Produced by Bethanne M. Simms, Christine D and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team. (www.pgdp.net)
[Illustration]
SCENES IN SWITZERLAND.
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, 150 NASSAU-STREET, NEW YORK.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by the
AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court
of the United States for the Southern District of New York.
Contents.
Gretchen PAGE 5
A Night in the Cathedral 28
The Glaciers of Savoy 45
The Bride of the Aar 63
A Sabbath in Lausanne 79
The Guide of Montanvert 96
Mont Blanc 127
From Berne to Basle 135
Scenes In Switzerland.
Gretchen.
Time flies swiftly when we are sightseeing; and it was late in the
autumn of 18-- when I reached Lindau. Lake Constance lay before me, a
pale, green sheet of water, hemmed in on the south by bold mountain
ranges, filling the interim between the Rhine valley and the long
undulating ridges of the Canton Thurgau. These heights, cleft at
intervals by green smiling valleys and deep ravines, are only the
front of table-land stretching away like an inclined plane, and dotted
with scattered houses and cloistering villages. The deep green of
forest and pasture land was beginning to show the touch of autumn's
pencil; the bright hues striking against gray, rocky walls; the
topmost edge of each successive elevation crowned with a sharp outline
of golden light, deepening the purple gloom of the shaded slopes.
Behind and over this region towers the Sentis, its brow of snow
bristling with spear points. It was altogether too late to think of
the Baths, or even to look at the little lake of Wallenstatt; and
still, I was unwilling to return without a friendly shake of the hand
of my old friend Spruner, who had perched himself in one of the upper
cantons. "You should have been here earlier," said the landlord; "in
summer we have plenty of visitors."
"I rather look upon the mountains in their parti-colored vests, than
when dressed in simple green," I replied.
"If you can stand the weather;" and he thrust his pipe deeper into
his mouth, and twirled the button of his coat.
Hastily making my adieus, the postillion cracked his whip, and we
started. "There is no danger of bad weather for a month," said the
driver, "and when we get up farther you will see what will pay you for
the trouble of coming:" a speech that promised well for the day, I
argued; and a certain share of respect leaped up for the man in his
laced coat and steeple-crowned hat. A good specimen of his class--and
once satisfied of this, I gave myself up to the present, without the
least foreboding with regard to the future.
Over us hung masses of gray cloud, stretching across the valley like a
curtain, and falling in voluminous folds almost to the level of Lake
Constance. As we passed through this belt, and came out, with cloud
and mist below us, I listened as the postillion related the popular
legends handed down from one generation to another, for the last six
hundred years. Reaching the crest of the topmost height, he stopped
suddenly.
"It is just the day to see the herdsmen;" and he threw down the reins,
and prepared to dismount. I stood up and looked around.
"The battle you know between the herdsmen and the monks, with Austria
to help. It was a hard battle, and the knights were whipped; and ever
since, on certain days, the herdsmen are seen armed with bows and
pikes," he continued. By this time I had taken in his meaning, and
turning my attention to the misty curtain rolling up into clouds about
the sides of the mountain, I had no difficulty in picturing the
discomfited Austrians flying from the pursuit of the hardy
mountaineers.
"It was a great battle, and they have never tried it since," and there
was a ring in the voice that sounded like the echo of Grütli.
"No wonder, if your herdsmen are still ready to keep up the fight."
"You do not see them," and he made a gesture in the direction where my
eye still lingered.
"As plainly as any body can," and I tried hard not to smile.
"It is quite true this;" and he gathered up the reins.
"I do not doubt it."
As we passed on, the clouds rounded into islands, touched with silver
on the upper edges.
"This is the place for fine muslin and embroideries," said the
postillion in a changed tone.
"Where are they made?" I asked.
"Every house has a loom," he said.
A small way to manufacture muslins; but when the density of the
population and the incessant labor is taken into consideration, it is
not so strange. With regard to the houses I was greatly disappointed.
Not only are they so near that neighbors can converse freely, but they
are large, and even luxurious, in comparison with the same class in
other parts of Europe. Many of these houses are four stories, with
large, square rooms at the base; the upper ones narrowed by the high
steeple roof which projects several feet, forming balconies,
beautifully carved and highly ornamented. The outer walls are covered
with shingles from two to three inches broad, overlapping each other,
and rounded at the ends; reminding one of old roofs seen in the French
quarter. The lowest story is of stone, plastered, and whitewashed.
Such a house is very warm, very durable; and painted by the successive
changes of winter and summer, the external appearance is altogether
pleasing. Our ascent was gradual; with stately houses one after
another, and fruit-trees on the sheltered side. In the balconies, pots
of bright-hued flowers, and sometimes a face to greet us.
Towards sundown we halted at the little town where my friend had
deposited himself; and as my foot touched the wooden step of the
little hotel, whom should I meet but my old college chum; no longer
thin and pale as when I knew him, but round-faced as an alderman, and
merry as though his heart was full of new wine.
"You are not to stop here," as the landlord came out to receive me:
"My house is not far off, and GRETCHEN, you remember her? will be
glad to see you."
Of course I remembered Gretchen; but to meet her as my friend's wife
was quite another thing. A few steps brought us to the door of a
handsome establishment two centuries old, or more; the front frescoed,
and the interior neat and orderly as a New England housewife's. The
floor upon which we entered from the street was paved with a species
of marble, black and white, diamond shaped, but too suggestive of cold
to be altogether pleasing. A broad, wooden staircase of a peculiar
rich brown hue led to the parlor on the second floor. The windows
looking out into the mountain ranges were draped with ruby-colored
damask; the floor was covered with a richly tufted carpet bordered
with flowers, and sofas and easy chairs were temptingly arranged. On a
table in the centre of the room, and under an elaborately chased
lamp, were implements for letter-writing, magazines, and newspapers.
Through the folding-doors we caught a glimpse of well-filled
book-shelves, and a woman's voice came floating out to the rich,
mellow accompaniment of the piano. There was the rustle of a silk
dress. I turned my head.
"This is my ambition," said my friend, while a look of pride blended
with the manly expression of his handsome face.
There stood Gretchen--the Gretchen I had known ten years before; no
longer the slight blushing girl, but mature in her beauty, a happy
wife and mother; the same sweet smile on her lips, and her eye full of
gushing gladness as she welcomed me to her home.
The fire was blazing cheerily, and we three talking of the old times,
with hardly a thought of the broken links between.
"The college is still the same," said my friend, "with the high
cupola and long galleries. Gretchen and I visited it last summer;
there were few that we knew, and many of the professors have slipped
away. Gretchen's father was one of these. We missed him in his quiet
home, and above all, in the old church. A man with dark hair and black
flashing eyes stood in his place--a learned, man, but wanting in the
inward fire, the simple eloquence of the old man we used to love.
After service, I strolled past the college buildings, and tried to
trace the names we cut on the old beeches, but they were all
overgrown."
"I know nothing that brings home to the heart so quickly the
consciousness of increasing years, as to find those whom we used to
look upon as children grown to maturity, taking upon themselves the
care and responsibility of life. Here is Gretchen; a deeper bloom
upon her cheek, and her eye sparkling with a higher pride."
"Just as mid-day is brighter than the morning," said my friend.
Down the hall came the pattering of little feet, and the nurse entered
with two stout boys and a lovely girl, a second Gretchen, the same
roguish blue eyes, and golden hair rippling away from her white
forehead:
"These are my hopes," said the father, and a smile curled his lip,
amid, his eye filled with tenderness as he glanced at Gretchen's face.
Lingering over the tea-table where Gretchen presided with more than
youthful grace, we talked not only of the past, but of present work
and life.
"One," I continued, taking up the thread, "I met in Southern Italy,
dreaming; as I was dreaming, by the dark grotto of Pausilippo.
Meeting upon classic ground, it seemed strange to talk of old times,
but we did. And sitting down upon the promontory of Baiæ, looking off
upon the blue sea, we told each other our respective stories; just as
ships will shift their course to come within speaking distance,
compare longitude, and exchange letters, and--part. I have not heard
from Eckerman since."
My dreams were pleasant that night, and the next morning there was
another surprise for me. Gretchen's brother was the pastor of a little
church just above them; I must not go without seeing him, Gretchen
said. How could I? Euler was my classmate; together we labored for
knowledge, and our first manly sympathies run in the same channel.
On Sabbath I saw my friend in the pulpit. "How like his father," I
whispered to Gretchen; the poetry in him warming his soul into a
burst of fervid eloquence, and his face glowing with the beautiful
truths he was unfolding to his hearers. An uncouth church of rough
stone, with quaint windows and curious carvings, the ceiling arched,
with a blue ground on which blazed innumerable stars. Strange and
novel as it was, my eye never wandered from the speaker; the voice and
expression so like the kind and generous man who had presided over the
college, and who carried with him the affections of each succeeding
class. This seems to me more of a triumph now, than it did then. A
cultivated mind may challenge respect, but there is need of a noble
one to win affection.
It was a week before I could think of leaving, and then the clouds
twisted through and around the severed pyramids of the Alps, and the
rain began. In such weather the scenery is not only shrouded, but the
people are shut up in their homes. Pastor Euler had an ample study
however, and here we read and wrote, and talked; with his wife, a
pleasant-voiced woman, to enliven the pauses with music, and children
dashing into the study giving abrupt and sudden turnings to our
dreaming. Christmas was near, and I was easily persuaded to see more
of a people, shut in as they were from the noise and commotion of the
lower world, and still not so far as to be unknowing of all that was
taking place, whether in deliberative bodies, state policies, or the
lighter chit-chat of the day.
"You will have an opportunity to see more of my parish than you can
possibly see on a Sabbath occasion. I visit them as often as I can, and
twice a year I receive them at my own house. The 'Weihnachtsgeschenk'
is looked forward to with great pleasure, and the meeting of the
Landsgemeinde in April is sure to bring my people together."
Gretchen and her husband were clamorous for me to remain, and there
was no resisting the pleading tones of the children, their little
clinging fingers stronger than bands of iron.
All night the rain beat against my chamber window, and in the morning
the lower slopes of the mountain were white with new snow. Dark clouds
lay heavily on the Alpine peaks, the air was raw and chilly--still it
was Christmas. I was aroused at daybreak by the chiming of village
bells, and then a procession of choral singers went through the
streets, pausing under the window of each house, and singing Christmas
hymns. As they passed on, the children caught up the refrain, and
joining hands made the halls resound with their gleeful voices.
Before breakfast a huge bowl was passed around with a foaming drink,
not unlike egg-nog in appearance, but differing in taste materially.
"May your Christmas be a merry one," as it passed from lip to lip;
"and a profitable one," was always responded.
Church was open an hour earlier than on ordinary occasions, "so that
the people may have ample time for dinner," said the pastor. Religion
with these mountain worshippers was not a form. The birthday of the
blessed Redeemer was to them a reality. They believed that he was born
and that he died; and it was to commemorate his nativity that hymns
were sung and garlands wound. At an early hour they began to gather,
and before the time of service the house was closely packed. There
were no chains of evergreen, but small fir-trees were occasionally
placed. These were covered with garlands and crowns of bright-hued
flowers, giving a novel and striking appearance, as of some floral
temple or mosque, set in a great pavilion. The high pulpit was draped
in white, and a voluminous white curtain covered the background. The
effect was charming.
And as the pastor began the service, the melody of his voice broke
away into tenderness as he touched upon the love of God in giving his
Son to be the propitiation for sin: holding up the picture so vividly,
and telling the simple story with a pathos and a power that little
children even could not fail to see and to appreciate. How much better
than studied and elaborate essays, diving into metaphysics and
technicalities so deeply that beauty is lost, and the mind diverted by
the difficulty of following the intricate windings.
First did he impress his hearers with the fact that God loved the
world, and through the fulness of that love the Son came down to
suffer and to die: secondly, that the natural heart is at enmity with
God, not willing that God should rule. Thus a change must be effected;
a reconciliation made. This could only be wrought by sacrifice; and
Christ was offered once for all; his blood cleanseth from all sin. A
plain, simple statement, and it sunk into the hearts of his hearers
with a power sure to tell upon their future lives.
After the blessing, each remained silently upon his knees for a few
moments. Then all was greeting and congratulation; all were friends;
the idea never entered their heads that a stranger could be among them
at that season.
At dinner I was introduced to the landamman and two other members of
the council, and from them gathered brief notes with reference to the
little democracy won, and held intact for so many years. The dessert
was hardly removed before they began to come: first the old men in
black coats and high hats, and women with white, pointed caps and wide
ruffles; then the middle-aged, fathers and mothers, bringing little
children, all with the same conscientious expression on their faces,
the same "Happy Christmas," while the pastor's "God bless you," was a
benediction that carried happiness to the hearts of those who heard
it.
Lastly came the youths; maidens with eyes full of a childlike
innocence, the quick color coming and going as they greeted the pastor
and his friends, and received his blessing in return. Gretchen and her
husband were with us, and Gretchen number two was my especial escort,
leading me through the rooms, and introducing me in her naive manner,
"Mamma's friend, and papa's, and uncle Euler's."
Christmas festivities were kept up during the week; and before that
elapsed, I was won to add a month, and then another, it being quite
impossible to slip away from the kind friends with whom I had so much
in common; the fascination only the more potent as we listened to the
beating winds, and looked out into the slippery paths leading down
into the cantons beneath.
Spring had come when it was "fit to travel," as Gretchen said. The
green of the landscape was brilliant and uniform; the turf sown with
primrose, violet, anemone, veronica, and buttercups. It was time for
me to leave; neither could I be persuaded to stay till the meeting of
the Landsgemeinde. It was sad to leave them, and the little Gretchen
was only pacified by my assurance that, if possible, I would return at
no distant day. My friend Spruner had business at Herisau, and
spending one more evening together, our prayers mingling for the last
time, we parted.
Our way led through the valley of the Sitter, a stream fed by the
Sentis Alps, and spanned by a bridge hundreds of feet above the water.
The same smooth carpet of velvet green was spread everywhere.
"There is no greener land," said Spruner; "the grass is so rich that
the inhabitants cannot even spare enough for vegetable gardens. Our
tables are supplied from the lower vallies."
"In our country we should not dream of making hay in the month of
April," I remarked, seeing several stout men already in the field.
"With suitable care they can mow the same field every six weeks,"
responded my friend. "And it is no doubt this peculiar process that
gives such sweetness and splendor of color, seen nowhere else, not
even between the hedgerows of England."
The day proved to be neither clear nor rainy: a steel blue sky brought
out the broken peaks of Kasten, while the white shoulders of the
Sentis were veiled with a thin, gray suit.
"A month later and we should see the herdsmen," remarked Spruner. "The
leader of the herd marches in front with a large bell suspended from
his neck by a handsome leathern band; the others follow, some with
garlands of flowers and straps of embroidered leather, with milking
pails suspended between the horns."
Before nightfall, occasional streaks of sunshine shot across the
mountain. It did not last, however, and when we reached our
stopping-place, it was raining below and snowing above us.
The next morning our road dropped into a ravine, bringing something to
admire at every turn. Leaving our course, we visited the Cascade of
Horsfall, the beauty of which amply repaid us for the delay it cost.
That night we slept at Herisau, the largest town in the Canton, and
here I was to part with Spruner. There was no difficulty in reaching
the lower valley. With many shakes of the hand, and "May God's
blessing be upon you,'" we parted: one to take the railroad to Zurich,
the other back to his household charms, and the work he had chosen.
A Night In The Cathedral.
Franz Hoffner's father was kappelmeister; and the old cathedral with
its grained arches and cloistered aisles resounded with rare music, as
the organist took his seat, and run his fingers over the keys with the
careless ease of one who knows not only to control, but to infuse
something of his own spirit into the otherwise senseless machine
before him. Under his inspiration it became a living, breathing form;
lifting the hearts of worshippers, and giving them glimpses of what is
hereafter to be obtained.
Herr Hoffner was a rare musician; but, alas, musicians are no
exception to the rule: the wheel is always turning; one goes up and
another goes down. A new star had risen. Court belles and beauties
grew enthusiastic. The elector's heart was touched; his influence was
asked. "Herr Hoffner has been here long enough," it was said. There
was a twinge of the electoral conscience.
Herr Hoffner went to his house a ruined man; and the new favorite,
Carl Von Stein, played upon the keys so dear to the heart of the old
organist.
Herr Hoffner had a wife and two lovely children; and one would suppose
that he could live in the beautiful cottage the elector had given him,
independent of the favorite. But no; deprived of his old instrument
all else was lost to him. For hours would he sit before his humble
door, heedless of his wife's entreaties or the childish prattle of
Franz and Nanette; his eye riveted on the old cathedral, and his hands
playing nervously, as though cheating himself with the idea he was
still at the organ. Then roused by a sudden inspiration, he would rush
to the piano and play till his hands dropped from mere exhaustion.
Franz and Nanette loved music, and they could play skilfully, but they
were all too young to be of service; and thus they lived cut off from
all outward influences befitting their age; loving music above
everything else, and yearning for the time when they could go out and
win for their father, as he had once done for them.
Years passed. Franz Hoffner was a tall, slight boy, and his father was
blind. Sitting at his cottage door he could no longer see the tall
towers of the old cathedral, but he could hear the chime of stately
bells--and his fingers played on: while Franz and Nanette not
unfrequently climbed up the winding stairs, just to beg Herr Von
Stein to let them touch the keys their father used to love.
[Illustration]
It happened one day the organist went out and left the key in the
lock. Franz entered with the evening worshippers. A nameless feeling
seized him. Urged on by the sudden impulse, he mounted the stairs. He
did not dream of playing, he only thought of the organ as his father's
friend; and to seat himself on the stool where his father had so often
sat was all he aimed to do. A moment, and he spied the key; would
there be any harm in raising the lid and playing himself? Herr Von
Stein had never denied him. He grew courageous. A few chords and Franz
forgot that his father would be expecting him; piece after piece was
played till his memory could serve him no longer, and then he began to
improvise.
All at once heavy shadows were cast over the keys: he looked down
into the church, it was dark and still. A strange awe seized him, he
felt that it was night; and the great doors locked. Hastily as his
trembling limbs would allow, he crept down the stairs. Darkness
shrouded the aisles. He reached the doors, they were barred and
bolted. What would his father say? and Nanette, would she think where
he was, and rouse the old door-keeper?
High up through the tower-window he caught sight of a star; and the
moon poured her silver radiance full on the face of the organ.
Creeping up the stairs, he once more opened the instrument. Surely
some one would hear him if he played, and Nanette he knew would not
leave him to stay in the old cathedral alone.
Hours passed: the full moon cast her splendor on a sweet child-face
bent over the keys in the organ-loft of the old cathedral, a smile
still played about his lips, and his light brown hair lay in rings on
his broad, white forehead. Franz was asleep, and while asleep he
dreamed.
* * * * *
A beautiful lady, he thought, came to the cottage; she had a sweet,
lovely face, but so sad that Franz wondered what sorrow could have
come to one so rich and beautiful. The lady caught the expression of
his eye, and slipping her arm around him, drew him still nearer.
"You think because I am rich that I must be happy. Learn then, my
child, that wealth does not bring happiness; neither does beauty win
lasting favor. To be good is to be rich, and it also makes us
beautiful. The power that we have in ourselves is far superior to the
outward circumstances that surround us."
"My father had this power," replied Franz. "You see it did not profit
him; for when he thought himself secure as kappelmeister, the elector
gave his place to another, and now he is growing old and blind."
"Is this so?" exclaimed the lady, a warm light flashing into her gray
eye. "Did the elector give his place to another?"
"Indeed, he did; and it broke my father's heart," replied Franz.
"Since then, we have neither of us known pleasure; only when we go to
the cathedral, Nanette and me; and when we return, our father never
tires of asking questions."
"This must not always be," replied the lady. "Will you come with me,
my child, and it is possible we can show you a way whereby you can do
something for a father whom you so much love."
"I will go with you," replied Franz; "but I must not be gone long,
for my father will miss me when he wakes."
Then Franz gave his hand to the beautiful lady, and she led him by a
smooth way through the most lovely wood; tall trees, filled with
singing birds, skirted the banks of clear, running streams, while
flowering shrubs and vines flung their perfume to the air. At length
she came to a gate so strong and high Franz thought it would be
impossible to open it. But as they approached, it seemed to swing back
noiselessly on its hinges. Franz saw there was a lodge there, with a
gray-haired man, and little children playing before the door, and as
the lady passed all bowed to her.
Presently they came in sight of a magnificent castle, its walls white
and glistening; while the sunlight glinting against the deep windows,
flashed and scintillated like a bed of diamonds. As they came nearer,
the lady left the broad road, and wound along a narrow path, and came
to a little postern gate, and up a broad marble terrace, with
sparkling fountains, and with flowers brighter than he had seen
before, and birds of gay plumage flashing their beauty through the
tree-tops. At the top of the terrace she gave him into the care of an
elderly man, with a white flowing beard and eyes full of tenderness. A
few words were said, and the old man took Franz by the hand and led
him into a room, the floor of which was marble, smooth as glass, while
the walls were green and gold. In the centre was a marble basin or
pool, with steps leading down; the atmosphere was dim by reason of a
sweet and subtle perfume rising from the water. Franz was hardly
conscious till he came out of the bath; then his hair was carefully
dressed, and a new suit of clothes was brought him.
He had only time to look at himself in the mirror, when the lady
returned. She was dressed in a rich white silk, covered with lace and
sprinkled with pearls and diamonds. On her head she wore a crown;
bright and sparkling as it was, it was not half so beautiful as the
sweet face that beamed below it. The deep traces of sorrow were gone,
she looked like one happy in the consciousness of a good deed done,
and a sweet smile was on her lip as she held out her hand to Franz.
Together they walked down the marble hall and up the broad staircase,
on through rows of stately ladies and martial-looking men, the crowd
opening and bowing as they passed.
At length they came to a room larger, more magnificent than the rest.
Persian carpets covered the floor, and the windows were draped with
blue and gold. On a dais at the extremity of the room was an oaken
chair of quaint device, in which sat a proud-looking man, pale and
careworn as though weary of so much state and ceremony.
"My child," said the prince, "Do you feel like playing for me? I am
too weak to go to the cathedral, and I fancy if I can hear you play I
shall feel better."
Franz was a timid boy, but he loved to please. He was always ready to
play for his father. He glanced at the lady, there was a sweet smile
resting on her face. Dropping on his knee Franz kissed the hand of the
prince. "I will do my best, since you are so good as to ask me."
Franz looked up, and saw what he had not seen before, an organ quite
like the one his father so loved.
"Play just as you do in the old cathedral," whispered the lady, and
then she seated herself in a chair by the side of the prince. Franz
saw nothing but the keys, he heard nothing but the sweet soul harmony,
and this he must interpret to the beautiful lady and the sick prince
by means of his instrument. How long he played he never knew, but when
he ceased a slight hand lay on his shoulder, and a sweet face bent
above him.
"To do good, Franz, is the secret of happiness. This power is yours,
and so long as you use it, so long you will be happy. The dear,
heavenly Father watches over and cares for those whose lives are given
for the good of others." Saying this she led him away to the prince.
But what was Franz's surprise! beside him on his right hand were
Franz's father and mother, no longer blind, but dressed in costly
robes, their faces radiant with happiness, while Nanette looked
charmingly, in a white gauze dress and silver slippers. Franz was
bewildered, not knowing whether to advance towards the prince, or to
run and embrace his parents.
"This is the reward of obedience to your parents," said the lady,
kissing the boy's white forehead.
* * * * *
The light of day came streaming through the tower window--the child
awoke. It was cold. A chill ran through his frame. He had been in the
cathedral all night, and his parents--what anguish they must have
endured. Hastily as his numbed limbs would allow, he went down the
stairs. A few worshippers were bowing before the altar; Franz dropped
on his knees a moment, and then ran with all his speed out of the door
and down the street.
Very glad were Franz's parents when he returned, and Nanette wept for
joy; but when at breakfast he related his dream, the face of the old
organist lit up with a great hope.
"I know, my boy, it will all come true. So long as we love and trust
Him, the good Christ will not leave us to suffer."
Christmas had come. There were no presents for Franz and Nanette. Only
one could they make, and this was a nice, warm dressing-gown for their
blind father.
One day a beautiful lady took refuge in the cottage; her carriage had
broken down, and she must stop till the postilion could return to the
castle. At the cottage she heard Franz play and Nanette sing, and
listened to the blind organist, as the cathedral bells broke on the
evening air.
"You must come with me," said the lady. "We have been planning
concerts at the castle, and you shall give them."
"My children are not old enough to go by themselves, and I am blind,"
replied the father.
"I will not deprive you of your children," said the lady; "my father
has influence. And besides, he has near him an eminent physician; it
is possible something can be done to restore your sight."
In three days the lady returned, and carried Herr Hoffner with his
wife and children to the castle. Charmed with the young musicians, the
elector repented of the thoughtless deed, in depriving the father of
his position as kappelmeister. Very tenderly did he treat him now, and
under the care of the skilful physician, it was soon announced there
was hope of his recovering his sight. This done, he was once more
offered the position; but Herr Hoffner was a just man; to do by
others as he would be done by was his motto. Herr Von Stein had filled
the post acceptably; it was no fault of his that the old organist had
lost his place. Herr Hoffner would not accept it, but only asked that
he might be allowed to give concerts with his children. Franz labored
diligently at his studies, and already was he beginning to surprise
his friends, not only with his playing, but with his composition.
Years passed: there was a great gathering in that grand old capital. A
musical festival was in progress, and all the celebrities the world
over had congregated there. Franz Hoffner was in the zenith of his
glory. At the close of the performance, and while the entire audience
joined in acclamations of praise to the youthful leader, a rich medal
was presented. On one side the profile view of the elector and his
daughter, set round with diamonds; on the other, "Music is only
valuable as it lifts the heart and purifies our fallen nature."
Franz Hoffner lived to be a great musician; but he never ceased to
think of his parents and Nanette. Honors were empty, and applause
vain, only so far as they contributed to the happiness of those he
loved.
The Glaciers Of Savoy
After a few weeks passed in Geneva, we determined to go on to
Chamouni, and for this purpose engaged a guide accustomed for years to
the mountain passes, and on whom we were told that we could rely
implicitly.
This being arranged, we took a last drive around the environs of the
city; the views of the lake and of the mountains in every direction,
were enchanting and sublime. From the head of the lake, a greater
variety of interesting objects met the eye than can be seen perhaps
from any other spot in Europe. At your feet you behold a venerable and
populous city; while a vast and beautiful lake spreads its clear waves
beyond, amid a landscape rich in all the products a cultivated soil
can furnish; while vast and gloomy mountains stretch their giant forms
on high. In clear weather, Mont Blanc appears the venerable monarch of
the Alps. Below this, Saléve rises to upwards of three thousand feet,
with the uninterrupted length of the Jura on the left, whose highest
point is over four thousand. Proceeding along the banks of the Arve,
we at length alighted at the entrance of a thicket, through which we
made our way with difficulty, the path being hilly and very slippery,
to a place where we saw at our feet the celebrated junction of the
Arve and the Rhone. The Arve has a thick soapy appearance; the Rhone
is of a fine dark green, and seems for a while to spurn a connection
with its muddy visitor. For two or three miles the Rhone keeps up its
reserve, and the rivers roll side by side, without mingling their
waters. At length they meet and blend: the distinction is lost, the
polluted Arve is absorbed in the haughty and majestic Rhone.
We were to leave Geneva the next morning. Before night our guide came:
he was ill, would we take his son? The proposition did not please us;
it was a dangerous journey, and many had been lost in the mountain
passes.
"Erwald knows as much of the passes as I do," said the father, "and he
is anxious to go; his sister lives at Maglan, and she is down with the
fever."
I saw how it was. Erwald was to go to Maglan to visit his sister; and
if the father could arrange for him to go with us, of course he
himself would be free to make another engagement.
"Do you feel sure that you can guide us safely?" I asked of Erwald.
"Certainly, monsieur; I have been over the way many times. If I was
not quite sure, I would not offer to go."
"Not if you could gain a good many francs by going?"
"It would not be right to say to you that I knew the way, if I did
not."
The boy's face was attractive, his voice gentle, and his blue eyes
full of tenderness. His look and his answer delighted me.
"No, it would not be right, Erwald; and because you love the right and
feel sure that you can serve us, I will take you in your father's
place."
"I am glad, very glad; and now I must see my mother. Vesta is sick and
she will be glad to see any one from home."
Erwald's face was glowing; I turned to the father.
"Erwald is a good child," he said. "At first we felt vexed with him
and Vesta for leaving the church, and not a few times did we punish
them. But they were so good and patient that it troubled us; and now
their mother is a Protestant, and I never go to mass."
It was explained, the serene calm of the earnest blue eyes: Erwald was
a Christian.
Early in the morning our guide made his appearance. His countenance
sweet and pleasing as it was the night previous. He was accompanied by
a little woman in a black gown and bodice, with a high cap and the
whitest of kerchiefs--a mild sweet-faced woman, whom we knew at once
as his mother.
"You'll tell Vesta mother thinks of her all the time, and prays the
Father every hour to make her well again."
On my asking if she was not afraid to have her son go on so dangerous
a journey, she answered:
"Our Father will take care of him and bring him back to us."
The simple faith of the good woman struck me as greatly to be desired.
With all her simplicity she had the true Wisdom: and her good motherly
face went with me long after I left Erwald in Chamouni.
A few miles from Geneva, we entered Savoy. Here the scenery of the
Alps began to open before us. On the right the Arve was seen winding
through a cultivated and luxuriant valley; on both sides, hills and
rooks rose to a considerable elevation, and behind, the mountains of
the Jura range closed in grandeur the delightful view. We passed
through a succession of peaceful villages, and at length reached by a
long avenue of elms the little town of Bonneville on the Arve. The
town is embosomed in the mountains, and watered by the river. It
has a fine old bridge over the river from which the country is viewed
to great, advantage. On the right the môle is elegantly formed, and
terminates in a peak, a complete contrast to Mont Brezon on the left,
wild and savage in its aspect, and little more than a bare and rugged
rock with occasional pitches of verdure.
[Illustration]
From Bonneville the road passes over the bridge to the foot of the
môle, and traverses a lovely valley, hemmed in by lofty mountains, and
rich in scenes of pastoral beauty. The road is lined on each side with
walnut-trees, which afford a grateful shade. Passing the village of
Sigony, Erwald pointed to the remains of an old convent far up the
mountain, whose inmates were wont to welcome the traveller, when these
valleys, destitute of good roads and inns, were explored with
difficulty and with danger.
From this place the mountains closed upon us; rocks began to overhang
the road, and the Arve was rather heard than seen. At length we
crossed a romantic looking bridge and entered the little town of
Cluse, enclosed on both sides by rocky ramparts, and sheltered equally
from sunbeams and from storms. Following the various windings of the
valley, the Arve seemed to spread itself into a series of lakes, each
presenting its own peculiar loveliness and majesty. The sides of the
mountains were occasionally bare and rugged, but for the most part
they were clothed with forests of fir; while above, pointed summits
and fantastic crags everywhere met the eye, and filled the beholder
with admiration and awe.
A few miles up the valley, Erwald called our attention to the entrance
of the cavern of Balme. It is a natural gallery in the rock and well
worth a visit. The valley now becomes more spacious; while its
boundaries increase in grandeur. The meadows, adorned with groves of
beech-trees, rise in gentle swells from the verge of the Arve, and
spread their green carpet, dotted with cottages and watered by
innumerable streams, to the base of the neighboring heights. At one of
these cottages we rested for the night. I never dreamed of a fairer
scene; it was too beautiful for sleep; the murmurings of the Arve were
the only sounds that broke upon the ear, while all around tremendous
precipices rose to heaven, shutting out from us the cares and tumults
of the busy world. To pay for my enthusiasm I arose with a headache
and a feeling of weariness that sensibly diminished the enjoyment of
the morning.
Leaving this enchanted spot, we passed the waterfall D'Orli, and a
few miles beyond we paused to admire the cataract of Arpenas. Its
height is estimated at eight hundred feet. The water rushes with
considerable volume over a tremendous precipice of dark and fantastic
rocks. At first it divides into separate streams that in their fall
resemble descending rockets, till at length, caught by the rocks
beneath, they meet and mingle in one mass of foam.
At the cataract we had an instance of that deception which is produced
to the eye by the magnitude of the objects which compose the scenery
of these Alpine regions. Viewed from the road the fall did not appear
by any means so considerable as it measurement determines; while at
its foot there was a little green hillock to the summit of which it
seemed a few steps would reach. To this hillock we determined to
proceed. But what was our astonishment when we found a mountain
before us, and when we reached its top, the cataract loomed up in
inconceivable vastness, rushing into a wild abyss beneath, that
deafened us with its uproar and bedewed us with its spray.
We now approached the village of Maglan, where Vesta lived. As we drew
near, I observed Erwald's face flush and grow pale; that dear sister
he had not seen since his father drove her from the house because of
her apostasy. Now she was ill and had sent for him. How great the
change! His mother was a Christian and his father did not go to mass.
As we entered the village I was struck with the pleasing, intelligent
faces of all that we met. Leaving us at the door of the only
lodging-house in the place, Erwald went to visit his sister; but not
before I had asked that he would return for me provided that he found
her comfortable. In an hour or more, he returned, his countenance
sad, but still peaceful. Vesta was sicker than he had dreamed of; it
was feared that she would not recover.
"Do you think it will not hurt her, for me to see her?" I asked.
"Oh, no, she said that she would like to see you."
During our short walk few words were said. As we reached the cottage a
young man came out to meet us, with a flaxen-haired, blue-eyed child
in his arms, and another clinging to his hand. It was Vesta's husband,
and these were her children. Following them into the cottage, I found
myself at once in the presence of the dying woman. The sight of a
strange face did not disturb her. With a look that seemed to
comprehend the Christian bond of union between us she held out her
hand.
"I have come with Erwald," I said, "to see his sister. I am sorry to
find you so very ill."
"Almost home," she gasped.
"You do not feel that you are alone; there is One to walk with you?"
"Jesus, my Redeemer, my Comforter."
Erwald was kneeling by the bed, his eyes were full of tears, and his
hand trembled as he clasped the pale thin fingers.
"You will get well, Vesta, you will come to the old home once again,
mother expects you, and father." The words were gone. Sobs echoed
through the cottage.
"Tell mother, not an hour but I have thought of her. Tell her that I
am glad she loves Jesus; and father, ask him for my sake to read the
little Bible that I sent him. I would so like to see them, Erwald;
but it cannot be. For this, as well as for my husband and children, I
would live; but I go to Jesus. Live so as to meet me there."
There was no excitement, only a weary look stole over the face.
Leaving Erwald, I walked back to the inn. Though far away from home,
and surrounded by strange scenery and strange people, it was
delightful to find the same faith here as in my own home, the same
heaven inspired confidence in the Redeemer.
The next morning the sick woman was more comfortable. Erwald did not
say it, but I knew that he wanted to stay with her.
"Go with us to Le Prieuré," I said to him, "and then you shall return.
In the valley of Chamouni I feel sure we can procure a guide."
As we left Maglan, our road, or rather path, led up a deep and fertile
valley, watered by the Arve, rich in woods of fir, and bounded by
mountains of various forms and of tremendous altitudes; their rugged
peaks sometimes lost in the clouds; at others, their heads towered in
majesty above them. Bathed in the blue ether of the heavens they
looked as if themselves ethereal, oftentimes exhibiting a play of
colors, having the appearance of transparent matter, of the purest
elements and richest hues, and when seen in the light of the setting
sun they were only more glorious. At the upper end of the valley we
came upon the cataract of the Chede. It is elegant in form. The
scenery that surrounds it is sylvan and sequestered. The torrent that
feeds it rushes down a succession of precipices, hurrying dashing
along to meet the waters of the Arve.
The path now became extremely difficult, and we continued to ascend,
till we reached the lake of Chede, whose water is famed as the purest
in the Alps. From this point we saw Mont Blanc--saw the clouds roll
off, and leave its rugged head white with the snows of ages--a
beautiful contrast with the deep azure of the sky it seemed almost to
touch. Looking, our eyes were dazzled by the vast and spotless object
before us; pure and fleecy as were the light clouds that lingered
round it, they were dark compared with its glittering brightness;
while the obscurity in which the lower scenes were wrapt gave it the
appearance of a crystal mountain in a sea of clouds. With Erwald
standing at my side, it seemed but a step from earth to heaven,
through those regions of the purest white, untrodden solitudes, meet
only for the visits of celestial beings.
Thus far our way had been comparatively safe. Now, we had need of
caution at each step; scrambling along ledges of lofty rocks, with
deep ravines beneath; then crossing mountain torrents where a single
misstep would have been fatal. Before night we passed the remains of
an avalanche, an enormous mass of snow crushing as it fell everything
in its path. We were now in the valley of Chamouni. At the sight of
the first glacier I felt some little disappointment. It is not itself
a mountain of ice, but lies in a deep sloping ravine between two
mountains, filling it up, and differing in height according to the
base. There are five of these glaciers in the valley. They usually lie
in a direction north and south, and thus deeply imbedded in the clefts
of the valley the sun rarely visits them.
From Savoy our numbers were greatly increased, and as the daylight
vanished we quickened our pace. Le Prieuré was before us. This was
the place where I had promised to part with Erwald. There were plenty
of guides; but none of them with the sweet calm look of the boy face
before me.
"You will think of us sometimes," he said as I held his hand at
parting, "and when you pray to our heavenly Father, ask Him to look
upon us in mercy."
"I will ask Him, Erwald; and I shall always remember the journey from
Geneva to Chamouni as the most varied and interesting of my life."
"The Bride Of The Aar."
It was the day after Christmas; a heavy fall of snow during the night,
the tiny flakes full of graceful motion till long past noon, had made
a gloomy day for the inmates of Myrtlebank. True, there was many a gay
trill and clear silvery laugh ringing through the old rooms. Alick was
spending his college vacation at home, and Frank and Carry were merry
as school-girls are wont to be, when books are flung aside, and fun
and frolic take the place of study and recitation.
"What are you dreaming about, uncle Paul?" and Carry perched herself
on the arm of her uncle's chair, and patted his cheek with her little
dimpled hand.
"I have been thinking, child"--and there was a choking sensation in
uncle Paul's throat, and a strange mist in his clear gray eyes.
Carry's sympathies were awakened.
"Thinking about something long time ago, uncle Paul?" and the rosy
cheek was laid close to the thin, pallid one.
"Tell us, uncle Paul; you know you promised us;" and Carry slid her
arms about her uncle's neck, and felt his great heart beat against her
own.
"It was a long time ago," began uncle Paul. "I had just finished my
studies, and not being strong, the physician advised a year's travel
on the continent. My father was a merchant, and had friends in the
different European cities, and there was little danger that I should
lack for attention; and with a supply of letters, and one in
particular to a friend of my father's, a pastor among the mountains
of Switzerland, I started. I pass over the leave-taking; finding
myself alone on the sea; the nights of calm when leaning over the
ship's side, looking down into the dark depths, murmuring snatches of
home songs, bringing up vividly before me faces of those I loved; and
as the ocean swells came rocking under us, down we went into the
valleys and up over the hills of water. I felt as safe, rocked in the
great cradle of the deep, as when at home. His eye was upon me; His
arm encircled me.
"But pleasant as the voyage and full of memories, I see that you are
impatient to pass over to the mountains of Switzerland. Words are weak
to describe the magnificence of the Juras: looking upon the rolling
heights shrouded with pine-trees, and down thousands of feet at the
very roadside, upon cottage roofs and emerald valleys, where the deer
herds were feeding quietly. All this I had seen, and then we came to a
little town called Bex; and here, from too much expenditure of
enthusiasm perhaps, I was confined for weeks with a raging fever.