or offered for sale some worthless trinket, as an excuse for asking
alms. We hugged the rocks upon one side, as other lines of tourists
wound down to meet us, upon horseback or afoot with alpenstocks to aid
their steps. Peasants, laden like beasts of burden, passed as we paused
to rest, with trunks, provisions, and even the red tiles for the new
hotel above, strapped upon their backs, or resting there on wooden
frames. They came and went; but ever present were the wonderful glimpses
of earth, and sky, and shimmering lake far down below.
At the half-way house we turn to climb a gentle slope upon the mountain
face. On either side the land spreads out smooth and green. It had been
hot below. The air strikes us here with an icy chill. A party of young
Englishmen in knickerbockers, with blue veils tied about their hats,
lean over the railing of the piazza, and scan us as we pass. A Spaniard,
with his dark-faced wife, step out of the path--all manner of oily words
dropping from their lips. We reach the Righi-Staffel. Suddenly, upon one
side, the land falls away. Among the reverberating hills echoes the
_joedel_, and from a terrace far below, where a herd of dun cows are
feeding, rises the tinkle of sweet-toned bells. From every path--and
there are many now--winds a slow procession. The grassy slopes are all
alive with people; the hotel piazza, as we pass, is crowded with
travellers. Still they pour in from every side. Still the mountain-peak
rises above us as we go on joining other trains, and leading others in
turn. We pass through a rough gateway, ascend the broken rocks that rise
like steps, follow again the narrow path, and reach at last the hotel,
just before which rises the Kulm.
Talk of the solitude of nature! It is not found among these mountain
peaks, grand though they are. We dismounted in the midst of a noisy
crowd. Exclamations in seemingly every known tongue echoed about us, as
one party after another arrived to swell the confusion. The hill before
us swarmed with tourists, who had come, like ourselves, to see the sun
rise. The hotel, and even the adjoining house into which the former
overflows, were more than full. Since we had taken the precaution to
telegraph,--for telegraphic communication is held with most of these
mountain resorts,--some show of civility awaited us. A single room was
given to the four ladies of our party, where, a few hours later, we
disposed ourselves as best we could. It was only a rough place, with
bare plastered walls, and unpainted wooden floor; but we were not
disposed to be fastidious. Dropping our satchels, we hastened up the
hill before the house. It fell in a precipice upon the other side--to
what frightful depth I know not. Down below, the hills spread out like
level land, with lakes where every valley should be, and villages, like
white dots only, upon the universal green, among which the River Reuss
wound like a silver thread. But above and over all, against the sky,
rose the mountains--the Bernese Alps, like alabaster walls, the gates of
which, flung back, would open heavenward.
We wandered over the hillocks, which make up the summit, until the sun
was gone. Gradually the darkness gathered--a thickening of the shadows
until they seemed almost tangible. There was no flame of gold and
crimson where the sun had disappeared; there were no clouds to reflect
the warm yellow light that hung about the west. But when the night
wrapped us in, the little lakes down below gleamed out like stars.
The crowd that pushed and fairly wedged itself into the _salle a
manger_, when dinner was announced at eight o'clock, was quite beyond
belief or computation. Everybody was tired, hungry, and impatient, after
the ride to the summit. For once, silver was at a discount. One of the
waiters was finally bribed to give us a private room, and slyly edged
our party into a pantry, where he brought us, at immense intervals, a
spoonful of soup and a hot plate apiece, after which, his resources
utterly failing, he acknowledged that he could do no more. The second
_table d'hote_ was served between the hours of ten and eleven at night,
and consisted of numerous courses, with a similarity of flavor,
suggesting one universal saucepan.
It was midnight when we finally gained our rooms, and threw ourselves
upon the uncomfortable beds. The linen was wet, rather than damp. The
only covering consisted of a single blanket, and the _duvet_ or down
pillow, always found upon the foot of continental beds.
We imagined that the sun would appear with the very earliest known worm,
and at least an hour before the most ambitious lark, and dared not close
our eyes, lest they should not open in time to greet him. At last,
however, sleep overpowered our fears. Katie's voice roused us.
"It is three o'clock," she said, "and growing light, and I believe
people are hurrying up the hill."
Profane persons should avoid the Righi; it is a place of terrible
temptation. "Good heavens!" we responded, "what kind of a sun can it be
to rise at such an hour?"
[Illustration: "Frowsy, sleepy, cross, and caring nothing whatever for
the sun, moon, or stars, we stood like a company of Bedlamites, ankle
deep in the wet grass upon the summit." Page 176.]
Our room was upon the ground floor. We pushed open the shutters and
peered out, facing an untimely Gabriel, just raising to his lips an
Alpine horn some six feet in length. Evidently the hour had arrived. We
thrust our feet into our boots, tied our hats under our chins, and ran
out to join a most ridiculous collection of animated scarecrows like
ourselves. Frowsy, sleepy, cross, and caring nothing whatever for the
sun, moon, or stars, we stood like a company of Bedlamites, ankle deep
in the wet grass upon the summit. No sun of irreproachable moral
character and well-regulated habits would appear at such an hour, we
knew. The light strengthened with our impatience. Every half-closed eye
was fixed upon that corner of the heavens from which the sun would sally
forth. The golden gates had opened. A red banner floated out. Tiny
clouds on either side awaited his coming, dressed in crimson and yellow
livery. Every one of us stood upon tiptoe--the heels of our unbuttoned
boots thereupon dropping down. One collarless tourist, in whose outward
adorning suspenders played a conspicuous part, gravely opened his
guide-book, found the place with some difficulty, and buried his head in
the pages, to assure himself that everything was proceeding according to
Murray. Suddenly the white faces of the distant mountains grew purple
with a rage which we all shared; the flaming banner streamed out across
the east, and the king of day, with most majestic step, but frightfully
swollen, tell-tale countenance, rose in the heavens. I am sure he had
been out all night.
The light grew clearer now. The mountains rose reluctantly, and shook
off their wrappings of mist. The little clouds doffed their crimson
finery. The man held together by the marvellous complication of
shoulder-straps, closed his guide-book with an air of entire
satisfaction. Evidently the programme, as laid down by Murray, had been
accurately carried out. Everybody exclaimed, "Wonderful!" in his or her
native tongue. All the knickerbockers, and woollen shirts, and lank
water-proofs, without any back hair to speak of, trotted off down the
hill to be metamorphosed into human beings, and prepare for breakfast,
even to the individual who had been stalking about in a white bed
blanket, with a striped border--though printed notices in every room
expressly forbade the using of bed blankets as morning wraps.
When breakfast was over, there was nothing to do but to make the descent
to Weggis, and return to Lucerne.
After a time, when weariness could no longer be made an excuse for
lingering, we prepared for a tour through Switzerland. Engaging
carriages to meet us at Fluellen, we embarked for the last time upon the
beautiful lake, winding in and out its intricate ways, shut in by the
towering cliffs that closed before us, only to re-open, revealing new
charms as we rounded some promontory, and the lake widened again. Upon
the bays thus formed, villages lean against the mountain-side. Where the
rocks fall abruptly to the water, an occasional _chalet_ is perched upon
some natural terrace, in the midst of an orchard or scanty garden. As we
touched at these lake villages, brown-faced girls, in scant blue
petticoats and black bodices, and with faded hair braided in their
necks, offered us fruits--apricots and cherries--in pretty, rustic
baskets.
One of these green spots, high among the rocks, forms a sloping meadow,
touching the water at last. It is an oasis in the surrounding desert of
barren rock. Do you know why the grass is greener here than elsewhere?
why the sun bestows its kisses more warmly? why the foliage upon the
scattered walnut and chestnut trees is thicker, darker, than upon those
on other mountain-sides? It is because this is Gruetlii--the birthplace
of Swiss liberty. Here, more than five hundred years ago, the three
confederates met at night to plan the throwing off of the Austrian yoke.
Not far from Gruetlii, resting apparently upon the water, at the base of
one of these cliffs, is what appears at first sight to be a pretty green
and white summer-house, open towards the lake. It is Tell's Chapel,
built upon a shelf of rock, and only approachable from the water.
Here--so the story runs--William Tell sprang ashore, and escaped the
tyrant Gessler. We sweep around this promontory and gain the last bay
where lies Fluellen--a ragged village, swarming with tourists,
vetturinos, and diligences. Among the carriages we find our own. It is a
roomy landau, luxuriously lined with scarlet velvet, drawn by three
horses which wear tinkling bells, and is capable of carrying six
passengers. The top is thrown back, but a kind of calash-shade screens
from the sun the occupants of what we should call the driver's seat. Our
driver's place is a narrow board behind the horses. One crack of a long
whip, and we are off at a rattling pace over the hard road, smooth as a
floor.
For the first day we are to follow the pass of St. Gothard--that
well-travelled highway which leads through mountain defiles into Italy.
We dashed by Altorf, where the family of Queen Victoria's husband
originated, passing the open square in which William Tell shot the apple
from the head of his son. An old man is watering a horse at the basin of
the stone fountain which marks the spot where the father stood. All this
valley is sacred to the memory of William Tell. In a village near by he
was born; in the mountain stream, just beyond, he is said to have lost
his life in the attempt to save a drowning child. After Altorf, the road
winds among the meadows, though the mountains rise on every side, with
_chalets_ perched upon points which seem inaccessible, so steep are
their sides. It is haying time, and men and women are at work in the
fields and upon the mountain-sides, carefully securing every blade of
grass. Once, when we had begun to wind up the mountains, where a
grass-grown precipice fell almost sheer to the valley below, a girl
clung to its side, and pulled with one hand the grass from between the
rocks, thrusting it into a bag that hung about her neck. She paused to
gaze after us as we dashed by, a kind of dull awe that never rose to
envy lighting her face for an instant. O, the hungry, pitiful faces of
these dwellers upon the heights! the pinched, starved faces of the
little ones especially, who forgot to smile--how they haunted us! At
noon we sweep up to the post-house at Amsteg, with a jingle of bells, a
crack of the whip, and an annunciatory shout from the driver. There is
no village that we can see. The piazza of the post-house is filled with
travellers, lunching before a long table; half a dozen waiting carriages
stand in the open space before it; as many hostlers, with knit caps
upon their heads, from which hang long, bright-colored tassels, are busy
among the horses. At a short distance the Reuss River rushes past the
house; upon its bank is a little shop, with its store of Swiss
curiosities and trinkets. A couple of girls fill a tray with the dainty
wares, and cross the space to tempt us. One has a scarlet handkerchief
knotted under her handsome, dark face. She turns her brown cheek to her
shoulder, tossing a word back as the young hostlers contrive to stand in
her way.
One by one the carriages take up their loads and go on. We soon follow
and overtake them, winding slowly up among the rocks, which seem ready
to fall upon us. We form a long train, a strange procession, bound by no
tie but that of common humanity. The meadows and soft, green
mountain-slopes are left behind as we ascend, crossing from one side to
the other by arched bridges thrown over the chasm, at the foot of which
foams the torrent. Higher and higher rise the rent rocks--bare, black
walls, seamed, and scarred, and riven, their summits reaching to the
sky. They close about us, shutting out everything of earth and heaven,
save a narrow strip of blue far above all. Even the sweet light of day
departs, and a gloom and darkness as of a brooding tempest falls upon us
as the way narrows. Suddenly a mad, foaming torrent, with angry roar,
leaps from the rocks above, to toss, and writhe, and moan upon the rocks
below the arch upon which we stand. The water rushes over them, and
dashes against them. It swirls, and pants, and foams, while high above
it all we stand, our faces wet with the spray, our ears deafened by the
terrible roar. Truly, this _is_ "The Devil's Bridge."
Think of armies meeting here, as they did in the old Napoleonic wars,
contending for the passage of the bridge below. Think of the shrieks of
the wounded and dying, mingling with the raging of the waters. Think of
the white foam surging red among the rocks; of the angry torrent beating
out the ebbing life of those who checked its flow. Think of the meeting
of hosts in mortal conflict where no eye but God's could witness it,
upon which not even bird or startled beast looked down. It was like a
dreadful dream from which we passed--as through deep sleep--by a way cut
in the solid rock out into God's world again. Still, from one side of
the road rose the rocks that began to show signs of scanty vegetation
now; from the other fell the precipice to the torrent. We had left the
carriages at the bridge, and singly or in companies toiled up the road
that doubled back upon itself continually. Often we climbed from one of
these windings to the next above, by paths among the rocks, leaving the
carriages to make the turn and follow more slowly. Often our way was the
bed of a last year's torrent, or our feet touched the borders of the
stream, as we pulled ourselves up by the shrubs that grew among the
rocks. The ice-chill in the air brought strength for the time, and
perfect exhilaration. It seemed as if we could go on forever, scaling
these mountain heights.
At last the carriages overtake us, and we reluctantly resume our places.
The road is built out upon the mountain-side. It offers no protection
against the fall of the precipice. It narrows here. We look down, and
say, "How dreadful a careless driver might make this place!" and,
shuddering, draw back. Suddenly the train pauses, and down the long
hill runs a shout, "A carriage has gone over." We spring out, and run to
the front. "Is any one killed?" "No; thank God, no one is harmed." We
gather upon the edge of the precipice. Upon the rocks below lies the
body of a horse--dead, with his fore feet raised, as though pawing the
air; and mingling with the white waters, and tossed about in the raging
stream, are the shattered remains of a carriage and its contents.
It seems that two young men from Canton Zurich essayed to make a tour of
the mountains with their own horse and carriage--a foolhardy experiment,
since none but tried horses, used to these passes, are considered safe
here. All went well, however, until they reached this point, where a
torrent falls down the mountain-side to the road, under which it passes
with a fearful noise. It might, indeed, startle the strongest nerves.
The horse, young and high-spirited, shied to the edge of the precipice,
then reared high in the air. They saw that he must go over when his fore
feet came down, and springing out, barely escaped a similar fate. We all
passed the spot with some trepidation, the most of us preferring to
walk; but our horses, accustomed to the road, were utterly unmoved by
the swooping torrent. At night we reached Andermatt--only an untidy
little village, lying in one of these upper valleys, bustling and all
alive around the door of its one inn; but how green and beautiful were
the mountains, shutting us in all around, after the desolation through
which much of our way had led! Upon the side of the nearest was a
triangular patch of wood-land,--firs and spruces,--said to divide and
break the force of the avalanches that sweep down here in the spring.
It can be nothing but a story of what had been true formerly, when the
wood was more extensive. Down these mountains, as night closed in,
straggled a herd of goats to the milking, tinkling countless little
bells, while the roar of the Reuss, which we had followed until it was
now hardly more than a mountain brook, mingled with our dreams as it ran
noisily through the village.
On we went the next morning, wrapping ourselves warmly, for the air was
chill as November, though at Lucerne, only twenty-four hours before, we
had suffered a torrid heat. Just beyond Andermatt, at Hospenthal, we
left the St. Gothard, to follow the Furka pass. All around was barren
desolation, as we went on, still ascending, leaving every sign of human
life behind. Rocky and black the mountains rose, bearing only lichens
and ferns. Occasional patches of snow appeared, lying in the beds of the
last year's torrents, or scattered along beside the road. But here,
where Nature had bestowed little to soften and beautify, she had spread
upon the barren land, and tucked in among the rocks, a covering of
exquisitely delicate flowers. You cannot realize, until you have seen
them, the variety, beauty, and profusion of the Alpine flowers. Looking
back in memory upon the bare rocks, doomed to stand here through all
time in solitude and in the midst of desolation, as though in expiation
of some sin, it is pleasant to remember that at their feet and in their
clefts these little flowers nestle and bloom.
We gathered nosegays and made snowballs, and at noon gained the summit
of the Furka, and rested an hour or two at the inn--the only sign of
house or hut we had seen since morning. The rough _salons_, the passage,
the doorway, even the space outside, were alive with tourists. It is a
continual jar upon one's sense of the fitness of things, something to
which you never become thoroughly accustomed, until all freshness of
sight-seeing is passed--this coming suddenly upon the world in the midst
of the unutterable solitude of nature; this plunging into a crowd
dressed in the latest style, and discussing universal frivolities where
the very rocks and hills seem to stand in silent adoration. But after
the first moment you, too, form one of the frivolous throng, the sight
and sound of which shock the sensibilities of the next comer.
From the inn a tongue of land, green and dotted with flowers, falls into
the valley below. On either side rises a mountain, scarred by the
torrents dried away now, and stained this day with the last year's snow,
while beyond--ever beyond, like some heavenly heights we vainly strove
to gain--rose the Bernese Alps.
From the summit of the Furka we descended to the Rhone glacier by one of
the zigzag mountain roads. Looking down over the edge, we could see
below, the ways we were yet to follow on the mountain face before
accomplishing the descent. The horses dashed down at a flying pace. The
inclination of the road was not sufficient to alarm; but the turns are
always so frightfully abrupt as to make it seem as though the leader
must dash off. But no; he invariably swung around just upon the outer
edge, held, it seemed sometimes, by the traces, and with a crack of the
driver's whip was off again before our fears, if we had any, could find
words.
One of these abrupt turns fairly hangs over the glacier, where the icy
river has fallen into broken masses from a higher point, before
spreading out in the narrow valley just here where it ends. Only a short
distance from the foot of the glacier is the inn, with its scattered
out-buildings, where we were to spend the night. The sheer descent from
the summit of the Furka is only about half a mile; but though our horses
had galloped the whole distance, and the inn was in sight all the time,
we were three hours reaching it; so many turns did the road make upon
the face of the mountain.
It was a gloomy valley, shut in by mountains, and surrounded by lesser
hills all soaked and dripping with icy streams that chilled the air. We
gained the foot of the glacier from the inn by a rough path over and
among the rocks, and stones, and heaps of gravel it had brought down and
deposited here. From beneath the solid mass of ice flowed a hundred
shallow streams, which, uniting, form the beginning of the River Rhone.
We penetrated for a short distance the gallery cut into the glacier,
surrounded and shut down upon by the walls and ceiling, of a deep blue
color, and were preceded by an old man, who awoke the echoes by uttering
a series of broken cries. What with the echoes and horrible chill, the
place seemed most unearthly, and we were glad to retreat.
The roar of torrents, and hardly less thunderous noise of departing
diligences, awakened us the next morning. We were soon off upon the
road, skirting the mountains, rolling through the pleasant valleys, and
passing village after village now. They seemed silent and deserted,
their occupants perhaps busy in the fields, or serving at the inns, or
among the mountains as guides. One was a mass of ruins, thrown down in
the bed of a torrent, among which a few dull-faced peasants were at
work, with a hopeless, aimless air, that promised little. A mountain
stream, swollen to a flood by melting snows, had swept it away in a
night.
At noon we lunched at Viesch--a slipshod, unwashed village, by the side
of the young Rhone, which so far, in its dirty, chalk-white color, was
not unlike the white-headed children that played upon its banks. Some of
the party left the horses to their noon rest, and strayed out upon the
road beyond the village. On its outskirts was a fine new church, of
stone. If only something of its beauty could but come into the every-day
lives of the poor people here! We sat down upon the steps to wait.
Across the road was an orchard, roughly fenced in; beside it one of the
picturesque Swiss peasant houses--all steps, and queer old galleries,
from which a little tow-headed girl stared out at us in open-eyed
wonder, as we blew the down from the dried dandelions we had pulled
along the way, and questioned if, in our far-off homes, our mothers
wanted us!
It seemed as though we could descend no farther; and yet, after sweeping
through a valley, a sudden turn would disclose another, far below, to
which this was as a mountain. So down we sped the whole day long; once
by a frightfully-narrow zigzag road, the worst by far of any we had
seen; passing still through the villages so charming in the distance,
but dirty, and full of odors by no means pleasing, as we drew near. At
night we rattled into the paved square before the inn at Brieg, just as
the first drops of a coming shower wet its stones.
This was evidently something more than a village. The houses were
plastered, instead of being of wood with a rich, burnt-sienna color,
like those we had seen along the road through the day. They were thickly
clustered together, and from their midst rose the four turrets of a
chateau. Our inn was a delightfully-dingy old place. It had been an
Ursuline convent, and abounded in queer, dark passages, rough stone
stairways, and old wooden galleries overlooking the square. One of our
rooms had been a part of the convent chapel, and was still lighted by a
window just beneath the groined roof. Here we braided our hair, and
knotted our ribbons, and dreamed, in the twilight that followed the
rain, of the hopeless ones who had sought comfort in other days within
these walls, and fell asleep at last, knowing full well that the fringe
of many an old prayer was still caught and held in the arches high over
our heads. We walked up through the town the next morning, to the
beginning of the Simplon Pass. Somewhere in the narrow streets we passed
the old chateau, and pressed our faces against the bars of a gate, in
order to gain some idea as to the domestic economy of the family which
had bestowed upon Brieg its air of importance. But the chateau had
degenerated into a brewery, and the court-yard was filled with old
carts, clumsy and broken.
Farther up the hill the door of a little chapel stood invitingly open,
waiting for stray worshippers, or a chance-burdened heart (for even so
far away as Brieg, hearts do grow heavy, I doubt not). Something in its
narrow, whitewashed poverty touched our sympathies. It is rare indeed in
these countries to find a chapel without at least some votive offering
to make it beautiful in the eyes of the simple people: here was only a
crucifix, and we pleased ourselves with the fancy that when the ships
come in that we sent out as children--laden with hopes that were to be
bartered for treasures--we would return, and hang the walls with
pictures, and make the whole place wonderful in the eyes that had seen
only its bareness. The shower the night before had laid the dust, and
the drive that morning was most enjoyable. Following the course of the
noisy Rhone, we reached Sierre at noon, where we left the carriages with
regret, and took the railway train to Martigny.