should enter but the good pastor Ortler. He had heard of my illness,
and leaving home, he had travelled over the hills to nurse me in my
weakness; and when I grew strong enough to bear it, he treated me to
short drives along Lake Leman, whence we could see the meadows that
skirt Geneva, the rough, shaggy mountains of Savoy, and far behind
them, so far that we could not distinguish between cap and cloud, Mont
Blanc and the needles of Chamouni.
"The good pastor Ortler, with his fine voice and clear, earnest eyes,
was in possession at all times of a charm of manner that had for me
an irresistible fascination. But when he talked of God, his greatness
as seen in his works, the magnificent and matchless glory by which we
were surrounded: above all, when he spoke of His tenderness and love,
I realized as I had never done before the beauty of holiness, and the
happiness, in this life even, of a soul firmly anchored in the faith
of Christ.
"Once, I remember, he steadied my feet to a rocky point overlooking
the little town of Ferney, and the deserted château of Voltaire. And
then followed a conversation, in which the tenderness of the good
pastor's heart was manifest as he spoke of the fine mind wrecked on
the sands of unbelief. 'And to think of this man's influence,' he
said, with sorrow in his tones, and regrets over a lost life and a
lost soul.
"Upon the shores of the lake stood the old home of De Stael; and
nearly opposite, its white walls reflected upon the bosom of the water
the house where Byron lived and wrote. In the distance we could see
the gleaming roofs of Geneva, the dark cathedral, and the tall hotels.
As the weeks wore on I grew stronger. Winter was coming, and the good
pastor must go home. He would not hear of leaving me, and together we
went down into Savoy, and over the 'mer de glâce,' and trod on the
edge of frowning glaciers.
"We were sufficiently near the monastery of the great St. Bernard to
take it in our path; toiling along where the ice cracked in the narrow
footway, and the moon glittered on the waste of snow and glinted
across the dark windows. Pastor Ortler was at home with the monks, and
hardly had we thawed ourselves before the ample fireplace, when a
supper was prepared, and over their well-spread tables the monks told
stories of travellers lost among the granite heights, with clefts and
ledges filled with ice.
"Among the rest, friar Le-Bon gave a description of the 'Ice Maiden,'
or _'Bride of the Aar,'_ said to be seen often when the great glacier
of Aar sends out icy breezes, and the echoes ring from rock to rock,
as it were the audible voice of God.
"'Years ago,' he said, 'a young Englishman and his wife were
travelling for scientific purposes; measuring heights, and sounding
depths. They were always accompanied by guides; but now, charmed by
the untold splendor, and urged by deep emotion, they climbed higher
and higher, regardless of danger. Twice had the guide called out to
them that the very beauty of the day, the sun obscured but not
darkened, the softened air, were all favorable to a snowslide or
avalanche.
"'Full of life and vivacity, the young wife went on from one point to
another, higher and higher; her lithe figure brought out against the
sky, as occasionally she plunged her iron-pointed staff deep into the
snow, and turned to admire the vast panorama at her feet. Her husband
was making the ascent at a slower pace, looking up to admire the
boldness of the little woman, and then playfully scolding her as she
stood poised in mid-air so far above him. Aware of her danger, and
fearing to startle her, the guide had ascended, and now stood with the
husband on a little ledge quite underneath the cliff on which stood
the fearless bride.
"'A moment--there was a low, murmuring sound, as when the autumn
leaves are swept by the evening breeze. The guide heard it, and his
cheek paled. At the same time a voice was heard above.
"'"What is that, Walter, it seems as though the mountain was moving?"
"'"For heaven's sake, jump! we will catch you," shouted the guide.
"'"Quick, Gertrude!" A gleam of white shot over them, and a piercing
shriek mingled with one long resounding crash, and the glittering
crystal was plunged into the valley below, leaving nothing but bare
jagged rocks and stunted shrubs, where all was smooth and white but a
moment before. Months after, the bones of the fair English girl were
buried here,' continued friar Le-Bon.
"'And her husband?' I asked.
"'They brought him here, and it was terrible to see his agony. When he
grew stronger, we sent a novice with him to England; it would not do
to trust him by himself.'
"'You do not mean to say that his reason was gone?' I asked.
"'He was never rational after that morning,' replied the friar;
'muttering and moaning, and repeating the name of Gertrude constantly.
Carl left him with his friends, and we have never heard if he
recovered.'
"'And the lady?' asked pastor Ortler.
"'On calm, still days, and just before an avalanche,' said the kind
friar, 'her image is always seen standing upon the loftiest height,
beckoning with her white taper fingers to some one below.'
"Entertained with so much hospitality, we were loath to leave the
friendly hospice, only for the pastor's anxiety to reach home. Down
into the sweet valley of the Megringen, and northward by Grindenwald
and Thun, and up the steep heights over which falls the white foam of
Reichenbach; and farther on towards the crystal Rosenlani, and the
tall, still Engel Horner, we came to a little village cradled in
security beneath the towering hills; the church-spire glancing in the
sunlight, and the simple cottagers jubilant in welcoming home their
beloved pastor.
"At the door of the pastor's home we were met by a sweet-browed woman
with a lovely infant in her arms, crowing and laughing as the father
kissed it over and over again; while a boy of ten and a girl of six
summers, ran with open arms to greet him.
"'You stayed so long, papa.'
"'And we missed you so much,' after the first greeting.
"'This young friend was very ill; you would not have had me leave
him?'
"'Oh, no, papa, but'--when the little Griselda stopped suddenly, and
threw a half-defiant glance at my face, and Thorwald stood measuring
me with his great black eyes.
"Hardly recovered from my illness, I stayed with the good pastor
Ortler through Christmas week, and a month afterwards. Never did I
pass pleasanter days. The wife Rosalind was as kind as a sister, and
her children grew soon to like me as an old friend. Very simple was
their manner of life, while the air they breathed was fragrant with
the love they bore to Him who made and redeemed them, and who had in
his good providence, set them in a pleasant place.
"Christmas to them was not a week of jubilee alone. Busy hands
decorated the little church, and visits were made to the poor and
sick, and presents were given without the hope of reward. Sitting by
the parlor fire at night, the pastor told of the parishioners he had
seen, their wants and needs; while Rosalind knit stockings, and
fashioned garments.
"'It would seem that one so well fitted for society would tire of this
narrow bound,' I once said. With an eye brimming over with tenderness,
the pastor replied: 'There are souls to save here quite as precious as
anywhere else.' I felt humbled before his quiet glance. This was the
work for him to do; this was the work he loved. What matter in what
part of the vineyard? wherever there was a soul. But this mountain
grandeur pleased him. These quiet solitudes led him upward. The
glorious diadem of the hills was always urging him onward. Hard and
self-denying as his life, he had ample recompense in daily, hourly
communion with the Father through the majesty of his works."
"I should like to live where I could see all this," whispered Carry.
"The heart that loves, finds beauty and grandeur everywhere,"
responded uncle Paul; "not only the mountain passes, but the valleys
echo His praise, and there are few places so sterile but human lives
abound."
"Griselda and Thorwald, have you seen them since?" asked Carry.
"Ten years afterwards, I saw them. Griselda was a tall stately girl,
with blue laughing eyes, and curls of pale brown, and Thorwald was a
student at Geneva. Pastor Ortler was still the same, preaching to his
little flock, and giving freely of his means, his wife only slightly
older. Once more we wandered over the heights and in the valleys, the
spots where I lingered years before, plucking a flower and drinking
from the cold glacier water. Afterward, when it became necessary for
me to return, good pastor Ortler and his wife went with me, and
together we passed a winter in Milan."
"And Griselda?" asked Carry.
"Oh, uncle Paul, Griselda was"--and Carry glanced up at the portrait
of a young and beautiful woman hanging in a niche on the left-hand of
the fireplace. Uncle Paul's portrait occupied the other side. Silence
brooded over them; while to Carry it seemed the lady in the picture
looked as if with recognition in her eyes. How delicate, how aerial
she seemed! yet real, and true. Was it any wonder uncle Paul was so
good, having had the companionship of such a spirit so many years? And
as she looked, the stately frame seemed to open, and the lady to come
down from her place and seat herself on the other arm of uncle Paul's
chair, and to lay her head on his shoulder.
"To do good was her aim, Carry; may it be yours," said uncle Paul, and
the spell was broken.
A Sabbath In Lausanne.
After a long journey we arrived at the head of the lake of Geneva, by
far the most interesting portion of this sheet of water. The mountains
on the left of the valley are extremely wild and majestic, and at
their feet, close on the borders of the lake, is the little village
where I had promised to spend the Sabbath with my old friend Wagner.
The sun had gone down, but a rosy flush tinged the clouds and lingered
about the tops of the mountains.
The walk was not long to the parsonage, a low rambling cottage, with
deep windows and overhanging roof, embowered in trees and fragrant
with the breath of flowers. All this we took in at a look, and without
any break in the talk, taking us back as it did to the day when we
bade good-by to the college and its professors, and shook hands with
each other for the last time. Looking into Wagner's face it did not
seem so long ago; while I, floating round the world, had gathered
experience enough to make me feel, if not look, something older. At
the porch we were met by Maude, her slight girlish figure rounded into
the perfection of womanhood, the rich bloom of her cheek not quite as
deep perhaps; but the sweet blue eyes met mine with all the old
frankness, the charming naivete that had rendered her so much a
favorite when a child.
Sitting there in the lessening light it all came back; the old
university at Basle, and above all, the old professor, Maude's father,
whom we all loved.
"His place is well filled, and still we miss him," said Wagner.
There were tears in the young wife's eyes, and rising hastily she
disappeared into the house. A few moments later she appeared, her face
smiling and glad, a very sweet-faced babe clasped in her arms, another
tugging at her gown. "Allow me to show my treasures," she said, as she
seated herself beside me. Hours passed as hours will when friends have
been separated for years. Then came a summons to tea; and after that
Maude put up her jewels, and the pastor introduced me to his study.
Summer though it was, a bright fire of sticks was burning on the
hearth; bright, but not too bright to exclude the outside view. Slowly
the purple curtain drooped over the mountains, falling lower and
lower, until the small village, the tiled roofs, and the wooden spire
were wrapped in a cloud of dusky haze.
"You have wondered why I content myself here, when a professorship
was offered me at Basle," said Wagner at length. "It was a temptation,
I allow; and when I thought of Maude and the social position from
which I had taken her, I hesitated. She did not, however. 'These
people love you, and your preaching is blessed to them. I am afraid if
you leave, there will be no one else; and one soul saved outweighs all
their professorships.' It was sweetly said, and I knew by the look on
her face that her heart was in keeping with her words, and I answered
her accordingly."
It was late, and the next day would be the Sabbath. Maude joined us,
when a hymn was sung and a prayer offered, and we slept.
The sun was shining when I awoke, and opening my lattice I looked away
to, the mountains, their white heads mellowed with a glory that
inspired only thoughts of that God who made all things, and who holds
them by the power of his might. There was a stir in the village, just
enough to show the inhabitants were not sleeping away the precious
hours. A cheerful, calm reigned, in keeping with the hallowed day; the
very birds sang in a subdued and still triumphant tone, as if they
knew 'twas holy time; while the dumb cattle, feeding on the road,
cropped the brown grass noiselessly. Gliding down the broad stairway,
I opened the study door. The pastor was there, and I saw by the open
book, with the cushion before it still deeply indented, that he had
been kneeling. He advanced with his usual good-humored smile, while
his voice had the mellowed sweetness of one who had been on the mount
speaking face to face with the King of kings.
"I question if the Sabbath is as beautiful in the larger towns," said
the pastor, leading me to the deep window.
Below, the garden sloped away to a considerable distance, and the
flowers still sparkling with the dewdrops lifted their heads timidly.
"You see there is some compensation for our solitude; with less
temptations to draw away our thoughts, we are privileged to go up
through these temple gates from glory to glory. Did you ever see
anything more grand and inspiring?" and he stepped out on to the
balcony, and pointed me to a range of hills ascending gradually till
the top seemed to reach the clouds.
"Here linger yet the showers of fire,
Deep in each fold, high on each spire
On yonder mountain proud."
Up the walk came Maude, leading by the hand the little Lotchen, the
prattle of the child showing the lesson the mother had been
attempting to teach. Beautiful such a Sabbath! and my heart felt
refreshed as I stood upon the threshold and looked out into the new
day.
"We used to work together in Basle," said the pastor as we seated
ourselves at the breakfast-table, "suppose we make the effort to-day."
"That will depend upon the portion that falls to my share," I replied.
"Give him the pulpit, Heinrich," said Maude naively.
"I am not sure that I wish him to fill it," replied the pastor with a
smile.
"I more than half wish I could," came to my lips unbidden, and I could
hardly keep the tears as I thought of the few months it had been mine
to labor in this manner, then of that fearful illness, the loss of
voice, and the journey to regain health and strength to be spent in
His service.
"You remember the old Bible class," said Wagner; "I have one here, or
rather two, for we meet twice a day, some finding it more convenient
to come in the morning and others after service, so that my time is
pretty well filled."
"And you would give me one of the classes," I said, as Maude filled my
coffee cup the second time.
"This is what I propose to do."
"And I accept most cheerfully."
"We have but a little time; in an hour you will be ready," and the
pastor went to his study.
An hour afterwards the street was full of eager faces, all going to
the house of God, quiet and calm, but still cheerful and happy,
stopping to interchange greetings with each other, above all glad of a
welcoming look and smile from the pastor. I soon saw wherein was the
charm; sympathizing and kindly affectioned toward his people the
pastor interested himself in the little history of each, neglecting no
one, and especially attentive to the poor and feeble aged ones of his
flock. All loved him as a pastor, and by reason of this he persuaded
them the more easily.
The church was a quaint structure, half gothic, and half of a
nondescript architecture peculiar to itself. Leaving the vestibule we
entered at once the main audience-room, large, and sufficiently
commodious, but somewhat dark and gloomy. The pulpit was high, and
looked like an upright octagonal vase perched on a square pedestal.
This was unoccupied at present, the people taking their seats, and
forming as I saw at once into two distinct classes. In a few words the
pastor explained why it was thus, and then offering a prayer in which
all joined he proceeded to give me one of the classes, while he began
to question the others.
It was a novel group, the women in black skirts, with square boddices,
surmounted by white kerchiefs, with long flowing sleeves of white. But
the head had the strangest appearance. The more elderly women wore a
black cap, from the edge of which depended a trimming rising
perpendicularly from the cap from four to eight inches and gave to the
head the appearance of wings. Strange as it at first seemed, I soon
forgot all but their eager, animated attention. The theme was the love
of God in giving his only Son to be the propitiation for our sins.
Very evidently, it was no stranger of whom we were speaking. Not
satisfied with a mere bearing of his name, they knew and loved him.
His divine arm had been reached down to them. Charmed with his sweet
countenance, and won by his gentle, loving words, "Come unto me,"
they came with the trust and confidence of little children,
acknowledging their sin, but taking him at his word, "I, even I am he
that blotteth out thy transgressions, for my own sake, and will not
remember thy sins." It was sweet to talk of him, this Saviour, who had
done so much for them; and before I was aware the tears were running
down my own cheeks, and my words were broken and fragmentary. In the
meantime other worshippers came in. The hour for this kind of
instruction was over. The pastor availed himself of a moment's
respite, and the next was seen ascending the pulpit stairs. Maude was
seated among the singers, and the morning services commenced.
I had never heard my friend deliver a formal discourse, but I knew it
mattered little to him whether his message was given to few or
many--love for Christ, and earnestness to save souls was the
all-absorbing passion of his heart. It was only a continuation of what
he had been saying, the sweetly touching story of Christ's love told
simply, and still with the earnest, truthful spirit of one who knew by
blessed experience the reality of what he was saying. Standing in his
place and holding up the cross, for the moment it seemed that we could
see Him, the Divine Son, hanging, bleeding, dying that sinners like us
might be redeemed, saved, reinstated. What love! What tenderness! Is
it any wonder that we wept? Not a dry eye was in the house. Those
hardy peasants, with little intellectual culture, had hearts to love,
hearts that could understand and appreciate in some feeble manner the
promise of pardon and peace through a crucified Redeemer.
It was an hour well spent. Never have I felt nearer the divine
presence, nor more of the joy, the rest that springs from intimate
communion with the blessed Saviour. How strange the revulsion of
feeling in a few moments of time. I had looked with a little of
pleasantry upon the quaint figures and novel costumes of the
worshippers; now, I saw only the earnest attitude, the anxious gaze,
the loving look. Jesus was all in all, and their love for him
beautified their faces.
As we went home many kindly words were interchanged, the pastor
seeking out the elderly feeble ones, and Maude speaking with the
mothers, and patting the heads of little children, while I found my
way to a group of youths, to deepen if possible the impression of the
morning.
After dinner there was a repetition of the Bible-class, though now
they met at the pastor's house. As it was warm and pleasant we seated
ourselves in the garden, dividing into three groups. This class was
entirely different from the one of the morning, being made up of
those, many of them mothers, who could not leave their children to go
out earlier; and with some, this service was the principal one of the
day. The attention was quite as good, and the manner the same. It was
a pleasure to teach, and the sun was throwing his last red beams on
the hillside as the last one left the garden. It had been a long day,
but we felt repaid.
"You have had a glimpse of our family and of our work," said the
pastor. "How do you like it?"
"Is this a specimen of all your Sabbaths?"
"Just the same, with the fluctuating difference of numbers; scattered
as our people are, many of them living halfway up the mountains, they
are not always able to be here."
"I agree with Maude that your service is needed here."
"I knew you would. There are souls to save here as well as in Basle,
and sometimes I think the love of these simple hearts is sweeter to
Jesus."
Far away the mountains were lifting their heads, bathed in the golden
glory from the setting sun. Maude caught the direction of my eyes.
"Perhaps I fear to much the effect upon my own soul; but these grand
temple-gates are always open, and from their entrance we seem to catch
glimpses of the celestial city beyond, inspiring only good and noble
thoughts, with an anxious, earnest endeavor to reach higher
resting-places."
"And you fear this would be less in the noise and din of the city."
"Not quite that, for the heart that loves Jesus can live and work for
him anywhere; but with a free choice I prefer this."
I felt that she was right, it was the work God had given her to do,
and she was willing to do it; while the question returned to me with
tenfold force, Are you as willing to labor in the field that He has
given to you? The man with a vineyard places his laborers as he would
have them, giving each one according to his capacity, be it more or
less. Our Father has a vineyard; it is the world, and his children are
the laborers. "Go work in my vineyard," is the command. The choice is
His who placed us there; to work is ours.
"Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you;
and lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world."
The next day I left Lausanne, the good pastor and his wife joining me
for a few miles on my way, and then we parted--to meet, teacher and
taught, in the city of our God.
The Guide Of Montanvert.
We were passing the summer at the Pays de Vaud; thence making
excursions, as suited our inclination, to different portions of the
country, always finding something new and striking--something out of
which we could draw profitable lessons for the future.
On one of these occasions we made the ascent of Montanvert, and
visited the Mer de Glace. Montanvert rises abruptly from the vale of
Chamouni, and may not improperly be considered a portion of the base
of Mont Blanc. It is beautifully wooded to its summit, whence its name
of the Green Mountain.
As we were standing in the court of the inn discussing the merits of a
guide, and anxious to find a trusty and intelligent person from whom
we could learn all that was to be learned, as well as feel secure in
his choice of the best paths, a boy and girl came up the hill, and
speaking hurriedly to the landlord, advanced confidently to the place
where we stood. Lifting his cap, while a shower of light soft curls
fell over his coarse blouse, he asked if we were in search of a guide,
and if we would take him. His manner was so respectful, and his face
and appearance so youthful, we were attracted, and still did not know
how to reply to him.
"I was thinking of Franz," said the innkeeper; "you need not fear his
youth; he was born here, and his father has always been considered one
of the best guides in the country; Franz knows every path."
"Let his father come with him," I suggested. I thought I caught a
tear in the boy's eye, and his lips trembled.
"Father is old, and besides he is very ill to-day; if you will allow
me I will serve you faithfully."
There was something so frank and truthful, and his words were so well
chosen and showed such cultivation, that even had I feared that he was
unequal to the task I should have taken him.
At this moment his sister came out of the inn, the good woman
following her with a bottle of wine.
"This is for your father, Annette; I hope he will be better
to-morrow."
"I am going," I heard Franz whisper; and taking the wine-bottle, he
left Annette to carry the smaller packages, and turned to us as if
ready to set off.
"You are not to take Annette, are you?" I asked.
"We live halfway up the mountain, and shall pass near the house. We
shall not need our poles till we reach that point."