'carry-all' yesterday morning at five o'clock. It was another
clear and brilliant day, and the ride, of course, was delightful.
Lake, hill, mountain, valley, cascade, river, in their happiest
combination, presented a splendid panorama, during the whole distance
to this place, fifty-four miles. By way of variety, I must tell you
my troubles, also. About five miles from Geneva, we were made aware
of having left the Swiss, and entered the Sardinian territory, by a
summons, at a little frontier bureau, for our passports. When lo! it
was discovered that mine was minus the signature of his Sardinian
majesty's consul at Geneva,[5] and I was politely requested to return
for it! This was particularly pleasant! For to do it, would be to
lose the whole day, and the party beside. After some useless debate,
the _carbinier_ kindly permitted me to send back the document by a
loafer who happened along, knowing that I could not go far without
it; and the next day I received it at Chamouni, and had the pleasure
of paying five dollars for not heeding Madame Starke's directions.
We breakfasted at Bonneville, a little village on the Arve, worthy
of its name; and we were soon ushered into a region of sublimer
scenery than we had as yet visited. The craggy summits, even of the
minor mountains, literally touch or rise above the clouds, while
their sides, up to a fearful height, are covered with verdure,
and studded with cottages: and the valleys below are laid out in
squares of varied green. At St. Martin, we changed our vehicle for a
_char-banc_, better suited to the rough and narrow path, for we were
now coming where nature displays some of her wildest scenes:
----'Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche, the thunder-bolt of snow!
All that expands the spirit yet appals,
Gather around these summits, as to show
How earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain man below.'
The village of Chamouni is situated in the middle of the valley of
the same name, which is ten miles long, and forms one of the most
popular 'lions' in Europe, for the botanist, mineralogist, and
all nature's students. Our first expedition was to the celebrated
_Mer-de-Glace_. We set off from our inn on mules, headed by a guide,
and shortly came to a steep and laborious ascent of some thousand
feet, on Mont Anvert, from which, as we looked back, the objects in
the valley appeared dwindled to atomies. In about three hours, that
wonderful phenomena, the _frozen sea_, suddenly burst upon our view:
'Wave upon wave! as if a foaming ocean,
By boisterous winds to fierce rebellion driven,
Heard, in its wildest moment of commotion,
And stood congealed at the command of heaven!
Its frantic billows chained at their explosion,
And fixed in sculpture! here to caverns riven--
There, petrified to crystal--at His nod
Who raised the Alps an altar to their GOD.'
When you reflect that this sea is eighteen miles long, and that the
waves rise in abrupt ridges ten, twenty, and even forty feet, frozen
to extreme solidity, with chasms between, some of which have been
found to be three hundred and fifty feet deep, you will believe
the poet has not exaggerated its appearance. It is surrounded by
high mountains of dark-colored rock, which taper off in fantastic
and beautiful cones; and altogether, it is a scene of striking and
awful magnificence, which must leave an abiding impression on every
visitor. The ice in the chasms is very clear, and of a beautiful
vitriol tint. It is remarkable that this great natural curiosity was
first made known to the world in 1741, by two adventurous English
travellers, Windham and Pococke. Its origin, of course, remains a
fearful mystery.
At the little hut on Mont Anvert, I obtained of the guides some
specimens of minerals, fine stones, and a _chamois cane_. By the way,
you will excuse me perhaps, for copying these 'Lines on liberating a
Chamois:'[6]
'Free-born and beautiful! The mountain
Has naught like thee!
Fleet as the rush of Alpine fountain--
Fearless and free!
Thy dazzling eye outshines in brightness
The beam of Hope;
Thine airy bound outstrips the lightness
Of antelope.
'On cliffs, where scarce the eagle's pinion
Can find repose,
Thou keep'st thy desolate dominion
Of trackless snows!
Thy pride to roam, where man's ambition
Could never climb,
And make thy world a dazzling vision
Of Alps sublime!
'How glorious are the dawns that wake thee
To thy repast!
And where their fading lights forsake thee,
They shine the last.
Thy clime is pure--thy heaven clearer,
Brighter than ours;
To thee, the desert snows are dearer
Than summer flowers.'
Our excursion had given us a capital relish for dinner, and that
despatched, and 'our mules refreshed,' we set off again and climbed
to the _Glacier de Bossons_, an immense mass of ice, congealed in
beautiful pyramids, on the side of Mont Blanc. That 'mighty Alp'
itself, we did not care to ascend; it is an achievement which has
never been accomplished but thirteen times, as we were told by our
guide, who was one of the six that escorted an Englishman to the
summit this summer. The ascent is of course one of great fatigue
and danger. It takes from two to three days, and costs nine hundred
francs. It is impossible to remain on the top more than thirty
minutes. The last adventurer was sick several weeks at the inn, after
his return.
You may imagine something of the situation of this valley among the
mountains, from the fact, that although it is itself two thousand
feet above the Mediterranean, it receives the rays of the sun direct,
only about four hours in the longest days of the year; and the
moon, to-night, was not to be seen, in her whole course, though the
opposite mountains were bright with her 'mellow light.'
The people of these valleys seem to be honest and industrious, as
well as a little superstitious, if one may judge from the number of
crosses, and little chapels, with images of the virgin, etc., which
are placed by the way-side. On one of them, near Chamouni, is a
proclamation in French, to this effect:
'Monseigneur Rey grants an indulgence of forty days to all the
faithful who humbly and devoutly strike this cross three times,
saying, 'God have mercy upon me!'
* * * * *
AUGUST 24.--At six A. M., we mounted our mules for Martigny, by the
pass of the Tête Noir. Like Dr. Beattie, on leaving Chamouni, I beg
to refer you to the beautiful hymn which Coleridge wrote here before
sunrise, painting its features a _little_ more vividly than I can do
it:
'Ye ice-falls! Ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown ravines enormous slope amain;
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once amidst their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents, silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven,
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
GOD! Let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer, and let the ice-plains echo, GOD!
GOD! Sing, ye meadow streams with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in the perilous fall shall thunder, GOD!
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest!
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the elements!
Utter forth GOD! and fill the hills with praise!
There are two passes from Chamouni to the valley of the Rhone, viz:
the Col de Balme, and the Tête Noire. The latter is distinguished
for its awful wildness and grandeur. The narrow path barely affords
room for mules, between steep rocky heights and frightful precipices,
each of some thousand feet. Rushing streams of snow-water from
the glaciers, cascades from the rocks, remains of avalanches, and
overhanging cliffs abound on every side. Our cavalcade consisted of
twenty-one mules, and six guides on foot. A great many travel here
entirely on foot, equipped in a frock of brown linen, with belt,
knapsack, a flask of _kirschwasser_, and a six-foot pike-staff; and
this is much the best way to explore the country leisurely.
Our speed on mules was not great; for we were all this day going
twenty miles. At six P. M., we came to the last descent, from whence
was spread out before us the large and magnificent valley of the
Rhone, dotted with villages, of which Martigny and Sion are the
principal; and traversed by the river Rhone, and by Napoleon's great
Simplon road, which may be seen for twelve miles, its course being as
straight as an arrow, through highly cultivated fields and vineyards.
Martigny is the stopping place for tourists to Italy by the Simplon;
and here I was to decide whether I would venture. There was the
brilliant vision of Italy!--a name which called up my most ambitious
youthful dreams; and I was now separated from it but by a day's
journey. But alas! there were the cholera, and the fifteen days
quarantine at almost every town; and I was alone, unknown to any
mortal there, and to the language itself. Then a thousand dangers
and vexations rose up before me; and yet, when the last ten minutes
for decision came, 'I screwed my courage to the sticking point,'
and resolved--to go. My baggage was sent over, my seat taken in
the diligence for Milan; but my cane, which I had left at the inn,
prevented my seeing Italy! In returning for it, I met a person who
had come here for the same object, learned that it was impracticable,
and soon persuaded me to give it up; so, with the consoling
reflection that I might still go to Naples in November, I changed my
course, hired a mule, and soon overtook the party who had set off for
the convent on the Great St. Bernard.
* * * * *
HOSPICE DE SAINT BERNARD, AUGUST 25, 1836.--I am now writing
before a blazing fire, in the dining-room of the convent, eleven
thousand feet above the Mediterranean; and a company of about thirty
fellow-pilgrims, English, Scotch, French, German, Austrian, Russian,
and American, are exercising their native tongues around me.
The distance to the Convent from Martigny, the nearest resting
village, is twenty-seven miles, nine miles of it being the steep
ascent of the mountain; of course it takes a long day to achieve it.
When Napoleon made the celebrated passage of the St. Bernard, with
the army of reserve in 1804, just before the battle of Marengo, the
path was much worse than it is now, and the idea of transporting
heavy ordnance, etc., for an army of sixty thousand, over a mountain
which even now the sure-footed mules must tread with great caution,
was considered madness. But Napoleon and Hannibal were not easily
discouraged, neither were the heroic ladies of our little caravan,
who were content to earn their supper and lodging in these upper
regions, by two days' hard work of climbing and descending.
We did not achieve the victory without bloodshed. Two of the ladies
were thrown violently from their mules, and one of the animals took
it into his head to stop short in the midst of a pretty strong
thunder-shower; and I had a nice chance of earning a reputation for
gallantry, by pushing boldly forward, and returning with another mule
for the hapless dame.
We all at last arrived, however, without broken limbs, plentifully
drenched by the shower, and well able to appreciate the hospitality
of the monks. They provided changes of raiment for those who brought
none, piled the wood liberally on the fire, and soon spread the table
as liberally with an excellent supper. The ladies and their attending
squires supped by themselves, two of the most intelligent of the
brothers officiating, and dispensing _bon café_ and _bon mots_, while
the supernumerary _men-kind_ were entertained in another room by the
other monks, headed by the Superior.
This famous convent is a very plain, large wooden building, which at
a distance you would take for a barn, situated far above the regions
of vegetation, and several miles from the nearest habitation. It is
partly supported by the governments of Sardinia and Switzerland, for
the purpose of relieving travellers over the mountain; for without
it, the pass would scarcely be _passed_ at all. The monks appear
to be plain, sensible, and intelligent men, without that austerity
usually associated with that order. They freely receive all who come
here, either for curiosity or necessity, without charge; but visitors
contribute whatever they please to the box in the chapel. They turned
out their famous dogs for our amusement; in the winter, they are used
for more important purposes. They are not so large as I expected,
but they are really noble animals. Many a weary traveller have they
rescued from death in the snow.
Some of the monks are the same who were here when Napoleon's army
came over, and they have a picture of his arrival at the convent, in
the little museum of antiquities. In the hall, is a tablet with this
inscription:
'Napoleoni primo Francorum Imperatori
Semper Augusti Republica Valesianæ
Restaurotori Semper Optimo Ægyptiano
Vis Italico, Semper Invicto in Monte
Iovis et Sempronii Semper Memorando
Republica Valesia Grata, II. Dec. Anni MDCCCIV.'
We were nearly all early to bed, and those who lingered, were packed
off by the monks at ten, according to rule. We were roused before
sunrise by the lusty ringing of the chapel bell for matins, which
were zealously kept up for two or three hours; but I was heretic
enough to abscond, for the purpose of climbing the peak behind the
convent, from which I could look down on the side of the mountain
toward Italy:
'Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages
Who glorify thy consecrated pages:
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires.'
FOOTNOTES:
[3] This injunction has not been strictly followed; but we trust our
friend will excuse us for putting him 'in print,' how much soever his
modesty would prompt him to 'blush unseen.'
EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.
[4] Geneva is about one hundred and fifty miles from Lyons; and yet
the fare was but ten francs.
[5] This personage has the brief authority to demand four francs for
affixing his cognomen to the passports of all who leave Geneva for
this route.
[6] Quoted in Dr. BEATTIE's beautiful work on Switzerland.
THE BLIGHTED FLOWER.
IF I could weep with customary wo,
I, that have seen the good
Borne on the rending flood,
And mark'd the thing most loved the first to go;
I that have seen the beautiful, the cherish'd,
The earliest to depart;
'Twould bring unto my heart
A pang like that I've felt when dearer things have perish'd.
To see thee now, so innocent and sweet,
Bud of the breathing morn,
From life's young bosom torn,
Doom'd, in thy properest bloom, the sudden stroke to meet;
And, with an idle interest, I had prayed
The doom for sterner heads,
And colder climes and beds,
Such as may better meet the tempest and the shade.
Yet could such prayer avail, and the stern doom
But spare this sweetest flower,
The blight would lose its power,
For in this blessed safety all would bloom.
A mortal hand had never snapp'd its stem,
Nor with an eye to mark,
Its white amid the dark,
Have trampled down to dust so rich a gem.
Its doom, to us so dread, was writ on high,
Where glories richer yet,
In brighter circles set,
Make it of little count when such as this must die.
Though to thyself no loss--thy loss to know--
How much was thy delight,
How lovely to the sight,
Might make the fate go weep that dooms thee so.
E.
FATAL BALLOON ADVENTURE.
ASCENT AND FATAL DESCENT IN A PARACHUTE, OF MR. COCKING, OF ENGLAND.
PROBABLY since the melancholy result of Madame BLANCHARD's ascent in
a balloon, in France, no circumstance connected with these aërial
ships has created a more general and intense excitement, than the
awful termination of a recent adventure in the air by a Mr. COCKING,
of the metropolis. The London daily journals, and indeed periodicals
of every class, are rife with the thrilling particulars of the
catastrophe. We gladly avail ourselves of the kind courtesy of the
Editor of the '_Albion_,' to lay them, in a condensed form, before
our readers, accompanied with two engravings, explanatory of the
dreadful event. It should be premised, that the balloon is the same
in which the distinguished aëronaut, Mr. GREEN, accompanied by two
or three English gentleman, made the well-known night-ascension and
journey, which terminated at day-break the next morning in a German
province, several hundred miles from London.
The present ascent was made from Vauxhall Gardens, London, in the
presence of an immense concourse of people. The parachute was the
invention of the unfortunate man, whose coffin it finally proved,
and was of a novel construction, being in the form of an umbrella
reversed, the cavity containing the air being turned uppermost, to
prevent disastrous oscillation. It was constructed of fine Irish
linen, and was one hundred and seven feet in circumference. A car
of wicker-work was suspended to it, in which sat the ill-fated
victim, expressing confidence of success, but evincing, by restless
looks and a nervous manner, that it was a confidence which he did
not feel. Prior to the parachute being attached to the balloon, Mr.
GREEN caused a trial to be made with the view of ascertaining whether
the buoyancy of the latter was sufficient to carry up the former
with safety. The result of this trial, (after some arrangements
with respect to the ballast, of which he was compelled to give
out six hundred pounds, had been effected,) was satisfactory.
The abandonment of this large quantity of ballast he found to be
absolutely requisite, in order with safety to commence the ascent.
The balloon was then allowed gently to rise a sufficient height to
be conveyed over the parachute; and 'at twenty minutes before eight
o'clock, every thing being in readiness and the parachute attached to
the car of the balloon, the ascent took place. Nothing could be more
majestic. The weight and great extent of the parachute apparently
rendered the motion of the balloon more steady than on any former
ascent, and the almost total absence of wind assisted in keeping the
balloon in a perfectly perpendicular position. There was not the
slightest oscillation; the balloon and parachute sailed through the
air with a grandeur that exceeded any thing of the kind ever before
witnessed, and continued in sight for about ten minutes. A good deal
of ballast was discharged almost immediately over the inclosure,
after which the huge machine rose rapidly, but not so suddenly as
to break the even current of its course,' and was soon lost in the
clouds.
The subjoined engraving represents the ascent of the balloon, with
the parachute attached:
[Illustration]
The account given by Mr. GREEN, of the voyage, is one of intense
interest; and we regret that our space compels us to abridge it
of many exciting particulars. Mr. Cocking had desired to reach
an elevation of one mile and a quarter, before detaching himself
from the balloon, and commencing his descent. At first, the upward
progress was slow, and it became necessary to discharge several
pounds of ballast through a tube, constructed for the purpose,
leading from the balloon over the outer edge of the parachute. The
lower end of this tube subsequently became detached, by the swinging
to and fro of the parachute, and the ballast was thrown over in small
bags, not without danger to the people on terra firma. The balloon
soon entered a tier of clouds, and the aëronauts were lost to the
earth, though still some three thousand feet lower than the desired
elevation of Mr. Cocking, who now manifested much anxiety, frequently
requesting of the 'upper house' to know when every addition of five
hundred feet had been attained.
When at the height of about five thousand feet, and in a range
with Greenwich, the intrepid occupant of the parachute, fearing
that he would be unable to reach the earth until after dark, said
to his companions in the balloon above him, 'I shall soon leave
you,' adding, that the practical trial, thus far, had borne out
the sanguine calculations he had made, and that he never felt more
comfortable or delighted in his life, at the same time bidding Mr.
Green and his companion 'good night,' who returned the courtesy, with
hearty good wishes for his safe descent. A sudden jerk ensued, the
parachute was liberated, and the balloon instantly shot upward with
the velocity of a sky-rocket, while the gas, rushing in torrents from
the lower valve by reason of the pressure of the dense atmosphere
upon the top of the balloon, nearly suffocated the aëronauts, and
rendered them totally blind for four or five minutes. But for a
bag, containing fifty gallons of atmospheric air, into which were
inserted tubes from which they breathed it, both Mr. Green and his
companion must inevitably have perished. So soon as the thermometer
could be examined, it was ascertained that they were above four miles
and a quarter from the earth! Yet even this was nothing like their
greatest altitude, since they were now effecting a rapid descent. A
wise precaution in enlarging the lower valve, alone prevented the
bursting of the balloon, from the great pressure of the atmosphere.
The aëronauts suffered severely from the cold, the thermometer
indicating twenty-four degrees below the freezing point. 'We were at
this period,' says Mr. Green, 'apparently about two miles and a half
above a dense mountain of clouds, which presented the appearance of
impenetrable masses of dark marble, while all around us was shed the
brilliant rays of the setting sun. We continued to descend with great
rapidity, and as we approached the clouds, that velocity considerably
increased. At this time, so large had been our loss of gas, that the
balloon, instead of presenting to our sight its customary rotund and
widely-expanded form, now merely looked like a comparatively small
parachute, or half-dome, without any aperture in its centre. We
parted with at least one-third of our gas, and were as far beneath
the balloon itself as fifty or sixty feet.'
Apprehensive of difficulty in ascertaining the nature of the ground
toward which they were descending, from the darkness below them,
(though blessed, in their position, with a magnificent light,) they
hastened their progress, and landed in safety a few miles from
Maidstone, and twenty-eight from London; having been in the air one
hour and twenty minutes. But let us return to the unfortunate man who
had reached the earth before them.
The annexed engraving exhibits the parachute in the three stages of
the descent: first, immediately after the separation from the car;
next, at the time when the collapse took place from the weight and
pressure of the external atmosphere; and, lastly, when it approached
near to the ground:
[Illustration]